by Alaric Bond
The bell rang out seven times and King was just considering returning below as his watch officially began in half an hour, when a foremast lookout broke into all their thoughts.
“Deck there! Three brigs coming round the headland to the nor-east.”
“And steering to weather Thatcher Rock,” another voice, this time from the masthead, added in an apparent effort to justify his existence.
“That sounds like our signal,” Caulfield said to the deck in general. “Mr Chivers, my respects to the captain and advise him of the situation if you please. Gentlemen, may we go to stations for leaving harbour?”
The polite words started a thousand different chain reactions: junior officers were summoned and, in turn, bellowed at those beneath them, while all dispersed to their appropriate places. King made his way forward to supervise the raising of Prometheus' remaining anchor. They had singled up to the starboard bower some while earlier. All that remained was for the remaining seventy hundredweight of iron that currently sat deep in the mud and sand of Tor Bay to be lifted clear, then safely stowed away without anyone being killed or seriously injured, and they might sail.
King took up position on the forecastle. Looking aft, he saw Banks appear from his quarters under the poop and give a nod to Caulfield. The boatswain's pipes instantly began to scream, a signal was made to the port admiral; orders rang about the deck while hands flocked aloft and marines unfixed their bayonets and stamped away from the posts they had been jealously guarding throughout the time Prometheus had been at anchor.
They had the gentle off-shore breeze and a compliant tide: it would be a simple matter to weather Berry Head and leave what was a wide and accommodating harbour. And actually raising the final anchor should prove no more difficult; with a clear head and his newly regained self-assurance, King was quietly confident of the manoeuvre. Water streamed from the huge twenty-one inch cable as the ship gently crept forward under topsails. Then it was 'Up and Down', and the huge weight was being borne by Prometheus' main capstan aft.
Now a wave to the quarterdeck was all the signal needed; they were finally free of the land, further canvas could be released, and the ship herself allowed to roam wherever she pleased, even while the dead weight of swinging iron was still being painstakingly hauled up through the dark waters.
Everything was in order, the way it should always be in the Royal Navy and King was feeling suitably smug when Adams, one of the newer midshipmen, appeared at the head of the forecastle ladder. The boy had an anxious look on his face as he scampered along the deck towards him, finally coming to a stop so abrupt that his hat fell off and had to be retrieved from the scuppers by one of the hands.
“Mr Cartwright's respects, sir, and would you be so kind as to come?”
King couldn't think why the master's mate, who was responsible for supervising the nippers and drying the sodden anchor cable, would require his attention. If a man had been injured, the surgeon was the person to send for, and the capstan was still turning at a creditable rate.
“What is it?” he demanded, conscious that the lad had, quite unintentionally, broken his happy mood.
“It's in the forepeak,” the midshipman replied, his eyes almost completely round in wonder. “They thinks they seen a ghost.”
Chapter Five
His eyes were accustomed to the bright light of a sunny afternoon, and the contrasting darkness of the orlop took some time to penetrate. King stepped off the lower companionway and turned aft towards where he trusted Cartwright and his party would be found. To one side the larboard anchor cable, raised that morning, hung loosely over the drying racks, while the sodden starboard line was snaking down unattended from the messenger and lay, muddy and dripping, in an untidy heap on the deck. King looked about but no one was present and, grunting with annoyance, he turned forward again, ever conscious of Midshipman Adams who bustled about his heels like a hungry puppy.
“What the devil is it, Mr Cartwright?” he asked, as the bulky form of the elderly master's mate finally came into view. He was standing by the entrance to the Gunner's store room amidst a cluster of heavyset, but pale-faced men who gathered about him as if for support.
“It's down below, sir,” the man explained, somewhat embarrassed and pointing foolishly at his feet. “In the forepeak. Jenkins saw it first, and a couple of others, then I caught a glimpse m'self. White, it were,” he added, almost in wonder.
“And you think it to be a bogeyman?” King asked directly. Cartwright was a good twenty years his senior and a seaman through and through. He would have no hesitation in going aloft in the fiercest of storms, leading a boarding party, or quelling a brawl between the most vehement of foes. But, as with so many of his kind, one mention of the spirit world, and the man was like a babe in arms.
“I don't know what it was, Mr King,” he replied, his weathered face contrasting oddly with an expression of naïve fear. “But what I saw certainly weren't natural.”
“You don't think it might have been a stowaway?” King asked, in mock concern. To his mind that was far more likely, and hardly an unusual occurrence. Any ship leaving harbour is liable to attract an irritating number of unofficial passengers. And to compound the annoyance, they often turned out to be female, when an extra hand would be of far greater use.
“It's a possibility, sir,” Cartwright conceded, while starting to look slightly shame-faced.
“Well, whatever you have found, I doubt it to be hostile,” King snapped, advancing and glancing down to the darkened depths of the forepeak. Quite why the place had not been searched prior to leaving was another matter entirely. Davison led the starboard watch, which had been detailed for the task. But that was something to be addressed later; first he must make his own inspection.
“Below there,” he called, stepping cautiously down the ladder. “Come out. I shall do you no harm.”
A shape moved at the far edge of the chamber, just as he reached the deck. But it did not step into the faint shaft of light that came from above, and King swallowed. Now that he found himself effectively on his own it was not quite so easy to be blasé. After all, enough ghosts had been seen elsewhere for them to have some credibility. And a warship, with all the distress, disease and death it must attract, was bound to be a suitable home for at least one troubled spirit.
But this was nonsense, the stuff of childhood fancies, and with him a king's officer. Drawing a breath, he clenched his fists before shouting up for a lantern, then tried to focus on the dim form before him.
“I'll do you no harm,” he repeated more gently, as he thought. “But you may not stay here; far better accommodation can be found elsewhere.”
It was probably a person, he assured himself; and a woman at that, so he need not be afeared. And, should it turn out so, she would belong to one of the lower deck hands. Warrant and senior petty officers might apply to the captain for their wives to accompany them, sharing their accommodation and being victualled in exchange for light duties. Banks had already agreed to the presence of Mrs Roberts, the carpenter's wife, and shown himself lenient in similar cases in the past. Not every admiral approved of the practice of course, with many viewing members of the opposite sex as something between an unnecessary distraction and instruments of the devil. And there were even those who refused their officers permission to marry when on foreign stations, although such examples were becoming fewer with the passing years. But for a common hand to bring his partner, be she legal or otherwise, was another matter entirely, and one that was rarely sanctioned.
King remained motionless, as did the vision, so much so that he began to wonder if there was really anything there.
At no time in the current commission had the wedding garland been hoisted aboard Prometheus. Several women had attempted to take up residence on one of the gun decks, and two contrived to make the dark recesses of the lower their home for more than three days. They were found eventually, of course, and sent back in the next shore boat although, as the days lessened be
fore Prometheus was due to sail, the divisional lieutenants and midshipmen were supposed to be more sensitive to the possibility of anyone else trying the same thing.
A lantern was handed down to him and, by its warm light, King eased himself closer to the figure. More could be seen now: and it was definitely a person, one below average height. Yes, undoubtedly human, probably female, and possibly a child. He took another step noticing that, even though it was not unduly cold, she appeared to be shivering.
“Come,” he said, extending a hand, and speaking in the softest of tones. “Come, we shall take some food, and find you a place to be warm.”
The figure moved forward by barely a pace but it was enough, and King could see her more clearly. She had a round, pleasant face, marred only slightly by the matted strands of long, dark hair that stuck to the sides of her skull and reached down to well below the shoulders. Her feet were bare and she wore the briefest of what might once have been either a white shift or some form of thin dress and, even in the dim light it was obvious, very little else.
“Send down a blanket,” King ordered, only slightly raising his voice, and he noted the mutterings of confusion that his words created.
“Do you have a friend aboard?” King asked gently. “A husband, perchance?”
“Not a husband,” her voice was barely more than a whisper and, with the creaks and groans of a ship gathering way, King had difficulty catching the words. “But I knows a man; Thompson. He brought me here.”
Thompson. King sighed: he knew him as well. Not exactly a bad sort, but one that always looked for the main chance.
“You will be well cared for,” King assured her as a soft lump fell to the deck behind with a thump. He turned, collected the blanket, and held it out. “Take this,” he said. “Then we shall find you something hot to eat.”
She seemed to come to a decision before making a dash forward and wrapping herself deep within his arms as if he might offer shelter as much as warmth. King reached over and pulled the blanket tight about her, suddenly conscious that he had not been embraced so for quite some while. The girl leant into him, her body frail and vulnerable and for King to hold her close was every bit as natural as the silent tears she soon began to shed.
* * *
Prometheus left harbour on a light, offshore breeze which strengthened and backed more easterly as the coast was left behind. It was little more than ten miles to the rendezvous point, but their masthead picked up the tail end of the convoy in under an hour and, in two, they had crept up to windward of the main body and were making their number together with that day's private signal.
The convoy's senior naval officer was Ford, an admiral Banks had known briefly when he had been a post captain. Old and somewhat crusty then, Ford now flew a proud blue flag at the mizzen, although most of his peers considered him lucky to have escaped being yellowed.
The force he commanded was significant, however. In addition to Prometheus, there were two other line ships, both also being seventy-fours, as well as three frigates and a number of smaller, un-rated vessels that would have most of the work to do in chivvying up the slower or less responsive members of the convoy. And the escort's charge was no less impressive. Nine stately Indiamen of the larger classes; noble ships, built to carry wealth, power and influence in whatever form it was needed, be it general cargo, arms and equipment, or manpower. Together with the more numerous smaller traders and a handful of less impressive vessels that were already having difficulty keeping up, the total value of the convoy could be measured in millions.
“Flag acknowledges, sir,” Lewis reported, his head buried in a small, but thick book. Chivers, one of the signal midshipmen, was holding the deck glass on the flagship and whispered something in his ear which set the pages turning. “Then our number - 'take station two leagues to leeward and astern of me',” the lieutenant continued with a hint of incredulity and an accusing look at his informer.
“I think that might be cables, Mr Lewis,” Banks said in a markedly flat tone, and both officers blushed visibly. “But the wind is blowing the signal away from you,” the captain allowed, before turning to the sailing master beside him on the quarterdeck. “Mr Brehaut, if you would be so kind...”
The senior warrant officer touched his hat and stepped forward. Banks moved away slightly, and might have been considering the nearest merchant, but was actually watching Brehaut intently.
The Jerseyman had first joined Prometheus at Portsmouth and carried excellent references from his previous captains, several of whom were known for being hard to please. As a man he was presentable; relatively short in stature, and lightly built, with frank blue eyes and a look of constant concern. But Brehaut was also modest: the fact that he spoke French fluently had only come out by accident, with a genial nature which soon made him a popular addition to the wardroom. The sailing master had also guided them from Spithead to Tor Bay without the help of a pilot or any hint of trouble.
That had been navigation, though; something an academic may excel in: to conn a strange vessel with an untried crew through a crowded fleet would be a test of his innate seamanship, and many would judge such a skill every bit as important. Banks had been spoilt by his predecessor, Fraiser: a seaman of the highest standard. It would take someone of considerable talent to impress after such an example.
Brehaut's first command was bellowed through the speaking trumpet with perhaps not quite the force most would consider necessary. But it was a sensible order nevertheless and, as the forecourse was taken in and the ship ceased to gain on the convoy, settling to a speed fractionally slower than that of the surrounding shipping, Banks began to relax.
Two East India Company monsters were forereaching to either side; the captain noticed Brehaut consider both, but keep Prometheus on a steady course that allowed them plenty of room to pass. Then, when the danger was cleared, he had the helm put across, and Prometheus began to cut a diagonal course across their wake.
Banks acknowledged that this was probably the most dangerous part of the procedure. None of the watch keeping officers had handled the ship for more than a few tricks, and to estimate the difference in speed that might be expected of Prometheus when turning from being close hauled to a broad reach was probably beyond all of them. Brehaut had extra canvas in hand, but even re-setting the forecourse would take time, and there were close on ten large ships bearing down on them. The captain was also aware that most of the merchants were commanded by Company men; trained seafarers in the main, but not known for endangering their charges unnecessarily. They might easily view the warship heading across their path as a hazard, and start taking unnecessary avoiding action that, in turn, would endanger others.
But either Brehaut was in luck, or his intentions were both obvious and unambiguous, for Prometheus was allowed to reach clear water off the flagship's larboard quarter without a major incident. Then all that remained was for her to lose way, allowing all to forereach until the required distance had been attained, then drop the forecourse once more and adjust canvas to bring her to convoy speed.
Banks drew a silent sigh of relief. The ship, her crew, and Brehaut had performed perfectly; failure in any one might not be considered a disaster as such, but would hardly have been the best start to a commission, and no captain can give of his best while being unsure of any aspect of his command.
Brehaut reported the ship in position, then replaced the speaking trumpet in its becket before turning from the binnacle, his task apparently accomplished. Banks noticed that, apart from a slight flush to his pale cheeks, he did not seem unduly moved by the episode, and took a place next to Caulfield and Davison without a comment to either.
“Very good, Mr Brehaut,” Banks told him. “That was well done indeed.” The commendation was formal and almost a platitude, but in this case meant with total sincerity.
* * *
“As to the state of any pregnancy, I would not care to speculate,” the surgeon said, washing his hands in a pewter basin. “Thou
gh if so, it must be precious early and I would say you are much underfed. You may also be suffering from some form of chill – there is perhaps a trace of fever, but no more.”
Manning turned and surveyed his patient again. She was sitting back on the plain deal table and drawing the light gown about herself once more. He had not seen his own wife, Kate, for over a month, yet several years of married life, and many more dealing with the meat that comprises a human body, enabled him to view the woman with total objectivity. Certainly she was undernourished; the bones on her upper arms, legs and ribs were far too prominent, and he had noticed the obvious signs of an empty stomach during his examination.
“Were you to wish it, I may be able to start investigations as regards the possibility of a foetus, though you will appreciate that a line-of-battleship is hardly equipped for such tests.” He gave a reassuring look. “But from what you say I would diagnose a simple case of sea-sickness. You have had no recurrences after setting foot on dry land?”
The girl shook her head and Manning's face relaxed. “I thought not: it is a certain remedy.”
He moved across the sick berth and opened a locker. “I do not have much in the way of clothing I'm afraid.” He pulled out several shirts and a pair of canvas trousers. “These may do for the present, and of course you may keep that gown. You will doubtless be able to make more of them later. There are two men aboard who act as reasonable tailors, I am told, and will be happy to oblige if you are not so skilled.”
“Am I staying then?” she asked, turning on the table and allowing her bare legs to swing down.
“Most certainly,” Manning replied. “For now at least. We are deep into the English Channel and cannot turn back.” He was about to add 'for a mere slip of a girl', but his innate sensitivity saved him. “But you will no doubt want to wash,” he said instead. “And may do so here, if you wish – it is probably more private. I shall send to the galley for hot water.”