by Alaric Bond
“Where are we bound?” Her voice was fragile, but Manning noticed she had actually gained a little colour in the last minute or so. The thought of being set ashore must have been playing on her mind and, as he considered the trusting expression, he wondered if she were inclined to act younger than her years.
“We are for the Mediterranean, my dear,” he told her. “And will be calling at Gibraltar; you may be permitted to land there if you wish, though it will be the part of the captain to confirm any arrangements.”
“And Lisbon? Shall we be going to Lisbon?”
Manning paused on his way to the sick berth entrance. “Yes, I recall you did say it was your home.” He opened the door no more than a fraction and murmured to someone in the dispensary beyond before closing it firmly once more. “The water will be coming presently,” he explained. “As to Lisbon I cannot rightly say; once more, it is the captain you will have to speak with on such matters. But we have been with the Med. Fleet afore, and the Tagus was a useful station then, so I would certainly not rule it out.”
* * *
He had not engineered the situation; it just so happened that King found himself in the great cabin with the captain when Ross was sent to request the latter's presence on deck. It was a minor matter; Banks would soon return, and they could continue to discuss the starboard watch bill, so King remained standing by the large table, but indicated for the seaman to remain also.
“We have not spoken,” King began awkwardly. “Not since the day you volunteered.”
“That's right, sir,” Ross agreed.
“You are settling down?”
“Well enough, thank you, sir,” the seaman replied with little feeling. “My mess seem a decent bunch,” he added.
King had arranged for the former officer to be with a seaman who was one of his personal favourites.
“I have served with Flint in a number of ships,” he told Ross. “Lieutenant Lewis started in his mess as an ordinary hand: you may progress as well and could achieve your former rank, who can tell?”
Ross said nothing, but now his eyes were set directly ahead as if he were being questioned, and King felt he had inadvertently stepped over an unseen line. “You know you may ask me if there is any way in which I can help,” he added.
“Thank you, sir, but I shall be able to manage.” The reply came quickly: then Ross seemed to soften. “But your concern is appreciated.”
“This is a perilous life, and no one can be certain of the future,” King continued carefully. “I know nothing of your personal circumstances, but think the majority of officers have been guilty of at least one trivial error in the past: I mean one that would have seen them in peril, were it discovered.”
“But few are come down upon quite so heavily as me,” Ross added, with a wry look.
“And what caused such an act?” King asked after a moment or two. “Not that you need tell me,” he hurried to add. “Every man's history is his own to keep private.”
“Aye, I would say so, sir.” Again that look. “Whatever the status he may have attained.” Ross seemed to consider, then continued. “But I am happy to tell you, Mr King; my secret has been kept so far, for which I am grateful, and I would gauge that adding to it will not be too great a burden for you.”
King gestured silently, and Ross began.
“My commission was revoked earlier this year. It was by court martial; my last vessel, Wakeful had run aground off Crump Island and was a total loss.”
King remembered reading the first news of the incident, and being struck by the irony of the ship's name when it was surely wrecked by the inattention of whosoever had command. But there was nothing unusual in a vessel foundering; far more Royal Navy ships were lost in such a way than to enemy action. And the act might well have mitigating circumstances, in which case it would attract little more than a reprimand. There had been no subsequent notice of any eventual court martial verdict, however, and King had disregarded the matter.
“I did try for the merchant service; they are short of hands, and thought to find myself a berth as a junior officer or mate. But the India Company seem thick with the Admiralty, neither did any private owner want a man who could not pay attention. And so it was the R.N. or starve – which was why I especially sought out a member of Prometheus' people that evening.”
“Indeed?” King asked. “Why so?”
“Captain Banks has a fine reputation,” Ross replied. “I read of his engagement with the French squadron off St Helena on my journey home; it was as fine an action as ever I had heard, yet none of his officers were known to me. And at that time the word was you were bound for the Channel Fleet, which has an honourable commander, and is set a goodly distance from the Caribbean.”
All made perfect sense, although King was still in doubt regarding the court martial verdict. Ross came across well: it seemed strange that one so apparently sound and reliable should have been broken. “I am saddened to hear your tale,” he said, “though wonder that the blame for the loss of any ship can be wholly attributed to a single officer.”
“I said all I was permitted to at the court martial,” Ross' voice was flat and without emotion. “Wakeful was nought but a brig and I her only lieutenant. The watch had been mine when she ran aground, but Commander Harker was determined to try for a faster passage and took the conn. And he was a favoured man: the other officers owed their positions to him, and one was the son of an admiral.”
It was not such an unusual scenario, although King remained silent.
“Then we had the presiding captains,” Ross continued relentlessly. “Most were close to Harker or his cronies and, when it came to the call, all seemed content for me to take full responsibility.”
“I see,” King said finally, and he surely did. He had never come across Harker personally but the man appeared as one with more connections than skill. On a foreign station, where the eye of the public and a far off Admiralty could easily be distracted, it would have been little trouble for influential friends to whitewash a popular commander. And with a presumably friendless lieutenant on hand to bear his blame, all could be neatly sorted.
Such were the problems of serving in un-rated vessels. Though more power and responsibility rested with their senior men, and a man might learn and progress more quickly than aboard battle-wagons such as Prometheus, the risks were also that much greater. Had Ross been backed by a loyal band of officers, Harker could not have passed the blame so easily. But, when it came down to one man's word against another, and the captain was well connected, it was clear who would come in second.
“Once more, I am sorry,” King sighed, “and can only repeat my earlier offer. Should a chance present for you to be promoted, or singled out in any way, I will not hesitate to take it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ross said, with a little more feeling this time. “I appreciate that though it was made plain to me by the court president that I may not expect to progress.”
“You cannot accept promotion?” King questioned.
“No,” Ross told him sadly. “That path is now forever closed to me.”
* * *
Ford might have been an uninspiring captain but, now that he was an admiral and in command of an entire fleet, he certainly did not lack energy. No sooner had Prometheus joined the convoy than a general change of course was ordered, and the signals continued with annoying regularity for the rest of the evening.
Individual merchants were commanded to keep up, or maintain better station, with their naval escorts often being sent to enforce the order. This meant there were usually one or two warships either crossing the convoy or leaving their own post unguarded while they chivvied a back marker, causing no end of consternation to the officer of the watch in every other vessel. And the admiral was also setting a breathless pace. Prometheus, being fresh from the yard, was able to keep up under topsails, courses and staysails, but there were some of the older Indiamen, those who had already made three Eastern trips and were close to t
he end of their useful life, that were having obvious problems.
The convoy commodore, an aged HEIC officer named Spice, had protested, sending a series of poorly composed signals that were decoded with ill suppressed amusement by Lewis and his team. But Ford was having none of it, and clearly intended to use his rank and position to the fullest extent. His enthusiasm even extended to refusing the usual request for a reduction in sail as the sun began to dip towards the horizon. It was a habit most passenger carrying merchants practised if travelling independently and had almost become traditional when in convoy. The previous rigid sailing order was relaxed to give a slightly larger margin of error between each ship, but there was no lessening in speed and the convoy's pace, which at times exceeded seven knots, was maintained throughout even the darkest hours.
After two days of such a regime, there was no doubting the standard of sailing exhibited by certain members of the convoy had improved considerably. Brehaut, Prometheus' sailing master, was also pleased to note they had recorded a truly creditable distance, and were out of the relative confines of the Channel.
The following afternoon he stood at the chart room table and surveyed the situation. There was a change of course due and, with the wind having backed more to the west, he expected it sooner than later. Brehaut looked once more at the series of small pin pricks that marked their progress up to that point. It might be prudent to warn the captain of such an event, and even pleasant when proved correct, as he undoubtedly would be, although Brehaut was never one to court a good opinion and certainly did not seek approval or promotion.
Since leaving his native Jersey and joining the Navy twenty-three years back, his aspirations had been met in full. For all his professional life, Brehaut's only wish had been to become a sailing master; to him a position that epitomised seamanship at its best, and he did not want for more.
“Admiral's signalling a change of course, Mr Brehaut.” The midshipman's voice had followed the slightest of taps on the barely opened chart room door and was punctuated by its sudden closure. The sailing master was unsurprised at the lad's brevity. His rank, though one of the more important in the ship, was considered less than any of the lieutenants, all of whom carried commissions drawn out on parchment, as opposed to his simple paper warrant. And it was not uncommon for midshipmen, who made up his principal students when it came to teaching navigation and general seamanship, to treat him initially as something between a schoolmaster and a jape. All aspired to wardroom rank, so could hardly take a man invited to berth there out of courtesy, rather than right, with any gravity. But Brehaut had served in many ships and knew the importance of his role would be proven in time. And he was also confident that any youngster who finished the deployment would do so with far more respect for a sailing master's duties.
He moved out of the darkness of the chart room and on to the quarterdeck. The heady sun had already chased away every sign of an earlier shower and the day was fast becoming uncomfortably hot.
“Flag orders sou'-sou' west, Mr Brehaut,” Cartwright, one of the master's mates, told him as he stepped up to the binnacle. “Captain's aware, but will not be attendin',” the warrant officer added.
“Very good,” Brehaut replied, after a nod to Davison, who was the officer of the watch.
“And the commodore is repeating the order,” the signal midshipman reported with a grin. “Just so as we knows he's still livin'.”
South-south west was most definitely the fastest course, even if it would take the convoy perilously close to the west coast of France and, more importantly, the numerous islands and shallows that littered it. Clearly the admiral was putting everything into a quick passage, and did not appear unduly worried about endangering his precious convoy in the process.
“Prepare to alter course,” Brehaut said, although the warning was unnecessary; all on the quarterdeck and most of the duty watch were aware of the situation, and what was about to happen. It was not a complex manoeuvre, like tacking or wearing, but still must be carried out well and Brehaut calmly collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle as they began to wait.
The signal midshipman now had his glass trained solely on the flagship as every man stood ready. All were prepared to act, and intended doing so in a manner that would do their ship credit. They might have many untrained men aboard, but those with skill would cover and nothing must cloud the crack reputation they were all determined to establish for Prometheus. Then, after what seemed like an appreciable time but was actually less than thirty seconds, the young voice shouted “Down!” as the flags were whipped away.
Brehaut roared out the orders, Prometheus' helm was put across, and her braces adjusted as she took up her new course with all the composure and aplomb expected of a Royal Navy third rate line-of-battleship. About them, some of the merchants began chasing their prows. Others showed flapping canvas while, in one case, a foreyard refused to move, forcing the Indiaman concerned to fall out of station. But Prometheus and her sailing master had done their duty with competence and, as he recorded the time and change of course on the slate, Brehaut was content.
Chapter Six
“Scran's a good deal better,” Marine Captain Donaldson commented through a half-filled mouth. “Has someone shot the cook?”
“Something upon those lines,” Dawson, the purser, agreed. “And we may blame Mr Lewis, here,” he continued, nodding towards the lieutenant seated opposite.
Lewis looked up absent-mindedly at the mention of his name and was surprised to see all at the wardroom dining table smiling benignly at him.
“Nabbed us one of the finest cooks in the West Country,” Marine Lieutenant James agreed, with evident respect.
“I did?” Lewis replied, blinking.
“Rather,” the marine confirmed. “Queer little man to speak to, but knows his food – shaken them all up in the pantry, so he has. If he keeps the same heading, we'll soon have a kitchen to be proud of.”
Lewis had noticed the improvement in wardroom fare but was totally unaware of any responsibility for the transformation, and felt suspicious of the sudden attention.
“Fellow you took from the The Three Tuns,” Dawson prompted. “Calls himself Potterton.”
The name meant little to Lewis, but then even the raid on the tavern was little more than a distant memory.
“Too used to the good things in life for my liking,” the purser continued. “Always pestering me for wardroom supplies, and I tells him that's a completely different department. But you can't argue with the result; this is the best lobscouse I have tasted in years.”
“Well, we should offer you a vote of thanks,” Donaldson said, raising his glass in approbation. “Damned fine show, Lewis. Damned fine.”
* * *
“Her name is Judith Kinnison, she is nineteen years old, an orphan by all accounts, and hails from Lisbon,” King announced.
“But not Portuguese?” Banks questioned. He had seen the girl in passing and not been struck by any obvious foreign traits.
“I have no idea where born,” King replied hesitantly. “But she claims to be English, as was her family. Although she also states her father to have been a Scot; it is all singularly vague.” He shifted uneasily on his chair.
Actually the interview with the girl had disturbed him greatly. Since that last, disastrous, meeting with his estranged wife, King had been keeping away from females of any description. Even Mrs Roberts, the carpenter's wife, a woman with the face of a mule and a demeanour not so very different, was given a wide birth. But Miss Kinnison had awakened much of the urges he had considered successfully stifled, and to discuss her now, dispassionately and in front of his captain and first lieutenant, was strangely disconcerting. King was a seaman, and would have preferred another subject to have been chosen.
“She believes him to have worked in the diplomatic service, though any connection is tenuous,” he continued, manfully. “There are no surviving relatives that anyone is aware of. Lord and Lady Shillingford brou
ght her up in their Lisbon house, though it was the servants who cared for her in the main, and she joined them in their work on reaching an acceptable age.”
“So what brought her to Tor Bay?” Caulfield asked.
“Well, that is where it becomes even more of a puzzle,” King confessed. “The girl is confused and speaks only of travelling in a big ship. And the surgeon said she were afeared of being with child.”
“And is she?” Banks asked.
King shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Manning thought it more likely the symptoms described to be nothing more than sea-sickness.”
His audience erupted into sudden laughter which took King, who was now deep into the story, by surprise. Caulfield even added something along the lines of wishing all such cases were so easily cured.
“I would say that the girl is no half-wit,” King continued, now decidedly flustered. “But then neither is she inordinately clever.”
“And she was transported in a big ship?” Caulfield asked, still chuckling.
“That is what she said,” King confirmed.
“Well, it was likely to have been a ship,” Banks' expression was now more controlled, even if King suspected he still found the situation annoyingly amusing. “And we can probably assume it to have been big...”
“I believe it was,” the young lieutenant agreed earnestly, conscious that he was now blushing slightly behind his notes. “An Indiaman, I would chance, though she claims not to know the name, and will not say that of her travelling companion.”
“If he abandoned her in Tor Bay I'd judge it misplaced loyalty,” Caulfield mused. “Perchance enquiries made at the Shillingford house might tell us more?”
Banks shook his head. “Be that the case or not, we are bound to this convoy until thirty-eight degrees north. And then must make for Gibraltar before seeking out Victory in the Med. I can authorise no diversion in order to repatriate some fool of a girl who cannot remember much beyond her name.”