Beneath the aurora nd-12

by Ричард Вудмен

  'Now!'

  And the errant gun was miraculously and suddenly over­whelmed. A knot of officers remained round the gun, Drinkwater among them. Templeton was childishly gleeful. He felt less queasy, slightly happier with his lot. The swift, corporate response had impressed him. Men drew back grinning with satisfaction, and although the 12-pounder stared the length of the gun deck, it was held unmoving in a web of rope, even when Andromeda tested the skill of her company by kicking her stern in the air and then plunging it into the abyss.

  'Like Gulliver upon the Lilliputian beach,' he muttered to himself.

  'Like 'oo, sir?' the marine beside him asked.

  'Like Gulliver ...' he repeated, before seeing the ludicrous waste of the remark.

  From behind him came the crash of crockery. He turned and looked back into the cabin. Coffee pot, cups and saucers lay smashed on the chequer-painted canvas saveall.

  'Cap'n's china, sir,' said the marine unnecessarily.

  'Oh dear…'

  Templeton retreated into the cabin and stood irresolute above the slopping mess, then Frampton, the captain's servant, with much clucking of his tongue, appeared with a cloth.

  'I don't know what Cap'n Pardoe'll say. We've only the pewter pot left,' he grumbled.

  'Get out!' Templeton swung round to find Drinkwater in the doorway. The captain's face was strangely set. He shut the door and strode aft, putting his right hand on the aftermost beam, resting his head on his arm and staring astern. The servant swiftly vanished and Templeton himself hesitated; but it was clear the captain did not mean him. Templeton averted his eyes from the heave and suck of the wake and turned his gaze inboard. He admired again the rather fine painting of Mrs Drinkwater which the captain had hung the previous afternoon. He felt a return of his nausea and fought to occupy his mind with something else.

  'Is ... is something the matter, sir? I, um, thought the taming of the gun accomplished most expertly, sir.'

  Drinkwater remained unmoving, braced against the ship's motion. 'Did you now; how very condescending of you.' Templeton considered the captain might have been speaking through clenched teeth. Was this another sea-mystery? Was the captain himself suffering from mal de mer?

  Templeton had reached this fascinating conclusion when the door opened once more and Huke strode in. He was carrying a short length of thick brown rope.

  'Well?' Drinkwater turned. 'What d'you think?'

  Huke held the rope out. 'There's no doubt, sir. Cut two-thirds through and the rest left to nature. Thank God it didn't part six hours earlier.'

  And it slowly dawned upon Mr Templeton that the breaking adrift of the cannon had been no accident, but a deliberate act of sabotage.

  'That is', he said, intruding into the exchange of looks of his two superiors, 'a most prejudicial circumstance, is it not?'

  CHAPTER 6

  Typhus

  October 1813

  'We must not make our concern too obvious,' Drinkwater said, after a pause during which Templeton blushed in acknowledgement that he had spoken out of turn. 'If the sabotage was merely malicious, a detestation at having been sent so abruptly on foreign service, or some such, vigilance may be all that is necessary. Do you, Mr Huke, have a discreet word with all of the other officers on those lines.'

  'Aye, aye, sir. You want any other construction played down, I assume.' Huke looked significantly at the captain's secretary.

  'Templeton is party to everything, Mr Huke. He was lately a cipher clerk at the Admiralty.'

  'I see,' said Huke, who did nothing of the kind.

  'But yes, play it down, just the same,' Drinkwater said, and Huke nodded. 'And I think I will let the marine officer know exactly what is going on. Is he a sound man, Mr Huke?'

  'Mr Walsh is reliable enough, but unimaginative and not given to using his initiative. He is somewhat talkative but steady under fire.' Huke paused. 'If I might presume to advise you, sir . . .'

  'Yes, of course. You think him liable to be indiscreet?'

  Huke nodded again. 'I should tell him only that we are bound upon a special service. It is not necessary to say more. He will be as vigilant as Old Harry if he thinks there's the merest whiff of mutiny attached to this business.'

  'So be it.' Drinkwater looked from one to the other. 'Are there any questions?'

  'Do you think it is possible to identify the culprits?'

  Drinkwater and Huke stared incredulously at the clerk who, for the third time that morning, wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  'These things are managed by men who take every precaution to ensure no officer ever gets to hear how they happen,' Drinkwater explained. 'These men are not stupid, Mr Templeton, even when they lack the advantages of knowledge or education.'

  'And one or two', added Huke with heavy emphasis, 'are not wanting in either.'

  Drinkwater spoke to Lieutenant Walsh shortly afterwards. 'The gun that broke loose was partially cut adrift, Mr Walsh. Have you had much of this sort of thing in the ship before?'

  Walsh whistled through his teeth at the intelligence, then shook his head. He was a thick-set, middle-aged man whose prospects looked exceedingly dim. He should have reached the rank of major long before, and have been commanding the marine detachment aboard a flagship. He had a high colour, and Drinkwater suspected his loquacity might be proportional to his intake of black-strap.

  'Nothing, sir, of much significance. The odd outbreak of thievery and so forth, but nothing organized.'

  'Well, I want you to keep your eyes open — and your mouth shut if you find anything out. I want to be the first to know anything, any scuttlebutt, any evidence of combinations, any mutterings in odd corners. D'you understand?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But I don't want a hornet's nest stirred up. I don't want your men ferreting and fossicking through the ship so that even a blind fiddler can see we're concerned.' Walsh frowned. 'The point is, Mr Walsh, and this is strictly confidential, we are engaged upon a special service and delay of any kind would be most unfortunate. Do I make myself clear?'

  'You want me to keep my eyes and ears open, sir, but not to let on too much, and to let you know immediately if I get wind of anything.'

  'You have it in a nutshell.'

  Drinkwater went on deck after terminating his interview with the red-coated marine. The topgallant masts were already aloft again, the order to refid them having just been given. Drinkwater paced the quarterdeck, watching the men as they set up the rigging. From time to time he fished in his tail pocket and levelled his glass at the horizon, sweeping it in arcs, hoping to see the angular peak of Kestrels mainsail breaking its uniformity.

  The wind was down to a stiff breeze from the south-east and Andromeda bowled along, her topsail yards braced round to catch it, the deep-cut sails straining in their bolt-ropes.

  As they went about their tasks under the supervision of Mr Birkbeck, the boatswain and his mates, the men frequently cast their eyes in Drinkwater's direction. If he caught their glance they swiftly looked away. This was no admission of guilt, or even caginess. Their curiosity would have been natural enough in any circumstances, given his recent arrival on board, for the captain of a man-of-war held autocratic powers over his unfortunate crew. Indeed, Drinkwater recalled incidents of flogging for 'dumb insolence' if a man so much as stared fixedly at his commander, so he attached no importance to this phenomenon. There would be no one on the frigate who did not know by now of the incident of the cannon, for it remained where it had been lashed. How their new captain reacted was of general interest. If his restless scourings of the horizon with his glass conveyed the impression of a greater anxiety for Quilhampton's Kestrel, it would not have been far from the truth.

  At one point he thought he saw her. A blurred image swam past the telescope's lenses. Unaccountably the cutter had somehow worked ahead of them. He moved smartly forward, along the gangway on to the forecastle. Here, the boatswain, Mr Hardy, was about to sway up the fore topgallant yard.

  'Carry
on, Mr Hardy,' he said as the petty officer touched his hat.

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Reaching the foremast shrouds, Drinkwater levelled his glass. He carefully traversed the horizon. It was blank. He worked carefully backwards from right to left. Again, nothing.

  'T'garn yardmen to the top!' Hardy bawled almost in his ear as he conned the horizon yet again, convinced that he had seen something and waiting for the ship to lift to a wave on each small sector again.

  'Send down the yard ropes!'

  The yard, its sail furled along it, rose from the boat booms and began its journey aloft.

  'High enough! Rig the yardarms!'

  The men on the forecastle waited for their colleagues aloft to finish their preparatory work.

  'Taking their bloody time ...' a man grumbled quietly.

  'Shut up, Hopkins, the cap'n's over there ...'

  'Hold your blethering tongues!' Hardy said as he stared aloft, where some difficulty was being experienced. Drinkwater barely noticed these sotto voce remarks. He was concentrating on the business of seeking a second glimpse of that distant sail.

  Hardy and the men aloft held a brief exchange. A call came down that all was now well. 'Sway higher ... avast! Tend lifts and braces!' Men shuffled across the deck, more ropes were cast off belaying pins, their coils flung out for quick running and tailed on to by the seamen, chivvied by Greer.

  'That's well there. Stand by! Now ... sway across!'

  Hitched properly the topgallant yard left the vertical and assumed its more natural horizontal position. 'Bend the gear!'

  It was secured in its parrel and the mast slushed. Those on deck cleared up, recoiling the ropes and preparing to move aft to the mainmast. If the south-easterly wind continued to fall away, they would be setting those sails before they were piped to dinner.

  'Lay down from aloft!'

  The topmen swarmed down the backstays, hand over hand, saw the captain and ceased their chaffing with hissed cautions. Drinkwater shut his glass with a snap and walked aft. He must have been mistaken. There was no sign of Kestrel.

  Halfway along the gangway a thought struck him with such force that he stopped beside the men now mustering round the mainmast. The man who had been called Hopkins caught his eye.

  'You there!' he called. 'That man, Mr Hardy, beside the larboard pinrail, d'you know his name?'

  The boatswain looked round. 'That's Hopkins, sir.'

  'Hopkins, come here.'

  The men had stopped work. Lieutenant Huke and the master, Mr Birkbeck, came towards him, uncertain of what was happening. With obvious reluctance the man identified as Hopkins approached and stood before Drinkwater.

  'Have I sailed with you before, Hopkins?' Drinkwater asked. His tone of voice was pleasant, deliberately relaxed, as though wanting to make an impression by this mock familiarity.

  'No, sir.'

  'I'm certain we've sailed together before. D'you have a twin?'

  'No, sir.'

  'You were on the Antigone, or was it the Patrician?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Where are you from, Hopkins, eh?' Drinkwater went on, probing for something longer than these monosyllabic words. Watching his quarry, Drinkwater saw the eyes flicker uncertainly. 'Where were you born?'

  'London, sir.'

  'What part of London?'

  Hopkins shrugged. 'Just London, sir.'

  'And you say you've never sailed with me before?' Sweat was standing out on Hopkins's brow.

  'No, sir.'

  'Well stap me, Hopkins, I'd have laid money on the fact!' Drinkwater smiled. 'Very well, then, carry on. Carry on, Mr Hardy, let's have the men at it again. I want those t'gallants set.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Hopkins turned and escaped. Odd looks were exchanged between officers and men alike as they went back to their tasks. Drinkwater continued aft, with Huke and Birkbeck staring after him.

  'Odd cove,' remarked the master, looking at Drinkwater who had continued to the taffrail and stood staring astern, his hands clasping the brass tube of the Dollond glass behind his back.

  'Yes,' replied Huke doubtfully. 'Carry on, will you, Mr Birkbeck.'

  Huke walked aft himself and stood next to Drinkwater. After a moment Drinkwater said, without turning his head, 'That man Hopkins, have you had him aboard long?'

  'No, sir. Pressed him out of that merchantman I mentioned.'

  'Ah, yes, I recall...'

  Huke waited for more, but Drinkwater continued to stare astern.

  'I cannot imagine what has happened to Quilhampton,' he said with a faint air of abstraction.

  'Sir, d'you mind if I ask ... ?'

  'No, Mr Huke, I don't mind you asking.' Drinkwater swung round and looked at his first lieutenant. 'But perhaps you'll answer my question first. How many more men that you pressed from that same merchantman are Yankees?'

  It was far from a comforting thought, and it would not leave Drinkwater alone throughout that worrying day. Huke had hurried off and returned after a few moments with the assurance that, although most of the men out of the merchantmen had American accents, when challenged, all had claimed to have been of loyalist descent.

  'Very fine and dandy, if it's true, which I doubt.'

  'But why should it not be true? If they had been Americans, they would not have submitted without protesting at being pressed.'

  'Indeed. But that doesn't prove they are what they say they are. Did they submit to being placed on board docilely?'

  'No, of course not, sir, but they said they were owed money, that they had not received their wages or slops and they were dressed in filthy rags. I ordered them fitted out.' Huke's explanation petered out, then, as if summoning himself, he added, 'Sir, if I might say so, I think you are concerning yourself overmuch. You had little sleep last night.' Huke stopped as the spark of anger kindled in Drinkwater's eye.

  'Damn it, sir ... !'

  'I mean no impertinence, Captain Drinkwater.' Huke stood his ground. Several thoughts flashed through Drinkwater's mind. He was tired, it was true, but all was far from well and he felt he had touched something. The man Hopkins had been deliberately evasive. Not merely unwilling to answer the captain's questions, but suspecting something when asked, persistently, if he had sailed with Drinkwater before. Moreover, no Londoner would be content not to refer to his natal quarter of the capital.

  If Drinkwater was right, doubts had been sowed in Hopkins's mind as much as in Drinkwater's, and he might move again, and soon. The reflections calmed Drinkwater.

  'You are right, Tom, forgive me.' He smiled and Huke reciprocated.

  'Of course, sir.'

  'Just humour an old fool and keep a damned close eye, as unobtrusively as possible, on that man. Make a particular note of his cronies.'

  'Very well, sir, I'll see to that.'

  'I think I shall take a nap then. Be so good as to see the t'gallants set and have me called at six bells in the afternoon watch.'

  'Of course, sir.'

  'And round up Walsh, Birkbeck, Templeton and, what did you say the Bones's name was?'

  'Kennedy.'

  'Him and a couple of the midshipmen, to join me at dinner. I'll tell Frampton to have a pig killed.'

  'I'll do that, sir.'

  'Very good of you, Tom.'

  The wind held steady from the south-east, but continued to fall away during the afternoon so that as the officers assembled for dinner, Andromeda slipped easily through the water.

  Circulating among them, Drinkwater sought to draw his guests in turn. Walsh proved as talkative a fellow as the first lieutenant had suggested, battering Drinkwater with a torrent of inconsequences he quite failed to understand so that Walsh followed when he stepped forward to meet the two midshipmen, one of whom was no more than a child.

  'You are Mr Fisher, are you not?' Drinkwater quizzed, as the boy nervously entered the cabin in the company of a much taller, out-at-elbows young man Drinkwater recognized as Pearce.

  'Yes, sir,' the boy
squeaked. 'My name is Richard Fisher.' 'How old are you, Mr Fisher?' 'Eleven, sir.'

  'That is very young, is it not? And how long have you been aboard this ship?' 'Three months, sir.'

  'Ah, quite the old hand, eh? You commanded the gig when I came on board.' 'Yes, sir.'

  The similarity of names reminded Drinkwater of his own son Richard who had once implored to be taken to sea. Drinkwater had not even entered him on a ship's books, so little did he want to encourage the lad. Now the youthful Dickon increasingly managed the modest Suffolk estate with its two farms and had forgotten his idea of following his father's footsteps into the Royal Navy.

  'There's one born every minute,' Walsh remarked, and Drinkwater let the rubicund marine officer scoop up the younkers and bore them with tales of derring-do when the war and he had been young.

  Drinkwater raised an eyebrow at Huke, who gave a slow, tolerant smile and shrugged.

  'When will we close Utsira, Mr Birkbeck?' Drinkwater asked conversationally. 'I have somewhat neglected matters today.'

  'You had a bad night of it, sir,' said Birkbeck indulgently, 'but I got a squint at the sun and reckon, all being well, noon tomorrow.'

  'I think we may be able to take stellar observations at twilight tomorrow morning,' Drinkwater said.

  Frampton, the captain's steward, went round and refilled the glasses, Fisher's included, and the air rapidly filled with chatter. Drinkwater looked round with a sense of some satisfaction. It was only a small portion of the complement of the wardroom, of course, but they seemed good enough fellows. He caught Frampton's eye. 'Sir?'

  'Five minutes.' 'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'And no more wine for Mr Fisher.' Aye, aye, sir.'

  Drinkwater turned to Huke. 'Damn fool,' he muttered, then, 'Would you introduce me to the surgeon, Tom?'

  Huke performed the introduction. 'Mr Kennedy, sir.' The curt half-bows performed, Drinkwater said, 'Glad to make your acquaintance,' and to the company at large, 'I’m sorry, gentlemen, not to have made your acquaintance earlier, but the somewhat irregular circumstances of my joining and the haste of our departure combined with last night's blow to make the matter rather difficult. I hope this evening will set matters to rights.'