by Lynn Bryant
“I need to find out what is going on,” he said. “One corpse is a curiosity but five tells me there’s something wrong out there.”
“There’s a lot of action with the small boats,” Johnny said doubtfully. “Could it be…”
“Mostly smoke and noise. There might be a few injuries, but none of it explains why the navy isn’t taking the bodies out to sea and weighing them down properly,” Paul said. “I’m going to ride over to see if Wellesley has any ideas.”
He collected Jenson who rode the second of his hired hacks, a young black stallion called Felix. He was the opposite of Paul’s solid mare and Paul had already taken a long hard look at him. Hr Lund had apparently taken him in payment of a debt and Paul had no idea of his provenance but he had beautiful lines and if he had been older, Paul would have ridden him. Jenson was considerably lighter and although Paul was aware that the landlord was puzzled and amused that he allowed his orderly to ride the lovely young animal, Paul had no intention of putting too much weight on him too soon.
They rode up to Wellesley’s headquarters and found him absent with both his staff members. Wellesley’s valet came to meet Paul with apologies.
“The General has gone over to meet with Lord Cathcart, sir. I am sorry, I have no idea when he will be back.”
“Don’t worry. Thank you.” Paul went back out to the yard, thinking hard. The problem was not really an army matter. He would have consulted Wellesley if he had been there but as he was not, he would take the matter to the naval authorities.
He found a boat easily enough, several enterprising locals having established themselves along the shore ready to ferry men backwards and forwards to the British ships at anchor in the Sound. Paul surveyed the surrounding area thoughtfully and then handed his reins to Jenson.
“Stay here with them, Jenson. Hopefully this won’t take long; I intend to drop this particular gift in the lap of the navy and take to the hills.”
“Yes, sir.”
On arrival at the flagship, Paul was shown to the captain’s day cabin. He waited as patiently as he could trying to curb his irritation. Eventually he was joined by an officer in the uniform of a lieutenant who made a sketchy salute.
“Major van Daan. My apologies, sir, Admiral Gambier and Captain Sir Home Popham are not aboard. They…”
“Thank you, lad, I’d worked that out,” Paul said, putting the lieutenant squarely in his place. He had no particular need to be superior but he had been irritated by the length of his wait. “If they’d been here I’d have heard them by now, this ship isn’t that big. Who is in command?”
The younger man looked less certain. “I am, sir, since the first lieutenant is…”
“Spare me,” Paul said brusquely. “It’s to be hoped the Danish don’t find a way through your defences since there doesn’t appear to be anybody in charge of the flagship. However, that’s not my problem. I’ve some concerns about an issue raised by some of the locals.”
He told his story and could see, part way through, that the young lieutenant had lost interest. Cutting it short, Paul got up.
“Pass on the message,” he said briefly. “Make sure you’ve got my name and regiment. Somebody needs to look into this. It’s odd, there’s something not right.”
“I will,” the young lieutenant said, with obvious relief at Paul’s imminent departure. “I will pass the message on, sir.”
“See that you do. Good afternoon, lieutenant.”
Back on shore, Paul rode up to visit the pastor again and spent a few moments briefly considering the little row of neatly laid out grave mounds in the churchyard. He was very well aware that most junior officers in his position would have considered their duty done by now and left the matter alone but he could not do so. It nagged at him, the mystery of where the bodies were coming from. With that in mind, he rode back to the inn and exchanged Jenson for the lieutenant of his light company then rode back in search of Pastor Nilsson.
“Is there some way of finding out where the bodies are coming from?” he asked.
Nilsson looked surprised. “Can they not tell you?”
“Nobody seems to know,” Paul admitted. “Your boatmen and fishermen must know the tides. Who should I be talking to?”
Nilsson thought for a while and then sent messages. Within an hour two grizzled Danish fishermen arrived at the parsonage, awkward in their work clothing but willing to consider Paul’s translated questions seriously. Paul and Carl walked down to the shore and stood while Hr Pettersen and Hr Jarlson pointed and waved and talked and the pastor translated. At the end of it, Paul stood and studied the English ships.
“Three possibilities,” he said. “Those two frigates might be in range, but they’re troop ships. There might be some illness aboard with the crew but I’m not convinced.”
“And the third?” Carl asked.
Paul had taken out his telescope and was studying the other ship. It was a navy frigate, moored further out than any of the other ships and the sight of it bothered Paul. Ships had come and gone and he did not pretend to remember where every ship had been moored during these past weeks but he had a sense that this ship was a recent arrival and he could not work out what she was. The transports which had carried the troops were moored together and he had unconsciously identified the various ships of Admiral Gambier’s fleet. Of all of them, this frigate, separate and distant, might have dropped bodies that could have drifted in to this secluded cove and Paul badly wanted to know why.
“Carl, I’m going out there,” he said. “Get yourself back…”
“No, sir.”
Paul gave him a look. “Take an order, Mr Swanson. Get yourself back to the lines and tell Johnny he has command for a bit.”
“Captain Wheeler will work that out, sir. Permission to wait here with the horses?”
Paul sighed. “Don’t you trust, me, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’ve kept you alive for the past five years, you ungrateful bastard.”
“Oh, I trust you on a battlefield, sir, you’re just a bit unpredictable in real life.”
Paul ignored him, turning to the two fishermen. Hr Pettersen readily agreed to row him out to the frigate and Paul handed Luna over to his lieutenant, ignoring Carl’s forbidding expression. He was well aware that his childhood friend considered it his role in life to keep him out of trouble but at times he found it exasperating.
It was chilly on the water despite the bright sunlight. Paul looked around him at the looming hulls of the English fleet. Small boats like his own ferried passengers to and from the shore and between ships and larger boats could be seen unloading supplies to the warships. The Danes had been remarkably cooperative in the matter of selling supplies to their invading enemy and both army and navy were being very well fed, but that might well end if the navy turned its guns on their capital city.
The lone frigate was drawing closer and Paul could make out its name painted on the bow. It had not always been common for Royal Navy ships to display their names but it was becoming more usual, especially since figureheads were no longer used as much. The ship was called the Flight, an older design navy frigate with square rigging on three masts, probably designed to carry 12 guns. She was not in particularly good condition and Paul suspected she was used mainly to ferry supplies or troops. She rested lazily at anchor and as his boat pulled up alongside her ladder nobody challenged him from above.
Paul handed his pilot a coin and indicated that he should tie up and wait then climbed the ladder. At the top, the deck appeared deserted, but as he stepped onto the boards a voice said:
“Who goes there?”
The voice was slurred and Paul, who had particularly strong views on being drunk on duty, felt his hackles rise immediately. He surveyed the lone seaman, a stocky bald man carrying an ancient musket with some disfavour.
“Who’s in command?” he asked.
“I asked you…”
“
I heard what you asked me you slovenly pile of cow dung, you’re drunk and you don’t deserve the respect of an answer! Major Paul van Daan of the 110th first battalion. Who is in command here?”
“Wilson. The bosun.”
“No officer?”
“Lieutenant Paget is dead,” the sailor said. His eyes were dull and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow which made Paul suddenly very keen to keep his distance. “We’re all going to be dead soon.”
“Fever?” Paul asked. Now that he was on board he was conscious of the smell; faint but unmistakable, of unwashed bodies and unscoured decks, of sickness and despair. It brought back a sharp, painful memory of his sixteen year old self, boarding a captured privateer and for the first time smelling the unmistakable odour of a slave ship. This was no slaver but Paul was fairly sure that the conditions below deck would not be that different.
“How many still alive? What is this, a troop ship?”
“Impress service,” the man said. His hostility seemed to have drained away. “Started from Bristol with sixty men for the fleet. First one died two days out.”
“Two days out?” Paul said, appalled. “Why in God’s name didn’t he turn back?”
There was no reply and Paul did not need one. The reason was obvious. “He wanted the money,” he said softly. “That greedy bastard kept sailing on a frigate that was about to turn into a floating tomb because he hoped there’d be enough of them still alive to turn a profit.”
The sailor shrugged. “He’s dead now.”
“How many still alive?”
“Don’t know, sir. We send down food and water. They send up the dead. Can’t be many left. A lot of the crew got it too.”
“Jesus bloody Christ, somebody must know about this,” Paul breathed.
“Bosun sent over to the flagship when the lieutenant died. They arranged for supplies for us, told us to stay on board and contain it. Sir.”
Paul stood very still, trying to manage the sheer blind fury flooding through him. There was no point in yelling at this man. Looking at him he would soon be below decks with the sick anyway. He took a deep breath and nodded.
“All right, sailor. I’m going over to the flagship to talk to them. We need to get everybody off this bloody mausoleum and properly treated. Do you even have a surgeon on board?”
“Not on a ship this size, sir.”
Paul nodded. “Somebody will be back very soon,” he said. “Dismissed.”
He returned to shore to find Carl anxiously awaiting him. They rode up to the parsonage in silence. Nilsson invited them in and offered wine but Paul shook his head.
“I’d be sick,” he said candidly. “I’ve worked out where your bodies are coming from, sir.”
He explained what he had found on the Flight and Nilsson regarded him in considerable horror.
“They are all to be left to die?” he asked.
“No, they are not,” Paul said shortly. “We need to get them off that ship and taken care of properly and we need to separate the sick from the well. I’m riding up to see if Wellesley is back and if not I’m going out to the flagship again.”
“Sir, you’re not going to get an interview with the Admiral of the Fleet,” Carl said patiently.
“No, but I’ll bet I can get Sir Home Riggs Popham to see me. I’ve met him a couple of times and I know his sort; he is a man who always needs to know what is going on.”
His friend was shaking his head. “You need to calm down, sir. I know…”
“I will calm down when I’ve got every man off that frigate, the dead buried properly and the living taken care of. Until then, you may presume that telling me to calm down is eventually going to cause me to punch you,” Paul said precisely. “And if you even attempt to tell me this is not my business…”
“Would I waste my time?” Carl said. “All right. We’ll need somewhere to put them. I wonder if any of the local farms can provide us with a couple of barns?”
“I may be able to suggest a place,” the pastor said.
“I’ll get Captain Wheeler to come and see you, sir. It may not be necessary, I am hoping the navy will take charge…”
“His Majesty’s Navy couldn’t take charge of an orgy in a whorehouse!” Paul said. “I’m going to see Wellesley.”
Paul would always remember that day as one of the most frustrating he had ever experienced. Finding Wellesley still absent he rode over to Lord Cathcart’s headquarters to find that the army commanders had taken themselves off on a tour of the siege works and army positions. Giving up on the army, Paul went back to the shore and ruthlessly commandeered a bewildered navy boat to row him out to the flagship. He arrived on the imposing deck of the Prince of Wales in a foul mood. His request to see the Admiral was greeted with the blank refusal he had expected; Admiral Gambier was not on board, having been invited to join the army commanders on their reconnaissance. The Captain of the Fleet was present, however, and after an extremely long and very pointed delay, Paul found himself being conducted to an elegant day cabin where Sir Home Riggs Popham rose from his desk to greet him.
Paul saluted, standing before the long table which was covered with charts, drawings and notes. He had met Popham several times now while acting as Sir Arthur Wellesley’s unofficial aide. Popham was a pleasant enough man in his forties who smiled more than any man Paul had ever met before. He had struck Paul as an officer very much on his dignity. Possibly it stemmed from Popham’s recent court martial and official reprimand or possibly it was a natural part of his personality but today it grated on Paul.
“Major van Daan. Have you a message from Sir Arthur Wellesley?”
It was not an unreasonable question given that Popham had grown accustomed to seeing Paul as a member of Wellesley’s staff. Paul shook his head.
“No, sir. Sorry to trouble you. I have come to express my concern about the situation aboard one of your frigates. The Flight, sir.”
Popham frowned. “The Flight?” he said slowly, appearing to search his memory. Paul was immediately certain that he knew all about the Flight. “Let me see…the impress ship, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Fever aboard. Men are dying.”
“Most unfortunate, Major. Sadly it happens just as frequently in the navy as in the army. May I enquire…?”
Paul took a deep breath. Trying to keep his voice even and unemotional, he told the story of his involvement over the past few days. Popham listened in silence. When Paul had finished he stood waiting.
Eventually Popham said:
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Major. Certainly we cannot have bodies washing ashore like this. I will send a message to the Flight to ensure that they are making proper arrangements for the disposal of the dead. I…”
“If we don’t get those men off that ship there won’t be anybody left to dispose of the dead, sir,” Paul said. He saw Popham’s brows fly up at his interruption.
“Major - thank you,” he said again, gently. “I will deal with the situation. This is a navy matter, not army. It was good of you to take so much trouble. Your involvement is now at an end. Please be assured I will pass on the navy’s gratitude to Sir Arthur Wellesley. That will be all.”
“You’re just going to leave them there to die, aren’t you?” Paul said. He was trying to keep his temper in check but he knew it was not working.
“It is not a matter of leaving them to die, Major. They are already dying. We are in the middle of a very challenging joint operation and I do not currently have time to…”
“Think nothing of it, Captain,” Paul said instantly. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from important matters. I’ll take my leave.”
Popham’s smile had turned into a smirk. “Major, please remember your place. I am told that you are a very talented young officer; your general speaks very highly of you. But you are an army officer, not a naval officer. I will investigate the matter further.”
“Yes, sir.” Paul said. It was all he could manage. The urge
to punch the smirk off Sir Home Popham’s face was almost overwhelming, but he saluted formally and left the cabin.
Back on shore he collected Luna and rode back to Wellesley’s headquarters to find his chief still absent. It was late afternoon and Lieutenant Swanson was awaiting him in the tap room of the inn when he arrived back.
“Any luck?”
“No. I saw Popham and he doesn’t give a bloody damn, the smug, self-satisfied bastard! I’m not sure the Admiral has ever heard of the Flight. Popham sees it as his job to make sure nothing disturbs his royal mightiness when he’s engaged in the important business of working out how best to blow up a neutral city that’s defended by untrained militia and students and full to bursting point with innocent civilians. Far be it from Admiral bloody Gambier to get involved with the lives of sixty pressed men who’ve been torn away from their homes and their families and dumped aboard that floating shithole to die!”
“Major, calm down.”
“I have no intention of calming down and I have no intention of letting this go! If the navy doesn’t give a shit about those men they can hardly object to me getting them off there and to a doctor!”
“Major, think about this. You can’t just…”
“Yes, I bloody well can, and I’m going to! Where’s Sergeant O’Reilly? I want the light company formed up out here within ten minutes. Jenson! Where the hell are you? Get over to the parsonage and ask Mr Nilsson to find me a couple of boats that can take a dozen or so of our lads over there. And find out if Captain Wheeler has sorted out a field hospital for them.”
“Sir, will you please stop yelling and just calm…”
“If you tell me to calm down just once more, Mr Swanson, you are going through that bloody window and I am not going to bother to open it first!” Paul bellowed. “If you don’t wish to be involved in this, get yourself back to your room and…”
“Shut up!” Carl shouted back. “You want to throw me through a window, go right ahead, sir, I am not going to hit you back, you’re a senior officer. If you are dead set on this piece of lunacy, I am coming with you. Stop yelling at me, I’m tired of it!”