The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  A small breeze blew up, ruffling the water down from the northern shore. A smell of dockyard fires, rank and harsh, rolled over them, mixed with the acrid fumes of iron foundries. All three of them, caught in the throat, began to cough. Their panting afterwards was somehow companionable.

  “What shit,” said Holt. “Night and day they cast and forge. What filthy shit they pump into the air.”

  “We’ll be at sea soon, sirs,” said Jem. “Another half a dozen lighters came today. But he needs warning, sirs, Captain Kaye. He needs it telling and explaining, sirs, come what may. Those Scotchmen are the devil, sirs; they’re as fatal as the grave. That midshipman is haughty, but he is just a little boy. Beg pardon, sirs, if I ha’ overstepped the mark. I live in fear, sirs, honestly.”

  At a nod from Holt, Taylor slipped away. The two stood another half an hour, sometimes in sweet river air, sometimes coughing. To the north a newly fired furnace burst out gouts of orange flame, and even when they went below, the fumes dragged at their lungs and noses.

  “Well, we must warn Kaye,” said Will. “It is our bounden duty. Though God knows, he won’t take kindly to it, will he?”

  Sam laughed.

  “He don’t like Groat that much,” he said. “Don’t trust him much at all, I think. We’ll keep an eye on him at sea, and make sure they can’t get to him, and otherwise he need not have that much to do with them, I guess. Kaye don’t see him as a commander, does he? Far from it!”

  Next day, though, Captain Kaye felt confident enough, apparently, to leave Midshipman Shilling in sole charge of the Biter and all her company, including the Scots.

  It was a terrible mistake.

  ELEVEN

  Despite their nerves at their impending test, both Holt and Bentley had a certain blitheness on that pleasant morning at the prospects of what the later day might bring. Open-eyed and open-hearted, they walked into an ambush that neither, on his own, could easily have survived. They were not far from the waterfront, in a very measly area, as they approached the environs of Seething Lane, and at first it seemed the attack was of that not-unusual nature — to rob poor sailors of their hard-collected tin.

  One turning more to get a sight of the Navy Offices, and they were picking through the mud and filth like well-bred dainty ladies, to protect their shoreside leather shoes. Each carried a small valise with stouter gear for riding down to Surrey with, which was surely bait enough for footpads. They had been discussing Langham Lodge, and the possibility that Deborah could be there, and wondering if an express might reach the house before them, to forewarn. Where to get one, though, with a trusty messenger and good strong horse? On top of which, it would cost a deal of cash, which neither had to spare.

  “And capping that,” said Sam, merrily, “what if we fail the test most miserably? Would you then be so keen to go and claim your pretty bride? Would she, indeed, be prepared to throw in her lot with such a failure? Could you afford a licence, what is more?”

  Will, hit by a sense of longing and ridiculousness, was forced to laughter. For months he’d crushed all thoughts of Deb, all hopes. He had, indeed, more than half assumed that she was dead. But she was living. And she might be there.

  “We’ll just turn up,” he said. “We’ll ride in unannounced. She won’t be there. She can’t be; it would be too much on the lucky side. We’ll keep our money in our pocket where it’s needed most.”

  Now Sam laughed.

  “We’ll have to hire nags,” he said. “They don’t come free. But if we get our tickets from the buffers, we’ll have silver in great store — so long they shell out something in advance! Anyway, there’ll be Mrs Houghton who will welcome us as heroes, even if we fail. We are her blue-eyed boys.”

  It was at that moment, as they crossed the entrance to a narrow alley, that the attackers flew at them. Three men in cloaks burst out, one with a naked blade and two with clubs. They were roaring like wild bears, and the bigger two made a set at Holt as if he had been targeted. A smaller man swiped sideways at Will, his cudgel catching him across the chest with force. Luckily, Will’s feet both slipped in the mire, and he skidded before the weight of onslaught, followed by the ruffian, who lost his footing as well. Will, light and nimble, was able to twist, still on his feet, and jerk the other man across his leg, to sprawl headlong. Then he turned to help his friend.

  But Sam, as pale as death, had also got a blade out, a long and wicked dirk that he must have had concealed. One assailant, face uncovered, was caught in Will’s sight, open-mouthed as the steel ran across his cheek and opened it like a piece of uncooked belly-pork.

  The other knife-man, already served, was gaping silently at his fist, which held a weapon still, but in a pulsing sea of crimson. Then Will’s man jumped up to swing at him, took in the scene before him; and stopped his cudgel in mid-air, demoralised. Will kicked out sideways at his knees and dealt a twisting crack that made the villain shout and drop his weapon, turn and run.

  “Follow!” yelled Will. And “Stay!” riposted Sam. Will, who had already made a half a dozen yards, pulled up reluctantly. Sam came up to him, and, panting, they watched the three men disappear. The dirk, Will noted, with a quiet admiration, had disappeared.

  “Blood,” he said. “A dangerous place, this London. ’Tis worse than Petersfield after summer fair. I like the blade, Sam. Without it, I would have ended dead. Fool robbers, though. We do not look like rich men, surely?”

  Sam was wiping mud from off his leg. His clothing, not too sharp at best of times, was looking truly shabby.

  “They were not robbers, though,” he said. “Just the other kind, indeed. They were employed to seek me out, for I’ve robbed them is the way their masters see it. They were coming to collect.”

  Will blinked at him, his lack of understanding comical enough to set Sam laughing once again.

  “I may not look rich,” he said, “but what I’ve got ain’t mine, and rarely has been. You owe money, Will, you must understand? I owe money also, and this was meant to be the reckoning. That’s why I took up with the dirk. Man’s best friend. Fuck dogs!”

  They were almost at the Office entrance now. Slightly muddy, slightly dishevelled, hardly calm and collected, in any eyes. Will owed money, he was very short, but then…

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Hah! You’d have to ask my creditors for the exact sum, keeping tally ain’t my finest skill. I must owe Marigold a round twenty, and he’s not the biggest shark in my small pond. Our escapade, and dodging prison, and all that… well, you know the story. Suffice to say, when I see men in mind to slinking, I duck into the shadows. Sing ho for the examination; I need the extra pay. Except I owe their lordships plenty also, according to their clerks!”

  “Do you gamble, Sam?” said Bentley.

  “No, I live, you po-faced turd! I live, and take from lenders, and then they want it back! You have a father. You are lucky. I do not.”

  “You have an uncle. Well… Sir A is — ”

  “Sir A is generous to a fault, and through the years I must have cost him hundreds, must I not? I can no longer borrow from him, Will, I can no longer ask. Why? Because, my friend; because. Now come in here and stop this pissy blather. Do I look smart enough? To be a true lieutenant? Now wipe that worried look away, and wipe your boots, and smile. Here’s to success, friend — success and deeper debt!”

  “Oh lord,” said Bentley, and it was half a prayer. “Oh lord, success. Oh lord!”

  Strangely, though, from the moment they set foot into the Office lobby, both had a certain feeling that they would not fail. They were greeted by a clerk, who told them off indifferently to wait in a side room until summoned. It was a small and fowsty place, with an unlighted fire in the grate, but almost before they sat down, the clerk looked round the door and beckoned them to follow. Two flights of stairs, a polished door in oak, and after a knocking from the clerk, a gruff order they should enter.

  The room was large, with a shining oval table and tall windows. Th
ey were closed, but light streamed in and kept them blinded for a moment. Will then saw five men around the top end of the table, backs to the light, and recognised Lord Wodderley, who half stood and made the slightest bow.

  “Young men,” he said. “No secret of the fact we’ve met before. How is your uncle, Mr Holt? Yours, Mr Bentley, is very well; he asked me most particularly to say so. He was impressed by both your actions in last year’s nonsense on the Biter; as indeed was I. Another open secret, then: we are not here to fail you, or otherwise to do you down, but solely to assess if we concur with other men’s opinions. I shall not even waste your time with introductions, as, being young, you will instantly forget our stuffy ranks and faces. A test, sirs — who is this?”

  Smiling broadly, he waved a hand towards his right, where sat a thin and acid post captain. Even had not Kaye forewarned them yesterday, they would have known him. He had come on board of Biter once to investigate a death they had had part in, and had found Slack Dickie Kaye not guilty of a crime. His gaze was level, not unfriendly, and both Will and Sam felt a certain weight of shame.

  “It is Captain Oxforde,” said Sam, and Bentley nodded.

  “Captain Kaye did tell us, sir,” he said. “But we both remember him.”

  Oxforde said, “It was a difficult circumstance when we last met. Both of you, I thought, acquitted well. Now, my lord. With your permission?”

  “Oh, if you must, Oxforde,” said Wodderley, jovially. “But no trick questions, eh? One young man of these two has battled round the Horn under jury rig and the other’s beat three hundred smugglers and Frogs. No doubt they know which sails to douse and in what order coming to an anchorage. They’re seamen born and bred.”

  Will, blushing at its pointlessness, heard himself say, “We did not get right round, sir. The Horn. We were beaten back. And I was down below in — ”

  “Pshaw!” went Wodderley. “Fishing for compliments, is it? And when you sailed an open boat down Channel in a hurricane, I suppose you had a ten-man crew and navigator? Give up, boy! We haven’t got all day!”

  There were chuckles from the other officers, and Oxforde gave a sort of shrug. He shook his head at Wodderley, amused, and carried on.

  “All right, then,” he said. “We’ll take most of it as read; Lord Wodderley has the right of it, I’m sure. I am bound to ask you, gentlemen, on your words of honour, how you assess your skills at navigation, taking sun and star sights, converting tables, dead reckoning with log and timing glass. Mr Holt, you first. You went to Christ’s Mathematical, so I believe?”

  Sam’s turn to blush. He wondered if it was a loaded question, to show him as an inferior, a child of charity. Oxforde’s face, however, did not tell that at all. It was frank and grave, and clear of prejudice.

  “Aye, sir,” said Sam. “I came out top in everything, if I may make so bold to boast, sir. I am fairly confident of crossing open water, Start Point to Finish Headland holds no fears.” He stopped; they liked the joke. “And then I’ll call a pilot, sir. I would not wish to ship on any boat in unknown waters with only me at con.”

  There was the briefest silence, then a boom of friendly laughter, even a lemon-slicey smile from Oxforde. God, thought Will, dare I be so very honest? I am on my honour, but… But Kaye passed this examination once, and Kaye spells danger on a village pond. What are they looking for? Oh, what?

  “Your answer, sir?” said Oxforde. Will coughed. He glanced from face to face, five pairs of eyes, no… no, four pairs and a singleton, one of the officers, a meaty, swarthy man, had one eye and a socket, skin collapsed. Will coughed once more and bit the bullet.

  “Around the coast, I have no fears at all,” he said. “Sea marks I know well and remember headlands and other features with facility. I can interpret charts with confidence, from those made for your lordships and thus well-made, to scrawls on paper, so long they’re pretty accurate. At picking my way through soundings, with lead and line… well, I’ve done it and enjoyed it, sirs. It is my… I do it… sirs, I revel in it.”

  He drew breath to tackle the confession side, glancing around the assembled faces before he leapt. He would be completely honest, that he knew. He could learn, would learn, but had a lot to learn — a mountain. But he did not get the chance to open mouth.

  “Good,” said Wodderley, “well, excellent, in fact! What say you, gentlemen, are not these two officers the perfect complement? Lieutenant Holt takes them across the ocean like an arrow from the bow, and just when he’ll put her on the rocks, Lieutenant Bentley takes the helm and slides her into harbour like a lamb! Ineffable!”

  “And Dickie Kaye,” began the swarthy captain loudly, and with clear comic intent. “Slack Dickie Kaye — ” Then stopped, as his fellows looked at him aghast. His good eye closed, then opened on a bark of merriment. “Locked mouth,” he said, “locked mouth! I’m not the man to rock the boat, you know!”

  And that was it, to both their blank astonishments. They were given small applause, their hands were shaken, and they were congratulated by every august person present in the room, including Captain Oxforde, whom they thought should know much better. On shaking Will’s hand, though, he did look hard into his eyes, as if he was going to make a grave pronouncement. But all he said was this: “A good ship needs a sailing master, Lieutenant, does it not? You are lucky in John Gunning, I believe?”

  Will, then, suffered a collapse in telling truth. “Lieutenant” he was called. The die was cast. Lieutenant Bentley, an officer of the King, a repository of signal honour and integrity. But he could not tell them that Gunning was gone. Biter, across the wide Atlantic, would be in his own tender hands, and Lieutenant Samuel Holt’s.

  And those of Captain Kaye, God spare the mark.

  *

  Captain Kaye, in fact, was at that very moment preparing to abandon his most precious ship — and into tender hands his Navy masters would have goggled at. He did it on a whim of sorts, but not a sudden one. He had drunk and spoke with the Scotch brothers the day before, and had hit upon a train of thought and action when he’d pondered on the conversation afterwards. The sight of Holt and Bentley heading up to London encouraged him in thought, and before the forenoon watch was through, his strategy was complete. He instructed Bob, got figged up in shoreside gear, installed a new wig on his head and had it powdered, then called in Midshipman Shilling. His manner was avuncular, and almost warm.

  “Groat!” he said. “My second cousin’s boy! I have a task for you, a trust.”

  He was almost sentimental, rather than just warm, and Midshipman Rex Shilling

  was suspicious.

  “Aye, sir?” he responded, rather coolly. “Well indeed, sir, whatever you command.”

  “It is a simple thing, young Rex, although it might surprise you, I would hope. I have to go away to London Town, this morning, now, upon some pressing business. Gunning has quit us, thanks to you — and you must take his place!”

  Groat’s face displayed astonishment, not mere surprise. He did, in fact, seem not to believe. He feared betrayal of some sort, or ridicule.

  “Yes,” he said. Then, “Aye, sir?”

  “It should not be for long,” said Kaye. “I will be back this evening, I should imagine. Yes, certainly, I should be back tonight, unless… And there is naught to do, in terms, is there? We are safely on our buoy, the fellows cannot run no more, the worst are back in shackles, and although you will command, there are other men to back you, are there not?”

  Rex Shilling was unsure of that, and showed it. Kaye laughed.

  “Savary, between ourselves, is a milk pudding, despite he is an officer and you are not. An officer of soldiery. Pah. But I have kicked his bollocks black and blue about his laxness and his men’s, and I’ll wager they’ll use their muskets next time they are needed. Then there’s Taylor Boatswain and his merry band of bone-crushers, and backing them are…”

  He stopped, as if suddenly a touch uncertain. A quick small smile, a lick of lips. He turned away to shuffle paper
s.

  “I have decided that the Scotchmen should be — What?”

  Shilling had let out a noise, and Kaye had sprung around. Shilling’s face was stricken, which he struggled to disguise. Kaye’s manner was no longer of an uncle. His eyes gleamed prominent. He stared.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Good. Those Scotch are valuable. I will not hear it said…” He cleared his throat. “If you should need them, you may call upon them for any aid. It is understood. I have spoke with them.”

  Now Shilling licked his lips.

  “Are they…?” He selected his words. “Are the Scotchmen warranted, sir?”

  “Not yet. One must not be too sudden. But rest assured…”

  Shilling rested unassured, far, far from it, but he could not let it show, for Kaye was gazing at his face intensely. The captain let out a noise, relaxed.

  “Well then,” he said. “That is the way of it. You are midshipman, Taylor has sway upon the crew, and the Lamont brothers are trusted also, with a certain power of command, however minimal. You may trust them, Mr Shilling, and you will. And remember this. On board a ship there is only one true demon. He lives inside a bottle, and the bottle must be corked. Do you perceive me?”

  Rex Shilling nodded. But a picture of confidence he was not.

  “Good. So keep the devil in the bottle, and do not let him out. The spirits are all locked and barred, the wine and barrels also. Keep it so, and nothing can go wrong.”

  “Indeed, sir. It shall be so.”

  Kaye twinkled at him.

  “If you should feel the need, of course… Black Bob remains on board and is privy to my own small store of bottles. Ah no, you do not indulge, do you, except in the way of politesse! Most excellent behaviour in a young gentleman. Now, go and find out where my bloody gig might be, and bloody Cox’n Sankey. Is there no one save the Scots on board this ship that moves with any fizz?”