by Alaric Bond
Then there had been the letter. Due to the somewhat erratic nature of Prometheus' commission, post had been sparse while little of great sensitivity can be trusted to a note sent over a thousand miles which was to pass through many tar-stained hands. But one had come, the last, which concerned her greatly. And it was not so much what it contained that worried her so, rather what had been left out.
Kate's concerns increased steadily as the small craft headed across Biscay and down the Portuguese coast, until they now reached the point when, even though she stood at what must surely be her journey's end, a considerable part of her wished it might never be completed.
But if they were unable to discuss more personal matters, Robert had certainly told her of the battle. His ship, Prometheus, was one of two third rates that took on three French liners, sinking one and capturing the others. Word of the action had arrived in England just as she received that last letter and, as her packet sailed from Falmouth, all talk was of the brave Sir Richard Banks and his remarkable achievement. Naturally the opinions of a few Fleet Street journalists did not impress her; Kate was glad the British had been victorious of course and, more so, that Robert was unharmed. But all the jubilations and flag waving hardly affected her at all. Her concerns were far deeper.
“Shall I find a hackney for us, ma'am?”
The young voice broke into her thoughts. Kate was still unused to having a maid and being called so, although ma'am was a distinct improvement on 'mum' which had been the girl's original form of address, and one she could never tolerate.
“Yes, Poppy, do,” she said, breaking her mood. “And ask the driver to come for our luggage.”
Whatever her reception, Robert would not be over pleased at finding his wife in company with a maid. Were they both to ship aboard Prometheus, it would doubtless cause problems, and he was yet to learn that she was even in Gibraltar. So be it; if Robert was that distressed they would simply pay for Poppy to return in the next home bound merchant. And if she herself were as unwelcome, then the two of them would travel together.
“Buen día, señora.”
She gave a neutral smile as the short, stocky man bent down and lifted her sea chest onto his shoulder, before scooping up another bag with his free hand. Kate draped the new uniform she was to surprise Robert with over her own arm, then collected her personal portmanteau. Poppy dealt with the rest of their luggage and soon the three of them were making steady progress towards the open carriage that awaited them.
And then it was just a matter of minutes before they rounded a corner and began to trundle along the quay and towards the New Mole. Kate understood this to be quite a structure; something between breakwater and harbour wall, but was unprepared for the actual size. The spit of artificial land extended deep into the bay and even carried a respectable wooden roadway. There were a collection of assorted vessels secured alongside including Robert's ship, and it was then that she finally saw the liner's tattered sides in greater detail.
Prometheus' bows were facing the open sea and Kate drew a deep, unconscious breath as she reviewed the damage. Much work was being undertaken, three separate stages lay against her hull, and fresh wood was being hammered into place even as she watched. But when last seen the magnificent warship had been in far better order, with gleaming paint, new cordage and fresh canvas. Robert had grumbled about the sick berth not being finished to his total satisfaction, but one look at her wickedly scored and punctured sides and the tangle of old and new line hanging from strangely foreshortened masts told her story adequately enough. Even at such a distance the very air, rich with the scent of hot pitch and marine glue, spoke of a fierce action. That the ship remained afloat was remarkable in itself, and considerable time would be needed before the magnificent beast could be let loose upon open water again.
And the battle must have been all of six weeks ago, Kate reminded herself with a start: probably more. The carriage stopped by a small barricade guarding the entrance to the mole and, for a rare moment, Kate was at a loss.
“Turn back,” she told the driver briskly, her mind finally made up. “You can place my luggage over there, in the shade of that warehouse.” Kate reached for her purse as the carriage swung round and began to clatter back towards the nearby buildings. There had been no change of heart: the low wooden structure was simply a far more suitable place to leave Poppy and her possessions. Little comfort would be found from the sun at such an hour but it was a good distance from the Royal Marine guard at the mole, and Kate knew the girl would be keen to make a close acquaintance with any likely male.
“Wait for me here,” she told her after they had alighted and the driver was paid. “I shall not be long; if my husband is aboard you will be sent for immediately, otherwise we can seek him out elsewhere together.”
Poppy settled herself on the sea chest readily enough, and proceeded to flash her dark eyes at a nearby group of seamen. Kate considered her for a moment before deciding she might be trusted for a while at least. Chances were high Robert would be aboard, and all then could be sorted relatively quickly. Either she was at fault, and had taken the tone of his letter in completely the wrong way, or whatever problems he felt unable to discuss had healed during the time spent travelling. In which case they could continue as before, and she may well complete the commission in his company. And if not: if, as she secretly suspected, something dreadful was to tear them apart, be it a woman, someone he met ashore – perhaps an officer's wife, or maybe some terrible ailment which he could not speak of, she would accept that as well. Then, rather than having just completed a journey, the women would find themselves at the start of another, with their destination very firmly set as England.
* * *
Clement had noticed the young girl as she sat amid the dunnage, as did Butler and Jameson, the seamen who walked with him. Actually it would have been difficult to avoid doing so, her thick, auburn hair caught the sun in such a way that it drew even the most indifferent eye, while the freckled face beneath was so young, so full of life, yet with an obvious element of mischief that it brought a smile to all three. But though she openly returned the compliment, neither man gave her more than a second glance. Clement was a boatswain's mate; a responsible position aboard any ship, and more so in one with a tophamper that was a veritable cat's cradle of confusion. And they were running low on half inch line; Knolls, the boatswain, had sent the three men ashore to collect two more sixty-fathom lengths which would be needed to finish serving the mizzen shrouds. It was a small requirement, and hardly noticeable amongst the many miles of cordage that supported and controlled the motive power of a third rate. But if Clement could see to those shrouds it was another job done, and another day closer to that on which their precious barky could return to the sea.
It was late morning, just shy of noon when their main meal was due, and they were keen to get a shake on. The food was not the incentive, however. Being a Wednesday, one of three banyan days in the week when no meat was served, little could be expected. And what they did get would be cold, for while the ship remained trussed up to the shore and with most of the regular hands in barracks, the slushy rarely bothered to light his ovens. But Up Spirits would be piped before the meal, and that gave more than enough reason to see this simple trip to the stores done with, and themselves back to the ship.
They turned off the main quay and made for a side road that ran past the nearby storehouses. Clement was ahead of the other two although this in no way indicated his seniority; the three would have been far happier walking in line abreast, as seamen ashore tended to prefer. But the narrow lane was filled with all manner of traffic heading against them, and to do so would have slowed their progress considerably.
Their journey wound through various tight turns that were the hallmark of the area, and past several side streets, but the three had followed the same route often and knew it well. As soon as the weather-boarded building came into view, their pace increased and when they arrived they did not hesitate, but walk
ed straight into its cool and dark welcome.
The warehouse supplied most of the dockyard's smaller requirements, and its storekeeper greeted Clement respectfully enough. The requested line was soon routed out, and the requisition signed. Then, with the two seamen lugging a coil on each of their right shoulders, while the boatswain's mate remained unencumbered – a recognition of rank that was accepted by all – they set off both for their ship and that day's first allowance of grog.
And all went well on the return journey. The boatswain's mate was ahead once more and, once more, became lost in thoughts of the repair in progress. He knew the two men following better than to expect they would be doing the same, but was still not unduly bothered and it was only upon reaching the quay, when he finally turned back, that Clement realised one was missing.
“Where's Butler?” he asked, suspiciously, but Jameson simply looked back with a completely blank expression. “Well come on,” Clement demanded. “You was walking next to the cove, you must 'ave seen where 'e went.”
“No, Mr Clement,” Jameson replied earnestly. “I didn't see nothing.”
“Did you not?” the warrant officer challenged as he took a step towards his one remaining helper. This would not go down well back at the ship. Prometheus had a good record, with hardly any hands being lost since the ship was taken over by the dockyard mateys and he was bound to be held responsible.
“Straight up, Mr Clement,” Jameson assured him. “I just looked round, and he were gone.”
“An' I suppose you 'ad no idea he was gonna try anything?” Clement persisted.
“Not an inklin', I swear to God,” the seaman declared, and this time his voice even carried a trace of concern that he was not being believed. “I only discovered he'd run when you did,” the young man added.
“Is that right?” Clement questioned. “Then how come you's carryin' 'is line?”
* * *
“I'm to see the surgeon, my husband, Robert Manning,” she told the young private who guarded Prometheus' gangplank. But the man made no response; it was as if she had not spoken – did not exist and Kate was about to repeat in a louder voice when a second marine approached. He was equally bedecked in red and white but also wore shoulder knots and a laced hat.
“He's not permitted to speak, miss,” he told her. “Not been on picket duty for more than a week or so, an' we don't like the younger ones having too much to think about.”
“I see,” Kate replied, her gaze remaining on the sentry for a moment, before switching to what she assumed to be some measure of an officer. “Well can you allow me aboard?” she asked.
“Indeed,” the sergeant replied. “It might not be totally level, but I am the last to keep a man from his wife. Though you should have a guide,” he added thoughtfully. “A ship in refit is not the safest place, don't you know?”
“I shall be perfectly safe, thank you,” Kate answered stiffly.
“Very well, though I'd be happy to provide an escort.”
Kate looked briefly at the mute sentry. “If they are all as quiet as this one, I should be better on my own,” she said testily before bustling onto the wide plank that led to the ship's entry port.
But once aboard Kate regretted her decision. Though she had grown up around merchant ships and actually sailed in both sixth and fifth rates, Prometheus was by far the largest warship she had ever encountered. And her last visit had been many months back, when Robert was present to show her around. Still, she knew the sick berth was to be found on the orlop and to the stern so, after waiting for a pair of men carrying several planks of wood to pass, she set off for the aft companionway.
Below, it was even more confusing. The ship was a mass of activity, with workers hammering noisily at almost every station. The next stairway was in sight however, and Kate made for it without hesitation. And she was actually halfway down, before her path became blocked. Instinctively she stepped to one side to allow the two heavily built fellows by, but they were more intent on standing in her path, and apparently found the act amusing.
“Why Tosh,” one said, speaking to his mate. “We seems to have the wedding garland hoisted, ain't that the thing?”
The other simpered like any regular toad, and Kate had their mark immediately.
“Have you a fancy man, my lovely?” the first asked. Both were several steps below her, and it was no effort for him to reach forward and take hold of her skirt, as if examining the fabric.
“Stand away there, Rogers!” the voice came from behind and carried both authority and confidence. The seaman let go of the material in an instant before standing straight and staring into the far distance. Kate sensed a uniformed man stepping down beside her, but her own gaze remained on the seamen. “If you're in a working party I suggest you return to it,” the firm tone continued. “If not I shall surely find you employment...”
Kate finally glanced to one side, but the officer was unknown to her and, as she was surprised to note, no more senior than a midshipman. The two seamen knuckled their foreheads respectfully though, before turning back down the companionway and vanishing into the crowd.
“I apologise for that, ma’am,” the man spoke gruffly. He was well built, probably in his thirties, and definitely old for such a rank. “Ship is not under proper discipline at the moment, and those two reprobates are scarcely the best examples of our people.” He smiled, and there was the hint of a more gentle soul within. “If you have business aboard, you would be better to have a youngster to guide you.”
“Thank you,” Kate replied. “I did think I knew the way but was mistaken. I am the surgeon's wife, and wished to find my husband.”
“Mr Manning will be in the sick berth,” the midshipman replied. “Here, we are so close I may as well show you. My name is Franklin, by the way,” he said as they stepped together. “I berth in the aft cockpit, just for'ard from here.”
“Well thank you, Mr Franklin,” Kate said, smiling politely and offering her hand. “It was good of you to rescue me, I am most grateful.”
* * *
It might have come as a surprise to Jameson and Clement, but Butler had actually gone ashore with every intention of deserting. He first arrived aboard Prometheus several months back as she was commissioning. His ship, a transport, had been entering home waters after a lengthy voyage to New South Wales when a pressing tender set upon her. All bar the master, a mate and two ship's boys were taken, leaving ticket men in their places. At the time Butler was struck by an almost inexpressible anger; for all his adult life he had served aboard both Navy and merchant shipping and, whatever the law may decree, felt it a fundamental right to choose between the two. And with his woman ashore, and not ten miles from their Tor Bay anchorage hardly made matters any the easier.
But he had finally accepted his fate in the philosophical manner seamen were accustomed to, and settled aboard Prometheus, a ship he grudgingly recognized as being a relatively happy one. But all that changed within a few short hours. A general packet had come in bringing post which was distributed during breakfast. His contained news of home and there was little so very terrible in what he learned. Mary was well, and missed him greatly. His child, a boy, named William in his honour, was doing famously. An aunt had died, his best friend's ship was worryingly late in returning from the East, all the usual tattle-tale that made a seaman's life more bearable. Certainly nothing momentous, or likely to persuade a dependable hand and potential captain of the maintop to run.
But run he did; and it was the normality of the letters which had caused him to do so. The reminder that, however exotic and bohemian his life might have become, there was another, far more mundane existence that he was also a part of. And suddenly it occurred to Butler he wanted to be more than just a part. He wanted – needed – to be home, telling his wife, the girl whose face was in danger of fading from his memory, exactly how much he loved her, and hold his son in his arms while he was still able to do so.
“You'll be regular Navy then,” the ma
ster told him suspiciously as he stood on the deck of the same packet Kate Manning and her maid had so recently vacated.
“I might be,” Butler hedged, although his rig and lack of possessions said much about his status.
“Well I won't pretend I can't use another hand,” the man admitted. “But I been bobbed in the past. There'll be no wages paid in advance; not a penny 'till we see England.”
“Fair enough,” Butler agreed.
“And a topman you say?”
The seaman nodded and the master's face betrayed his pleasure. “Then you'd better find yourself a berth,” he said, without further hesitation.
Butler drew a sigh of relief. It had been much easier than he thought. Less than half an hour before he was one of Clement's party, and Prometheus still lay in clear sight to the south of the harbour.
“If the Navy comes a lookin' we've places you can be hid,” the master continued. “The mate will show you where when he returns. And I won't say a word, not about you being aboard, nor how you comes to be so, if you're found.”
That was fine by Butler; in fact it could hardly be bettered.
“We're to sail at first light tomorrow,” Butler's new captain was warming to the capable young man who could have come as a gift from the gods. “Once we makes it clear of harbour, I'd say you're safe. We has one call on the Med. Squadron, then can start for glorious Albion.”
Butler grew tense but said nothing.
“We've a commission to carry despatches, but that shouldn't affect you none,” the master assured him. “Sprite can raise Toulon in four an' a half days with the wind right, an' we'll be delivering to the Navy. No one comes aboard as a rule an', if they does, we can hide you once again. In less than ten days we should be passing back through the Strait, then it is just a call at the Tagus, cross Biscay and on to England. Falmouth's our home port, from there you'll have to make your own way to Tor Bay. That do you all right, will it?”
