by Alaric Bond
“Yes, sir,” Butler replied. “That'll do me fine.”
* * *
The strangely grown up midshipman had left her at the entrance to the dispensary and Kate paused before knocking on the light deal door. This was the last moment when she could have changed her mind. In theory at least, she might still turn away: still leave the ship, leave the port and, together with Poppy, be heading back for England before Robert even knew they had arrived. She would be running away from whatever had worried her of course, but some folk believed it easier to avoid problems, rather than confront them. Kate was not of that type, though: she always preferred to tackle obstacles head on. And, if there was difficulty with her husband, it was surely better to meet it so. There had been no reply so she tapped again, and more firmly this time.
A familiar gruff voice called for her to enter and she pressed the door open.
“Robert, you have a seaman aboard by the name of Rogers,” she began, while taking a single step into the dark little room. “You must know him; an offensive ox of a man: kindly see he is soundly purged when next your attention is sought.”
Manning placed the china bowl he had been holding back on the counter before turning to meet the wife he had thought so many miles away in England. “Kate, how absolutely wonderful to see you.” he said.
It was not quite the welcome she had expected and the corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but Kate made no move to greet him, and stayed near to the doorway.
“But come in, do,” he insisted. “I have much to tell, and you must be tired. Did you arrive in the packet?”
She went to reply, but he was obviously far too excited to give her the chance.
“I looked to her, and thought of you, but only for the letters that might be aboard. To be truthful I was sorry when none were delivered. And then here you are: why it is wonderful!”
Kate allowed herself to be led further into the room, feeling his well remembered touch while previous doubts and expectations tumbled about her mind as if suddenly robbed of a home. Whatever she may have been fearing, there was clearly nothing amiss with Robert, or his feelings for her.
“So, when did you decide to join us? In your last message you were helping in the village surgery at Alton.”
“I should have written,” she replied, while allowing her expression to soften. “It was wrong of me I know but, after receiving your letter it seemed better to come in person.”
“My letter?” At her words much of the enthusiasm seemed to drain from the man's face and he looked older and more vulnerable. “But I have sent several. Do you know about Tom,” he enquired hesitantly. “That he was wounded...”
“And that you expected him to die?” Kate added in a way that would have sounded callous to anyone who did not know her. “Has he?”
Manning shook his head. “No. No, he is alive. But it is not good, Kate – I fear I may have let him down dreadfully and cannot say how badly I feel.”
But his look of sudden concern told her much. She had been partly right; something was obviously bothering her husband, although it seemed the problem did not concern her or their relationship, but rather someone else entirely.
“So he is to go shortly?” She demanded; really the man was making no sense at all.
“No, I expect him to live,” he gave a slight smile. “Live and be healthy.”
“But that is wonderful, Robert!” She looked at him as a mother might a troublesome child. “And, from what you said, also remarkable. There was infection in the wound, as I recall. Sure, it is the hardest task in the world to clear such things: you have nothing to reproach yourself for, I am certain.”
They were now close, almost touching, although neither made a move to embrace. It was as if they had come together purely out of habit.
“Can I see him?”
“All in good time,” he told her. “There is a deal to tell and he will be sleeping now, but more of you; are you staying? I am sure you shall be offered a berth, if so. I could certainly use the help: Dodgeson has been lured ashore to the new hospital, and there is more than enough work for Prior and me. We are dealing with a positive stream of accidents from the refit and I have no wish to sail with only one assistant surgeon.”
She was looking at him quizzically now and, reaching forward, took both his hands quite firmly in hers.
“I shall stay for as long as you will have me, Robert,” she declared.
“It is so good to see you again,” he replied with equal solemnity. “I cannot tell how much you were missed.”
* * *
Franklin entered the aft cockpit to find it empty. There was little surprise in that, even though the small space had been designed to be home to up to twenty men and boys – volunteers, midshipmen or junior master's mates – and was usually overcrowded, almost to the point of physical danger. Several of the young gentlemen originally appointed to Prometheus had already fallen, either in the recent action or earlier in her commission and, despite having been in harbour for over six weeks, only four new faces had so far been received as replacements. In addition, while the ship remained firmly in the grasp of the dockyard, most of her lower deck hands were accommodated ashore, with all the older midshipmen bar himself transferred there to supervise them. In fact Franklin was left with just those four young souls with whom to share the berth and found himself spending a good deal of time playing nursemaid.
He exhaled deeply, and ran his long and slightly ink stained fingers through his hair, then reached for the teapot that rested on a hanging shelf in the centre of the stuffy room. The pot was cold, but still heavy enough to contain sufficient for his needs, and he poured a goodly measure of the thick, brown liquid into one of the cups alongside, before selecting the only free chair not filled with clutter and lowering himself down.
When the ship was at sea and during normal service conditions the younger, some might say aspiring, officers were placed under the care of a senior midshipman or master's mate. It was a responsible position, and one open to a select few. They must be sound enough to take charge of the lads' care and education, while able to combine the roles of messmate, tutor and, all too often, parent. Aboard Prometheus, that responsibility had fallen upon Franklin who, although only a midshipman himself, was older than most of his rank and possessed more than enough experience for the task. It was not a position he particularly enjoyed but, after serving twice as acting lieutenant without completing that all important step to commissioned rank, Franklin was becoming increasingly disillusioned with his career as a sea officer. This had yet to reach the stage when it became obvious; when he, like many of his type, unintentionally marked himself out as unlikely to proceed further. The process was undoubtedly underway, though: already he knew himself established as one of the more permanent warrant officers; those known for a limited number of abilities and the last to be chosen for anything new while, in turn, he was inclined to view any fresh duty with a measure of cynicism.
For he was thirty-five; seventeen years beyond the time when first eligible for a commission. Instead, he was stuck as an oldster midshipman: a figure of fun when employed and pity when not, for no advantages such as half pay or pension followed those who had failed so conspicuously. Franklin was uncomfortably aware of officers more than ten years younger who were now considered made. They commanded post ships and sat safely on the captains' list, with the very real possibility of receiving their flag before he even got another sniff at a lieutenant’s board. To them would go the glamour, fame and fortune every king's officer should aspire to, and he could not deny that part of him was envious.
But it was only a part, and getting smaller with every day. Others may consider those of captains' rank and above to be a success, and they were welcome to their opinion: Franklin's was different. In fact his views went far deeper than any expected of an older man with a youngster's rank. Deeper, darker; almost revolutionary, as well as being radical enough for them to be kept a carefully hidden secret.
“All alone, Mr Franklin?”
He looked around to see the genial face of one of the quartermasters poking through the opened doorway.
“Come in, Mr Maxwell,” Franklin urged, using the formal mode of address despite being below deck. “Though the place is little better than a morgue and all I can offer is cold tea.”
“Cold tea's a sight better than none at all,” Maxwell told him cheerfully as he helped himself to the last of the pot then, at a subtle nod from Franklin, settled on one of the lad's sea chests opposite.
As a quartermaster, Maxwell was junior even to Franklin and with considerably less chance of further promotion. Franklin knew the man to have spent more than twenty-five years at sea, all in some Royal Navy vessel or other, and most whilst his country was at war. But he could detect no disillusionment as he regarded the wrinkled face that drank eagerly from his cup. The man had never expected anything, so was easily satisfied. Aspirations simply brought disappointment and Franklin would be the first to acknowledge that inner contentment was worth any amount of apparently fulfilled ambition.
“Word is we have sight of some early provisions,” Maxwell told him on finishing his drink. “Just a few bosuns' stores; candles, and the like. But it's a start.”
Maxwell was mainly responsible for supervising the steering of the ship, although he also assisted the sailing master with the stowing of supplies and shifting ballast; tasks that became redundant while they remained secured alongside the mole, and it was clear to Franklin the man was eager to return to normal duties.
“So soon?” he asked, with superficial interest. “Surely the ship has months of work before we should even think of provisioning?”
“It's Gib.,” Maxwell replied philosophically. “Never much of anything, so you grab what you can while it's going. Besides, I've a mind we might get things moving afore long.” He eyed the younger man for a moment. “And how is it with you, Mr Franklin?” he enquired. “Making you jump about a bit, are they?”
“Would that they were,” the midshipman replied candidly. “Dockyard mateys have everything under control as far as repairs are concerned. Chips and his team are busy enough and, in a week or two, we may be able to bring back some of the regular hands as auxiliary painters, but there's a deal to do before that happens. I've been writing up a fresh schedule for when we come to take in water; last one took no account of the livestock's needs but, until more progress is made, it's really a question of keeping everything under supervision. There's nothing to do, as such; least nothing I can get my teeth into, and I must admit to finding it a mite wearisome.”
“We'll be back on the briny in no time,” Maxwell countered in a voice intentionally gruff to conceal any understanding his words might have conveyed. “Then you'll be complaining of too much on your plate. And with the older middies back in the mess, it'll be just as before, you see if it's not.”
“Aye,” Franklin agreed. “The old routine.”
“One moment you're wiping noses,” Maxwell grinned. “the next, they're giving us orders and we're both calling them sir.”
“Something on those lines,” Franklin agreed. He had noticed the quartermaster's unusually astute views on such matters in the past, while Maxwell regularly saw through his own personal façade, which was both disconcerting and reassuring at the same time. “But as you say, we'll be back to it afore long.” Franklin continued with a feigned cheerfulness. “And it's better than being on the beach.”
“That's the spirit,” Maxwell beamed. “Ain't no use in wallowing in misery; there's enough about without makin' more. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil therein,' - it's what my old mum used to say,” he explained.
And then Franklin could not help but smile; his own mother had said something so very similar.
Chapter Two
The victualling yard was across nearby Rosia Bay, about half a mile to the south of the New Mole where Prometheus lay. It consisted of a series of single story buildings that actually held little of interest to entrepreneurs such as Charlie Bleeden. Even the newly built cutting room, a mild euphemism for the combined slaughterhouse and butcher's shop, did not attract him. There were storage problems connected with whole sides of fresh beef or pork, while the usual seamen's fare of salted meat, hard tack, or preserved vegetables would be scorned by his regulars. Slop clothing was a possibility, however: Bleeden's customers were always ready to pay out for a crisp new jacket or smart pair of trousers, especially if offered cheaper than those supplied by the purser, but again such things were not easy to store or transport.
Of course it was a different matter entirely with spirits and tobacco. High value items that were far easier to hide and much in demand; the only fly in the ointment being that all such luxuries were more securely held in bonded warehouses at the harbour itself. But there were still a few things in the victualling yard that might be of use to his buyers. And if they would pay, he was interested, for Charlie Bleeden had never been known to pass up a business opportunity.
The problem of logistics remained, however. Whatever he could liberate must be conveyed to the ship, the wooden huts where the seamen currently berthed being far too open and totally unsuitable for clandestine storage. And before then, his plunder would have to be carried past a fort strategically positioned on the nearby headland, then physically brought aboard. The last part should be no great undertaking; enough parts, supplies and men were constantly being taken on and off the liner to make the odd case of booty almost unnoticeable. Besides, Bleeden's little industry was well known: he had friends throughout Prometheus who would gladly turn a blind eye in return for a small consideration while, if he set his mind to it, he could probably secure himself a hand cart. In fact Bleeden found few things to be totally impossible: a bit of determination combined with the cheek of the devil could move mountains, and he scored highly on both counts.
But he had actually given up the idea of land transport long since. In his daily observations – Bleeden believed research to be a the heart of any successful operation – he noticed all who approached the victualling yard on foot were challenged. Even quite senior officers rarely passed through without at least a note of their name and business, so an ordinary seaman like himself would have no chance. He had tried to get round this by offering his services to Rigget, the purser's steward, but the man proved as incorruptible as the psalm singing hypocrite who employed him. Then Bleeden chanced across his current plan and, even if he did say so himself, it was a beauty.
“Very well, lay her alongside,” he muttered to his two messmates, as the jolly boat drew near to an empty wharf. The yard was freshly built, indeed more warehouses were under construction further to the south, and Bleeden guessed the system must have an Achilles heel. Sure enough, in all his observations he had not seen one approach from the sea challenged; a remarkable oversight for any organisation whose main purpose was to serve the Navy. But it was on just such an omission that Bleeden's success had been built, and one of his talents to identify and exploit such things to the full.
He had other gifts as well. For much of his life Bleeden had crewed for a number of different smuggling gangs before latterly running his own operation. It was a lucrative activity that had only come to an end a few months before, following a most generous offer from the magistrates at Seaford. He could either sign on with a Royal Navy ship for a minimum of five years, or spend the next seven serving out a penal sentence in the colonies. And so it was that Bleeden found himself posted aboard a seventy-four, and putting his not inconsiderable skills as a seaman to far more noble use.
But on that particular day he was not intending anything that would benefit his country, and neither was he dressed in the duck trousers and checked shirt of a regular Jack. Instead, Bleeden sported the frock coat of a master's mate, something that had been simple enough to secure from a cockpit hammock man. As were the knee britches which, although somewhat tight on his sturdy frame, passed a cursory inspection. The hat proved harder; Bleeden's head was
unusually large and both examples found for him sat on top in a manner that appeared far too comical. And it was a hot day, with barely a cloud in the sky, so the sight of a warrant officer carrying his scraper might be considered unusual. But Bleeden trusted he would be outside for the briefest of periods; and was not averse to taking the odd chance when necessary.
Under Cranston and Greg's expert guidance, the jolly boat drifted easily up to a low quay, finally coming to rest against the manilla edged rubbing strake with hardly a shudder. Bleeden jumped out clutching at his hat and, not waiting for the small craft to be secured, made straight for the collection of huts that sat amidst the larger storehouses. The place was crowded, crates were being opened, wagons loaded and there was a good deal of chatter and calling out between the workers, although Bleeden walked confidently through it all and was not challenged. He knew that inside one of the huts would be the agent victualler, a man ultimately responsible for all stores coming in or going out of the yard. If there had been a way to get on his right side, it would be the gateway to wealth beyond imagining, but Bleeden was not so foolish as to attempt such a thing. He had long since learned who might be bribed and who might not and, surprisingly, junior grade civil servants usually fell into the latter category. If he were better connected it would be a different story. Even in the short time they had been in Gibraltar, Bleeden had learned that most on the port captain's staff were as bent as the proverbial doornail. Once he could engineer a meeting between someone of influence, perhaps a writer in the naval storekeeper's office, or even the man himself, things would change. He was sure an arrangement could be made that suited both parties, and he would not be reduced to using more mundane means to earn a crust.
