HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  He stepped swiftly past the first hut; the place had curtains at the window and was likely to contain those who might challenge him, then straight through the open double doors of an adjoining warehouse that he judged to have more potential. Sure enough, at the far end an elderly man sat at a combination of desk and bench, his head bowed over a large, open ledger. Until that day Bleeden had only been able to observe the clerk from a distance but, by his faded hair and permanent stoop, had reckoned him to be easy meat and a closer look confirmed that assessment.

  “Requisition from Captain Conn, HMS Canopus,” Bleeden said in a voice that artfully combined authority, confidence and routine. “Half-hundredweight o' soap, half hundredweight o' butter and fourteen pounds o' raisins, any time you're ready.”

  The elderly man brought the form Bleeden planted on his ledger closer to him and stared at it through thick lensed spectacles.

  “This ain't straight,” his voice was tired and husky. “Mr Kendall, the superintendent of the wharf, 'as to make out a warrant – that's the next office.” So saying the clerk passed the paper back up to Bleeden and returned to his work.

  There had been a time when that might have sufficed. Faced with even the smallest opposition, Bleeden would have bowed out gracefully, grateful to retain his liberty. But one of the lessons learned since being condemned to a period as a professional seaman was the advantages his new status actually held.

  When carried out by a civilian, any theft that involved a value greater than forty shillings was punishable by death, and what Bleeden proposed to steal was worth considerably more. But if a foremast Jack were caught committing such an offence, he was unlikely to meet the same fate. And neither would he be dismissed the service – more was the pity. With the shortage of skilled manpower being as it was, the worst he might expect was a dose of the cat. Not a pleasant prospect perhaps but, when a smuggler, Bleeden had lived in constant dread of far worse, so was content to take the risk and hold his ground.

  “Mr Kendall's squared it with Mr Pownall,” he insisted, smoothly inserting the name of the naval storekeeper for all Gibraltar into his speech. “I just come from his office. This lot were missed from the last lighter, and Captain Conn's got a promissory note sayin' all would be made up. Ship sails in less than twelve hour', he can't wait about.”

  “So where's the warrant?” the clerk asked.

  “I can get's it,” Bleeden informed him with just the right amount of certainty as he tossed the paper down in front of the clerk. “But Captain Conn ain't too happy – 'pparently there's been more than a few mix-ups provisioning the barky as it is. He's ashore now. I can say you ain't cooperating and bring 'im down if you wishes. But he's a man I wouldn't want to cross on a good day, and this is a long way off.”

  “There's no need,” the clerk replied, then raised his eyes to meet that of the seaman directly. “Stay here; I shall not be long.” So saying the old man rose from his stool and tottered from the room, stepping out into the bright afternoon sunshine and leaving Bleeden alone.

  There were packing cases and crates to every side, but all were securely sealed and much too large to be moved. And, for once, Bleeden did not feel inclined to pilfer. A sixth sense, nurtured through many years' misconduct was starting to make itself known. He waited for a while, shifting from foot to foot while the doubts grew. A clock could be heard: each sturdy tick seemed to emphasise time as it passed, while Bleeden's bluster dissolved further with every second. His note still lay on the ledger: he was about to retrieve it and make for the boat when the sunshine that came flooding in from outside suddenly darkened and Bleeden turned to see the silhouette of the old man standing in the doorway. But he was not alone: another, taller, figure stood next to him.

  “There he is, Mr Kendall,” the elderly voice wheezed. “That's the man.”

  In an instant Bleeden was on the move. There was no other way out of the warehouse, he would have to rush the door and common sense told him it was best to do so straight away. Blasting through, the two men fell to either side as he ran between them. He felt the borrowed britches rip as his long legs stretched, but it was just a simple matter of crossing the yard – less than a hundred and fifty feet, although the ground was rough, and he stumbled more than once. There seemed to be figures everywhere, and some turned to look in his direction as he went. But no one thought to stop him and soon the boat was in sight, along with Cranston and Greg, sitting nonchalantly on the quay.

  “Cast off!” he gasped, thundering nearer. Mooring lines were being slipped as he approached and the craft was actually moving when Bleeden flung himself off, landing squarely in the bottom between both thwarts. For a moment the hull tipped alarmingly and he lay still and panting while his mates did their best to stabilise the vessel.

  “After you, was they?” one enquired, grinning. Bleeden raised himself, and looked back towards the victualling yard. Everyone in sight had returned to their work and there was no sign of either the clerk, or his superior; the one object out-of-place being Bleeden's black bicorne hat that was rolling, abandoned, amid the dirt.

  “I were smoked,” he confessed. “Best get a shake on, in case they comes after us with the guffies.”

  The men laid into their sculls and soon they were crossing Rosia Bay, where a subtle change of course allowed them to mingle with other small craft. But there was no pursuit. Even when they passed the grim, grey outline of the fort, the only interest paid was from a bored sentry who watched them idly as they shot by. In no time they rounded the end of the mole and Prometheus, with all her reassuring bulk, came into sight.

  “Any joy?” Ashley, the coxswain, was waiting for them. He had authorised the use of the jolly boat and beamed expectantly as they slotted the tiny craft next to its larger peers.

  “Na, we drew a dead un,” Greg smirked. “An could be in bilboes b'now, if Charlie Boy here weren't such a dandy runner.”

  Bleeden accepted the compliment with scant acknowledgement.

  “Ah well, it were a long shot,” Ashley sighed. “But worth the effort.”

  “Oh, I ain't given up,” Bleeden told him. “They only won the first round. We'll be back, and see 'em cleaned out proper.” He was just starting to smart, both from the defeat and what had been a decidedly undignified exit. But he was serious in his assertion. Bleeden had run from both revenue, and dragoons in his time; one old man and his boss weren't going to get the better of him.

  * * *

  “Franklin is the obvious choice,” the first lieutenant said. “He has served as acting lieutenant before, and been at sea as long as either of us.”

  Prometheus would remain in the dockyard's hands for several more weeks but Banks and Caulfield had been discussing the changes needed when she once more became operational. And they were using the great cabin; the captain's quarters having been one of the few areas that received minimal damage during the recent battle. Already much had been corrected and the magnificent apartment restored to a close approximation of its former glory.

  “Franklin – that would be the oldster.” Captain Banks pondered, remembering. “He has charge of the aft cockpit, does he not?”

  “Senior of the berth, and keeps good order,” the first lieutenant confirmed. “Gets respect from the more experienced while the squealers treat him very much as a sea daddy.”

  “You do not think he is already serving a useful purpose?”

  “Possibly,” Caulfield allowed. “Although there would doubtless be others who would perform as well. And with most young gentlemen ashore, we have only the four newest currently in the berth: they should be able to look after each other well enough for the time being.”

  “What age is he?”

  “Thirty four or five, I should chance,” Caulfield replied.

  “It is old to be a midshipman,” Banks said, as he considered further. “Has he sought advancement?”

  “Sat his board twice, as a matter of fact.” Caulfield cleared his throat. “And was rejected both times.”<
br />
  “There is little shame in that,” Banks gave a brief smile. “A lot may depend on the examining captains...”

  “Indeed,” The first lieutenant agreed and went to add more before thinking better of it. He had failed his own lieutenant's examination at the first visit, yet happened to know Banks breezed through his, and when he was considerably younger than eighteen, the statutory minimum for a commission.

  “Still he carries out his duties well,” Caulfield mused. “And I've not heard a bad word said about him, except...”

  Banks gave an enquiring look.

  “Except that he may be a dissenter,” the first lieutenant added.

  “In truth?” the captain was surprised. “I had no idea.”

  “He attends divine service,” the first lieutenant continued guardedly, “and is always alert when the Articles of War are read.”

  “And the prayers?”

  “The prayers also,” Caulfield confirmed awkwardly.

  “So is it my sermons that concern him?” Banks asked in sudden realisation.

  “I fear so,” Caulfield admitted. “They may not be entirely to his taste.”

  “There is no reason why not,” Banks protested. “All are supposedly written by a God fearing man; a Church of England Bishop, or so I recall. And I feel them delivered soundly; could it be a difficulty in hearing, do you suppose?”

  Caulfield said nothing. As far as he was concerned, the captain's weekly bellowing fulfilled its purpose and most of the men seemed equally satisfied; there were even some who failed to notice whenever he reached the end of his book, and started again at the beginning. And he could not help but feel that Prometheus was lucky in avoiding the appointment of a chaplain. Such people were more nuisance than they were worth to his mind, and too often inclined to impose a judgemental atmosphere on the wardroom. But there was no doubting the captain's sermons lacked sensitivity and were not a patch on their previous sailing master's efforts.

  “Perhaps it were better when Fraiser was aboard,” Banks added after thought, and Caulfield gave a silent nod.

  “So what is he?” the captain continued. “Methodist? Papist? Surely not a Quaker?”

  “I have no idea,” Caulfield's expression was blank. “He is known to drink wine and eat pig like a regular Christian. In fact, were it not for tattle-tale and his obvious inattention, I would not be concerned at all and consider him as devout as you or me.”

  “You might wish to speak to him about it?” Banks suggested.

  “I might,” Caulfield agreed. “Though a man's faith is usually considered a private matter; providing he has one of course,” he added quickly. “And Mr Midshipman Franklin is not alone; there are several others who do not attend too closely.”

  “Are there, indeed?” Banks asked suspiciously. As a post captain, he was the senior king's representative aboard Prometheus so naturally assumed himself to represent God into the bargain. And until that moment he had been quite proud of his weekly sermons. That they were delivered also gave him an additional source of income, as he felt entirely justified in claiming the monthly groat extracted from each man for religious instruction, and so many regular fourpences was not a sum to be carelessly tossed aside. But Banks was also aware it would take just one right-minded individual to complain for him to attract severe censure. There might be times when the lower deck were given inferior rations or treated badly in other respects, with subsequent protest falling on deaf ears. But a foolishly tolerant Admiralty had decreed spiritual guidance relatively cheap to administer, and this was one instance where the regular Jacks were likely to see their will exercised over his.

  “So Franklin considers himself a man of faith?” Banks scratched at his chin in thought. “There is nothing to that effect in his personal papers.”

  “Such a thing should surely not deter advancement,” Caulfield commented delicately. “Though he may have problems taking the Test Act. I recall a particularly vehement Presbyterian who refused to swear an oath and never progressed beyond warrant rank. But if Franklin were made acting lieutenant it would only be while King were unwell; he might not remain in position long enough to sit another board.”

  “I would not be so certain of that,” Banks rested back in his chair. “We are awaiting a replacement for Benson after all.”

  Ten days before, Lieutenant Benson had been lured away by the dash of a visiting frigate. The act itself was bad enough, but the young man removed himself without formal notice or arranging an exchange; a fact that still rankled with both men.

  “The naval commissioner has not provided?” Caulfield asked.

  “He undertook to find a suitable body though none have volunteered as yet.” Banks replied. “Doubtless a man will be appointed in time, but I would prefer one who came willingly.”

  “You are assuming Tom King shall be able to function,” the first lieutenant's voice was slightly hesitant. “When fully recovered, I am meaning. It is what we all wish obviously, but...”

  “I realise he may never heal completely,” the captain grunted. “But many who lose a limb do, we have to look no further than our current commander as an example. Though there is a deal of difference between the duties of an admiral, and that of a second lieutenant...”

  “With Franklin's help he may have more chance.” Caulfield's tone remained soft.

  “Then dissenter or not, we must give him a try,” Banks said, decisively. “In fact every effort should be made to see King back as an active member of the wardroom. Prometheus would be a very different ship without him.”

  * * *

  Kate opened the door to the sick berth proper and silently let herself in. Robert had gone to speak with the captain in the hope she could once more ship as surgeon's mate. With luck he may also be able to arrange accommodation for Poppy. The girl should still be waiting for her on the shore and, if past experiences were anything to go by, probably getting herself into a deal of trouble, but Kate had no inclination to find out. And while most of her possessions were in the dubious care of her maid, there was precious little else to do. Consequently she had decided not to wait for her husband, but seek out Tom King by herself.

  Of course she would have been prepared to delay, but knowing that what was probably her closest friend apart from Robert lay in the next room proved too much. And with the ship reverberating to the sounds of saw, hammer and chisel, it would be interesting to see how deeply asleep the cove actually was.

  But she had not expected the darkness: the small, stuffy room was almost pitch black. She stopped, uncertainly on the threshold, and it was simply because Robert chose the same moment to return that she did not turn back immediately.

  “Kate, I said we would visit him later,” her husband told her in a harsh whisper, while collecting a pusser's dip.

  “Why so dark?” she enquired, unabashed.

  “I keep it so in the early afternoon,” Robert explained as he lit the wick from a taper, before closing down the glass. “So my patients have a chance to rest after their midday...” A series of loud hammer blows applied directly above their heads interrupted him and the surgeon smiled ruefully. “Though with the ship being refitted, it hardly makes a deal of difference.”

  “Then why did you not transfer everyone ashore?”

  “Because some do not care to leave the ship.” The familiar voice came from the depths of the room, and Kate peered down to see the dim features of Tom King's face beaming up at her. “It is good to see you, Kate: what cheer?”

  “Good to see you also, Tom,” she told him, settling herself down on the deck to be at the same level as his bunk. “Though sorry to find you poorly. Why won't you go ashore?”

  “I've heard too many tales of what they does to you in hospitals,” he explained. “And would rather stay aboard the ship, even if it means remaining in your husband's care.”

  The two men exchanged expressions of mock disdain, but Kate took little notice. Her eyes were becoming used to the gloom and, with the aid of Ro
bert's light, she was able to make out Tom more clearly. The lad, and Kate could never think of him as anything but, had lost a good deal of weight; his face was drawn, and there were dark patches under both eyes. But the main difference was something far more obvious and she could not help but take a sharp breath as she realised what must have happened. King regarded her with the cynical look of one accustomed to such a reaction, and Kate did all she could to regain some composure, although the dreadful truth remained with her. Tom had always been such a fit young man, and as active and energetic as any. Yet now would have to put up with this...

  But there was no disguising the fact; his blankets were pulled down in deference to the heat and she could see the left sleeve of his night shirt clearly. And that it was quite empty.

  * * *

  Franklin approached the double doors of the wardroom and resisted the temptation to knock. He had been inside the senior officers' quarters on several occasions, but never dreamed the place would ever become his home. He pushed the door open, and entered. Beneath his feet he felt the stiff white canvas that was carefully painted with black squares to represent tiles. Although hardly the height of sophistication, it was a pleasant touch and, when compared with his previous berth, luxury indeed.

  Of course the wardroom might not be his home for very long, Franklin reminded himself. All too soon, either due to some foolish mistake on his part, or simple logic, he could find himself back in that adolescent nursery on the deck below. And he would return to teaching the lads; those who were richer, younger and better connected, the ways of the sea, only to have them leave him behind in their wake.

  A steward appeared, and seemed surprised to see what he would take to be an elderly midshipman in such illustrious surroundings.

  “May I assist?” the young man asked with an odd look in his eye. He might not have been more than a junior member of the catering staff, but knew his place, and clearly believed Franklin to be out of his.