HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  “Indeed, sir,” Hunt agreed. His voice was hesitant and his right eye twitched erratically as he spoke. “I was commissioned to carry despatches from Admiral Bickerton,” he went on to explain. “We ran in with a pirate at dawn six days back.”

  “And when did you leave Sir Richard?” Otway asked.

  “On the tenth, sir.”

  That was twelve days ago: Banks considered the lad. If, as seemed likely, the prize was one of his first commands, he would have slept little before the encounter. And, by the look of him, even less since.

  “You fought her?” the naval commissioner persisted, although his habitually gruff tone had softened slightly.

  “I did, though caused little damage, sir. She were finally seen off by the arrival of an American frigate.”

  “An American?” The change in Otway's pitch was noticeable. Having powerful neutral vessels on his station must be a cause for concern, but Banks detected something more personal in the man's reaction. Perhaps they had been enemies in the past?

  “The Philadelphia, sir, Captain Bainbridge,” Hunt explained. “They came to our rescue and damn near caught the devils into the bargain.”

  “Then it seems our former cousins can be of some use,” Otway grunted, and Banks knew he had been correct in his assumption. “But even one of their mighty frigates could not take a xebec, eh?”

  “The xebec is a swift craft, sir,” Stewart suggested gently, although his superior chose not to hear.

  “Anyways, you took a deal of damage,” Otway continued. “What was your butcher's bill?”

  “Four dead, sir.” Hunt replied. “And three died later – we had no surgeon. One was the master's mate who acted as my second in command. And there were four wounded who made it to harbour.”

  “They have been transferred to the naval hospital, sir.” Hoskins intervened smoothly.

  A captured brig of such a size would have needed a reasonable crew to travel from Toulon to Gibraltar, but probably no more than twenty, Banks decided. That meant the action had accounted for more than half her people; a high ratio.

  “You did well to make it so far in such a condition,” Otway allowed. “Why did Sir Richard send you: where is Lord Nelson?”

  “Admiral Nelson is conducting a loose blockade,” Hunt told them. “I was with Admiral Bickerton's squadron, so it was he who gave me the despatches.”

  “Bickerton gave you despatches?” the naval commissioner's expression lifted.

  “Yes, sir,” Hunt replied, and was about to say more, but Otway was still speaking.

  “That is good news indeed; we have been awaiting word,” he said. “Has the dockyard supervisor inspected your vessel?”

  “He has, sir, but believes no repair will serve,” once more Hunt had been about to continue, but it was Hoskins who interrupted this time.

  “Mr Cawsgrove suggests it be condemned,” the lieutenant informed them. “As soon as any fittings have been removed, of course.”

  “And how many sound men do you have?” Otway snapped back at Hunt.

  “Seven, sir,” the young man replied. “Eight if you count Allinson, who is only slightly wounded.”

  The commissioner turned to Banks with a look of triumph on his face. “That's a further eight for you, Sir Richard,” he said. “And a likely young lieutenant – you were a man down, as I recall?”

  Eight more men would certainly be welcome, Banks decided, although he was less sure about another acting lieutenant. Hunt carried himself well, and was obviously capable, but a more experienced man would have been preferable.

  “And we shall certainly take what we can from your capture, Hunt,” Otway was now positively beaming. “Pluck the guns from her, and anything else we find of use.”

  “I am afraid they had to be abandoned, sir,” Hunt told him doubtfully. “As well as most of our dry provisions.”

  Otway shot the lad an enquiring look, and he continued.

  “Captain Bainbridge was most helpful, sir. He sent his surgeon to attend our wounded and a team of carpenters for the damage, but they could not seal the hull. We thrummed two sails and fothered them about but still needed to pump three hours out of every four to keep her swimming.”

  “So you abandoned them?” the old man sighed. “It is understandable, though a waste of victuals and ordinance nonetheless.”

  “No, sir, I passed them to the Americans,” Hunt replied innocently.

  There was a stillness and Banks was strangely aware of a chill that must have come in through the partially opened windows.

  “You gave British guns to Americans?” he asked, as if the young man had committed some terrible act of debauchery.

  “Indeed, sir,” the lad's eye began twitching again. “It seemed a waste to destroy them, and the Americans had saved the ship, as well as us. Why, without their help we would all have been taken and made slaves.”

  The pause that followed suggested Otway may possibly have preferred such an outcome.

  “The Americans are our allies, sir.” Stewart suggested diplomatically. “Their intervention with the Ottoman Empire means we can still water in Tetuan. And if the brig was a capture, the guns would surely have been French, not British...”

  “Then much good it will do them,” the old man grumbled. “Though I would rather see them at the bottom of the Med. than in the hands of those turncoats. I still cannot forgive them the loss of the Lark; fine ship and an even finer crew. And I know what you're going to say,” he added before anyone could. “That was twenty-five years ago – but let me tell you gentlemen, some things you don't forget...”

  “You mentioned despatches,” Banks prompted, in an effort to change the subject. The lad appeared to have suffered enough and good news might restore something of Otway's humour. But he could tell immediately the attempt had failed. The boy's expression grew even more miserable and for a moment Banks thought he might crumble.

  “No, sir.” he mumbled. “When it were likely we would be taken I – I...”

  “So they did go over the side?” Otway finished for him.

  The silence returned and the others looked awkwardly about the room, not daring to meet anyone else's eyes. And then finally the naval commissioner spoke once more.

  “I suppose we should all be grateful you didn't give them to the Americans as well,” he sighed.

  * * *

  Kennedy felt extremely satisfied with his afternoon's work. The new man, Acting Lieutenant Franklin, had been heaven sent and was perfect. On returning from seeing him to his quarters, the steward made for his own tiny cabin just outside the wardroom entrance. It was one he shared with the warranted cook, but Olivier would be on duty, and Kennedy knew he had the next few hours to himself.

  He opened the narrow panelled door and squeezed inside, then sat on the cook's sea chest, which was the only form of seating in a space little larger than a cupboard. The post had been delivered earlier and Kennedy was especially keen to open the light package that was for him.

  The wafer broke under the slightest pressure from his thumb; Kennedy made a mental note to tell his brothers to be more careful in sealing correspondence in future. Although there was really no need, he reassured himself, not when the contents would be of such little use to anyone else.

  He reached inside and pulled out a banker's draft drawn on Barclay's, the Quaker bank, to the sum of ten pounds. But the paper was not complete, and Kennedy examined it more carefully. It had been neatly cut down the middle, with just one half included. The steward nodded his head in approval; it was a system they had used in the past. He would receive a similar package in the next post, although that should contain the opposite half of the draft. Once joined with diachylon tape it would become legal currency, allowing him to buy supplies. And ten pounds was a splendid start, especially when supplemented by the thirty shillings he intended to contribute from his own pay.

  Forwarding funds was always a risky business, as it was not unknown for mail to be intercepted. But half a draft
had no value as nothing could be transferred. In the past similar systems had been used when sending cash, with pound notes being cut in two. But that carried a disadvantage: losing one half effectively destroyed all value. His brothers preferred not to use more official channels and this was surely better than sending complete notes; money that might be pocketed in full by the enemy. Kennedy readily admitted to having sinned many times, but no one could ever accuse him of being unpatriotic.

  * * *

  The ship was a very different prospect to the post office packet that brought her and Mrs Manning from England, and Poppy was not sure if she approved. For a start it seemed to be falling apart. Up until that point, most of her time had been spent on the orlop deck, either in the sick berth, the dispensary, or her own tiny cabin that she suspected was once a storeroom. But on the rare occasions when she and Mrs Manning ventured further the upper decks were always filled with men either knocking things down or building them up, and making a deal of noise while doing so. And that day was just the same, except that she was finally to be allowed out on her own.

  Poppy had spent much of the morning washing clothes, which was hardly her favourite task. Their quarters lacked both ventilation and a proper water supply; every drop of the latter needing to be carried in by pail and then heated on a spirit stove that stank abominably.

  “It will be easier when the ship's cooking range is in operation,” Mrs Manning told her when the dispensary floor was finally swabbed dry. “They allow almost constant hot water to the sick berth and there is the possibility of shifting the entire medical department to an upper deck. It is the practice aboard newer ships,” the woman continued. “Mr Manning is considering speaking to the captain of the matter.”

  Poppy viewed the prospect cautiously. She instinctively mistrusted optimism, and was especially wary on the rare occasions when her mistress indulged in such a thing.

  “Nevertheless, you have done a good job, and now can put this little lot out to dry.”

  “Shall I hang it in the dispensary, ma'am?”

  Mrs Manning was about to agree when she appeared to have a change of heart. “No, Poppy, I think not. This place is poorly aired and on such a lovely day it would be criminal to waste the sunshine. Hang it on the poop.”

  Poppy's expression changed to one of bewilderment.

  “It is the highest deck in the ship,” Kate explained, the impatience creeping back into her voice. “Right at the stern – the back,” she added. “There are no guns and you are unlikely to be in anyone's way. But if the warrant officer of the watch, or even a lieutenant should object, come straight back to me and I shall speak with them. And Poppy...”

  The girl considered her warily, conscious of the dangerous change of tone in her mistress' voice.

  “If there is any repetition of your previous behaviour, you shall not be able to sit for a week, do I make myself clear?”

  She nodded obediently and began to assemble the damp laundry into a basket. Poppy had much to learn about the ship and, after going so very mildly astray aboard the packet, it was something of a relief to be allowed out to explore this one on her own. Mrs Manning even seemed willing to forgive the incident and actually support her, which was a bonus.

  The girl squeezed her load through the narrow door, and walked out along the corridor that led to the aft staircase. The first deck she came to was filled with the usual sweating men who were far too busy pulling the ship to pieces to notice her, and it was little different on the next. But then she was up and in the glorious daylight, and paused for a moment in the fresh air, before making for the small ladder aft.

  “And where would you be going, young lady?” an older man asked. Poppy had no idea of his rank, but he wore a coat and hat and, in a world where nearly everyone was dressed in filthy work clothes, looked reasonably smart.

  “I'm to hang out washing for Mrs Manning,” she told him importantly.

  “Washing?” the officer asked, his face splitting into a grin. “My the old girl has come down a peg or two!”

  Poppy regarded the man with her dark eyes, uncertain if this was some oblique reference to her mistress, although there appeared to be no malice in his statement.

  “Sunk one Frenchie,” he sighed, “and taken two more besides, plus others in previous actions, I have no doubt. Yet now she's to be used as a line for hanging out a woman's laundry.”

  Poppy smiled, as it seemed the polite thing to do, but was unsure if she were allowed to continue. Mrs Manning might be summoned, she supposed, although the officer appeared an amiable sort, and there was surely no call to get him into trouble.

  “Normally the first lieutenant wouldn't allow such goings on in harbour,” he explained. “But no one could call us tiddly at the moment. And if washing has to be hung, the poop's probably the best place for it. Here, Mr Brown!”

  A ginger-haired lad in a high black hat appeared as if by magic. “This young lady needs assistance with her washing. Take her on the poop, and rig a line if you has to. But be as subtle as you can. And remember, the captain's skylight's near at hand; he can hear every word you say, so don't spend too long a yarning.”

  The boy, who was little older than Poppy, grinned while managing to touch his hat to both her, and the officer, at the same time.

  “Very good,” he said. “Come with me, miss, and I'll be sure to look after you.”

  Chapter Four

  “You do not have any feelings in your left hand?” Kate asked the question at exactly the same moment as she proffered the spoon to King's mouth. He paused, while deciding which should be responded to, before opting for the soup.

  “How could I?” King replied, after swallowing. “When it is no longer there?”

  “Some do,” Kate gathered another measure from the bowl. “Even though a limb has been removed, they believe they can make their fingers or toes move, and have itches that cannot be scratched.”

  “If they say that they're playing you for a chub,” King told her firmly, before opening his mouth for more soup.

  “I think not,” Kate replied, holding back the spoon. “And if a certain someone continues to believe so, they can feed their-selves in future. You have another hand which is sound so could do readily enough, I have no doubt.”

  They continued in silence for several more mouthfuls. Kate had been living aboard Prometheus for more than six weeks by then, and was comfortably settled into a routine that became inevitable when an old friend was the only permanent patient under her charge. But their time in dockyard hands was coming to an end. All major damage caused below the waterline had been attended to, with a corresponding reduction in much of the hammering, while junior officers were starting to reclaim their berths and even a few of the lower deck hands now slept aboard.

  And she was returning to normality as well. The scare with Robert that had brought her so far was now forgotten, although she still held concerns over King, and the ill feelings he may have over the loss of his arm. But many of her former attitudes and habits were back, including the mildly bullying manner she was inclined to adopt when being either a nurse or a friend. And it was due to this that King waited a good while before he risked speaking further.

  “There is talk of the ship being ready for sea in a week or two.” he said, finally breaking the silence. “Will you be with us when she sails?”

  “I shall,” she replied. “Robert has been unable to recruit any help from the hospital; we are still one surgeon's mate short, and could ideally use more loblolly boys if the truth be known.”

  Actually it was an open secret between the couple that Manning had not applied for an assistant, but she did not feel the need to elaborate, even to King.

  “And my maid will be accompanying me,” she added with a significant look in his direction. Poppy was far too young, yet Kate had noted signs of interest from King's direction and such things were known to aid recovery. “And will you?” she asked a minute or so later.

  “Most certainly; if the
wound be healed,” King replied. “Though I wonder at times what use a one armed lieutenant will be.”

  “More than a one armed fiddler,” Kate told him with her customary lack of tact. “And, since most lieutenant’s duties involve little more than shouting, I cannot see it will make much difference.”

  King said nothing, although his gaze had grown distant, and she could tell he was still considering the matter.

  “You need not concern yourself about the stump,” she blundered on. “That is healing well: indeed it is a perfect specimen of the surgeon's craft. Why, you could show it to anyone.”

  Something in King's expression told her that had not been the right thing to say and, for a moment, Kate searched her mind for the correct words. But such delicacy was not in her nature and, as the soup was almost finished, she resigned herself to letting things settle of their own accord. And then King spoke again.

  “I was considering the wound,” he said. There was no one else in the berth, but still his voice was low. “You do not think it will give further trouble?”

  “I do not,” Kate replied, pleased to provide positive information.

  “But it was infection that caused the problem,” he persisted. “And I have heard tales of men having to suffer subsequent amputations as the malady spreads.”

  “Well you need not worry on that count,” she said with rare delicacy. “Robert did a perfect job, and took all such foulness away. Your wound is healing commendably.”

  But he was not reassured, and she strained for something more that might make matters better. “Robert is both your friend and a fine surgeon,” she said as if sealing the matter. “And you are having the best of care. There is no unhealthiness and further operations shall not be necessary. So why are you concerned?”

  “Because there was infection last time,” King told her. “And he missed it.”

  * * *

  Butler had been lucky on a number of counts, but the most important was not having been discovered. He spent his first day aboard the packet below, well out of the sight of spying eyes and, even though they were visited by a party of marines, with the brig subjected to a reasonably thorough search, provision had been made for such an emergency. A false bulkhead by the bread room concealed a chamber just large enough to take him and the other three hands who were there on equally suspect grounds, and they were not found.