by Alaric Bond
And he was also fortunate in their passengers; no berth having been sought by sea officers wishing to rejoin the Med. Squadron, and the only supercargo they were expecting on their trip back to Falmouth consisted of some returning factors from an East India liner currently awaiting repair in the harbour. According to Sprite's purser, none seemed to be connected to the service, and were unlikely to tell a man-of-war's hand from any seasoned Jack.
The two hundred ton vessel carried twenty men as crew, a small number when compared to the Royal Navy's regular requirement for such a vessel, but just the right size for Butler to become integrated in a short time. And so it was that, after they made their cautious rendezvous with the British fleet off Toulon, with outward mail transferred and fresh taken in return, he allowed himself to relax. The packet had her bows set for Gibraltar once more. It would be but a brief stop there, then England with all her comforts less than a month away. There was nothing he could do to bring it closer, so he may as well settle into the well known and reassuring routine of a sea voyage and actually begin to enjoy life.
But that regularity had come to an end suddenly, and when they were still two hundred miles short of Gibraltar. The first sign they were no longer alone came in the afternoon, although not so late as to allow nightfall to grant them safety. Another vessel was heading at speed to cut them off. She was clearly faster, and likely to be more heavily armed as well as better manned.
Their master had done all he could: the packet was immediately lightened of all but her most essential stores and when, less than an hour later, her pursuer was identified as a pirate xebec, even the guns were abandoned. A broadside of privately purchased four pounders could do little against what was tantamount to a frigate, and all aboard agreed their one chance of escape lay in flight.
But lightening proved futile; their enemy seemed to carve up the blue water as if she were powered from within – something that would have been perfectly possible as her graceful hull concealed a bank of oar ports along each brightly painted side. But with the wind set in her favour, no further assistance was necessary: the xebec came down on them at almost double the packet's meagre speed, and those aboard were left with nothing to do other than await her arrival.
As it was, they assembled quite formally and in their appropriate places for the expected event, with officers to the quarterdeck and men further forward, on the main and forecastle. Some were clearly hoping to barter in exchange for their lives and carried their possessions in canvas bags or the occasional sea chest. But Butler was amongst those who knew no such trade would be on the pirates' minds. Each man could expect to lose everything, including their liberty, and he might as well forget any thoughts of a homecoming to England.
“It's rum luck, and no mistake,” the master told them as the xebec drew closer. “But have hope, lads; America is waging war on the Barbarians, and our own ships are steadily taking control of the Med. We may find ourselves prisoners for a while, but it need not be forever.”
There was a rumble of acknowledgement from the hands; all accepted their captain meant well although none were truly deceived. The few who had escaped from pirate slavery had told more than enough tales for them to know they faced a bleak future indeed.
The xebec was drawing level with them and on a course that would see the two vessels collide in minutes. Already those aboard the brig could make out the turbaned heads and bare, muscular shoulders of their enemies as they roared and snarled defiance against the kuffar, and it was a vision that did not inspire hope. Butler cursed inwardly – his escape had appeared laughably easy and fortune seemed to have been with him, but now he realised his error. He should have stuck it out with the Royal Navy: his mess were a fair bunch and Prometheus would have been paid off eventually.
Then the two vessels struck with a splintering crash, before grinding together as the first of the pirates leapt onto the brig's crowded deck.
“Thank God we have no women aboard,” the captain murmured softly.
* * *
Butler's old mess was actually at rest. In one of the wooden barrack huts that had been a home for them and several hundred other seamen for what felt like forever, they lay sprawled in various attitudes of indolence and repose. This was not such an unusual event; for almost their entire time ashore these normally active bodies had been given precious little to do. And with the heat of summer resting heavily upon them, it was something that should have worried their officers.
“If it were down to me, there wouldn't be no war,” Cranston, a gunner, proclaimed lazily from his supine position in a nearby hammock. “They'd just blow a whistle, say, 'it's all over lads; you can go 'ome: we're callin' it a tie.'”
Flint, seated at the table, said nothing. All but three of his messmates were similarly recumbent, while the rest played a listless and apparently eternal game of crown and anchor on the wooden floor. Hammocks should have been struck some hours ago, but no petty officer had visited that day and Flint felt unusually reluctant to bring order to men who were hot, bored, and probably spoiling for a fight.
In the past it might have been different; as head of the mess he would have concocted something for all to get involved in; set them to sprucing up their allotted area – there was paint a plenty left over from the hut's construction, and everyone knew seamen liked nothing better than a spot of creative brushwork. Even a jape would be preferable to this mildly belligerent lethargy.
But Flint had been feeling increasingly unwell for some while, with that day proving worse than most, and he was simply unable to summon the energy. He kept such matters to himself, of course: if he told them how he felt, most of his messmates would simply have considered him lazy, like the rest of them. And, were it the truth, Flint would have been delighted.
“End to the war – now there is a novel thought,” he said, feeling mildly guilty for not being more positive.
“But if they did call a halt, who'd believe them?” Ben, the youngster, asked from another hammock.
“Aye, an' we'd be right not to,” Greg, next to him, agreed. “It'd be a trick; it always is. Shut the door, you bloody farmer!”
The last remark was addressed to Bleeden, who had entered from the red-hot parade ground, and was allowing a draught into the stuffy room. More shouts followed. What was Bleeden thinking of? No true seaman wanted fresh air when a congenial fug was available. But their verbal abuse hardly dulled the expression of delight and anticipation on the newcomer's face.
“'Ere, we got a situation outside, if any of you is interested.” he said, approaching the small, penned off area that divided Flint's mess from others in the hut. Those on the floor remained immersed in their game, but the rest favoured him enough to glance casually from the comfort of their hammocks. Only Flint paid proper attention.
“It's Wainwright, the bootneck,” Bleeden said, once he had identified his audience. “He's sparko again!”
With most of Prometheus' seamen safely billeted within the Southern Bastion, a place that was, in turn, guarded by the regular army, there seemed little point in mounting marine sentries on every hut, especially when all were relatively free to come and go inside the confines of the shore base. But some confusion between their officers and NCOs meant each of the huts that housed the lower deck men boasted a round-the-clock guard.
“Havin' a caulk, is he?” Flint asked, unimpressed. “Better say nothing, he must be your top customer.”
“That's probably why he's asleep,” Cranston agreed from the safety of his bed. “Too much of that rot-gut Spanish vino you been toutin' about.”
That a marine should be both drunk and dozing whilst on duty was not the major crime it might seem. Flint was well aware that most of the sentries were practised in snoozing standing up – something that became almost essential on such a boring and pointless picket. But at least they had employment, which was better than this current mind-numbing boredom which gave him far too much time to think.
If only Bleeden had brought real n
ews; that the ship was ready to embark, or further hands were required to assist with her painting. Men from Sanders' and Bolton's hut had already landed a work detail, and most duties would be an improvement on sitting idle.
“I tell you he's out cold!” Bleeden declared.
“Ain't nowt new in that,” Cranston grumbled. “Even Jollies get tired of standin' about after a while.”
“Yeah? Well how's about a bit of fun while we're waitin'?” the former smuggler asked, and Flint looked up at once. Something – anything – would be welcome as a distraction. And if Bleeden had an idea, he was more than prepared to back it.
* * *
Her mistress and Mr Manning were dining with the captain; it appeared to be a last minute arrangement and one that had caused a great deal of confusion in the medical department, with shirts being hurriedly ironed and fresh water needed for bathing. But now they had gone, Poppy knew she would be alone for at least two hours; probably longer. It was a rare thing to happen during the day; on the odd occasion when Mrs Manning sent her on errands she had to return immediately while, if left, Poppy was not to venture beyond the sick berth, and the wounded officer, Mr King, was always around to see she did not. But this time he had been invited as well: Poppy found herself absolutely, totally and completely on her own, and it was an opportunity not to be wasted.
During her time aboard Prometheus, much of her world had centred about the orlop. She found it a deeply unpleasant place, and one made worse by the work being carried out on the decks above. There was never any air not sullied by the stink of paint, glue, or ancient bilge water, while the Mediterranean sun kept them baking in what became a large wooden oven, with not a breath of the cooling breeze felt on higher stations in the ship. And so it was strange that, when she finally found freedom, the girl decided to go no further than the same dark deck which had been her home for so long.
She opened the dispensary door and peered out. Prometheus' deep underworld was permanently lit by bulkhead mounted lanterns, but their power was not sufficient to fill the many hidden nooks, and for a moment Poppy felt reluctant to go further. Not that she was afraid, she quickly assured herself. Before meeting with Mrs Manning her life had been far more perilous and the fact she survived at all could be blamed on her talent for self-preservation. But still she had grown used to company; there rarely being a time when at least one person was not in the same or next room. Actually Poppy could see herself becoming dependent on others and felt disgusted that striking out on her own should make her in any way nervous. It was hardly far, she told herself testily and, once arrived, she would not be in the least bit alone.
The heavy bulk of the mizzen mast was immediately outside and marked the end of usable space aft, before the bread room. But the passage ran forward with a line of doors to either side that led to a series of small cabins and storerooms. Occasionally she had seen lights burning inside and knew seaman officers inhabited them. There was even one who was young and had the deepest brown eyes; he had smiled at her on several occasions, until Mrs Manning complained about his singing early in the mornings. But on that particular Sunday afternoon Poppy sensed she was completely on her own and, despite the heat, found herself shivering slightly as the dispensary door closed behind her with a solid click.
She felt better as soon as she was outside though and, after a few steps, could actually see daylight as it filtered down the aft companionway. But fresh air and the prospect of sunshine were not what drew her on. Directly ahead lay the aft cockpit. Poppy guessed it would be every bit as stuffy as the room just left, but also knew the berth to be inhabited by four young boys, two of whom she had spoken to several times already. These had only been hurried conversations when chance caught her out of Mrs Manning's earshot, but the lads seemed pleasant and keen to entertain her. Not that there was anything wrong with the company in the sick berth: the surgeon and his wife could be dry old sticks, but she had already formed a good friendship with Mr King. Poppy was barely seventeen, though; all her life she had mixed with older people, and it would be a change to associate with others more her own age. A bit of gentle banter, maybe a jape or two, but no funny stuff, and certainly nothing on a commercial basis – she now accepted that, as long as Mrs Manning stayed close, her former trade must be abandoned. This would be a simple social gathering, and one that Poppy was rather looking forward to.
* * *
Repairs to the ship were finally coming to a close and Banks felt mildly satisfied. Fresh wood now replaced all the unsightly holes and had been swamped in several layers of heavy oil paint that stank to high heaven and would probably remain sticky for an age. The final coats were applied only a few hours before and little else could be done that day for fear of raising dust. Consequently, he had allowed additional shore leave for those working aboard and arranged this impromptu, but pleasant, gathering for the officers.
“Mr Vice, the King,” he growled softly and from the far end of the room Acting Lieutenant Franklin, who was the junior sea officer present, stood and formally raised his glass. All followed his example, with Caulfield adding a sturdy “God Bless Him,” before the men returned to their seats and conversations resumed.
Men, because there was one woman amongst them. Mrs Manning, who Banks had first met when she was Miss Black, and tried, unsuccessfully, to woo. That must be over five years ago, he hurriedly assured himself as his glance fell discreetly in her direction. Since then they had both taken other partners with Sarah, his wife, producing one child and another on the way. The woman was currently talking animatedly with Tom King. Time had not treated her well, the long dark hair he remembered was fast turning grey, and what were once attractively high cheek bones now appeared sharp, giving her face a far more severe look. But she was smiling pleasantly at that moment, and reminded Banks of the girl he had once known.
And it was good to see young King enjoying himself, he thought, hastily moving on. If anything his complexion had grown more ruddy since the loss of the arm and, even though this was his first time in uniform, the surgeon had declared him close to taking up normal duties again.
The captain's eyes continued to travel round his guests. Corbett, the third lieutenant, was a fresh face, and Banks had held initial concerns over him. An Essex man, Corbett came from Canopus, the seventy-four that had accompanied them in their last action and was a few weeks ahead of Prometheus in refit. There was a history of disagreements between Corbett and their premier, an officer known for being an obstructive old cuss, and the young man approached them in search of a berth.
John Conn, who had Canopus, would only let him go in exchange however, and that proved more of a problem as Gibraltar seemed particularly lacking in fresh blood at that time. For the first weeks of their refit they had survived with only two active lieutenants, and then the answer came in the form of a minor miracle.
One of Prometheus' number, a man serving on her lower deck, once held a commission as lieutenant. The former officer had been broken at court martial, hence his fall from grace, but the court decision was successfully challenged, and his old rank restored. There could be no possibility of a commissioned officer walking the quarterdeck of the same ship he had served in as an ordinary hand, so the reinstated lieutenant needed to go. Corbett could take his place, however, and any suspicions of the animosity aboard Canopus being two sided were soon dismissed. Corbett had taken to Prometheus' wardroom well and was turning out to be a reliable and trustworthy officer.
His glance reached the end of the table where it fell on Franklin, the promoted midshipman who, he had heard, was taking his new responsibilities extremely seriously. And the youngster, Hunt was settling down equally well. Both were men with every reason to progress and flourish. Banks retained reservations about the former; having no faith himself, he felt an instinctive distrust of any who believed in a deity. But then he once harboured similar doubts about Fraiser, his former sailing master and, Christian or not, the man proved totally reliable. On balance Banks reckoned
he was fortunate as far as his officers were concerned, and soon would have a wardroom to be proud of.
“Are you ready for sea, Michael?” he asked, turning to the first lieutenant who sat to his right.
“Oh indeed, sir,” Caulfield replied instantly. “The dockyard treated us well once more, and we have come through our refit in record time. But then a man does not sign on to be in harbour...”
Banks nodded in sympathy and went to make a comment when there was an outburst of hilarity from further down the table. Hunt, the new acting lieutenant, must have come to the end of some anecdote that caused Franklin, King and both Mannings to double up in laughter, with Tom almost falling off his chair in the process. Banks smiled politely; it had been a splendid meal, and any earlier reservations about the new wardroom officers were almost forgotten. And he was genuinely fond of the familiar faces; Caulfield, King and Manning had served with him for many years while the fresh men were quickly settling in and he felt sure would soon become an integral part of the ship.
And shortly they would be with Admiral Nelson; a commander known for bold moves and prompt action. In the past few years he had beaten the enemy in two major battles and seemed destined to add another to his list, if only the blockaded battleships could be tempted out. Meanwhile there were rumours all over the Rock of further French forces appearing from elsewhere; should these prove true, it may be a fight that hastened the end of the war.
Nelson was not well equipped; what ships he had being undermanned and many requiring refit. But Prometheus was battle tested, and fresh from the dockyard, her return would be a positive boost to the British fleet, and almost guarantee her a prominent role in any forthcoming action. And at that particular moment, Banks could think of no finer prospect.
