by Alaric Bond
* * *
The rest of their journey to the quay was over mercifully quickly. After what seemed like no time at all, the small boat was rubbing up against the stone of the wharf. But reinforcements for the French were coming in from the west; King could make out an officer mounted on a splendid horse. The rider looked particularly dramatic, picked out in flames from the burning hull as he drew his sword to exhort the ill defined unit behind him. The pain in King's chest was increasing though, and there was a feeling of damp on his shirt while, as he clambered out of the gig, he needed to pause to draw breath. Hunt was unaccountably missing, but others, ordinary seamen, had gathered beside him and it was their presence and need for command that stirred him into action once more.
“Come on, we must join up with the landing party.”
They moved off and were clear of the quay and halfway across a small road when the musket balls began to whip between them. King was now gasping for air, but could see a unit of Royal Marines that were fighting a rearguard action. His sword and hat were missing, but he held his arm high as he stumbled over the rough ground and scrub of the causeway. Then, as the small group were closing on the friendly force, Hunt joined him, along with another seaman who appeared to be wounded in the shoulder. An unknown marine lieutenant pointed the group out to his men, and immediately a line was formed that stretched out and gave covering fire to see them safely into the main body.
“We'd given you up,” the officer told them bluntly as the now panting seamen were brought into the safety of the section. “Saw the ship blow, of course,” he added. “Splendid sight, but rather assumed you'd all gone up with it.”
The light from the fire seemed just as bright, even though the burning wreck must now be all of five hundred yards off, and was reflected in the dark eyes of the young officer. He was unusually relaxed in what King could only regard as a desperate situation, but then had not just blown up a French man-of-war, and neither did he have an excruciating pain in his chest.
“Captains Reynolds and Douglas will be abandoning the batteries,” the marine lieutenant continued, just as calmly. “But we won't wait for them; Sergeant Taylor here will see you to your boats; better to leave the final evacuation to the Royals: it's what we do best.”
King had no mind to argue, and allowed himself with what remained of the brig's crew to be hustled over the rest of the scrub. The loud and officious NCO bellowed to his own men, while treating King's as if they were half-wits, but there was no doubting they made good time and, after crossing yet another road, were soon tumbling down a beach filled with damp sand so soft it threatened to swallow them. Then there was Franklin, an unspeakably welcome sight, along with the familiar midshipmen and hands from Prometheus who crowded about, throwing anxious greetings and the occasional private insult.
“How many are you, sir?” Franklin asked, and King looked round desperately. The seamen were merging with their fellows, but he was reasonably sure of those who had fallen.
“Seven,” he replied, adding, “plus myself and Hunt.”
“What about Cross?” one of the midshipmen enquired.
“He fell,” King snapped in reply.
“Take the blue cutter and Brown,” Franklin directed. “Briars and I shall wait; the launch may need to give covering fire with her carronade.”
King's chest was now throbbing badly, the pain made being looked after more acceptable, and again he felt no inclination to disagree. Instead he and Hunt stumbled after the departing figure of Brown as he made for his boat. Together they all but fell into the cutter that had just been launched and steadied themselves as the oars bit into the turgid waters. The burning hull was hidden now although the sky behind King was still strangely bright.
“Quite a fire you started, sir,” Brown told him seriously as he hugged the tiller.
King was too exhausted to reply; even without the complication of his wound, there had been more than enough activity for one night. But the marines had carried out their part perfectly: there was no fire from the batteries and all might expect to be safely back aboard Prometheus in no time. Then there would be a good deal of talking, as well as hundreds of questions that needed to be answered straight away. Probably some form of explanation should be prepared now, King decided. He would have to justify his position aboard a captured prize, when his proper station was in charge of a third rate's lower battery. And the story had better be good if he wanted to avoid having to tell it once more at a court martial.
For the offence he had committed was certainly of such a level; forcing himself aboard the brig, with all the ramifications of creating a disputed command, was unlikely to simply be brushed aside. And to that might be added desertion of his own post in Prometheus, especially as the ship had seen action during his absence. But King found he really could not care about the consequences. This was his first true test since the injury. Even if he were subsequently dismissed the service and never again saw the fire of battle, at least there would be the consolation that losing an arm had not robbed him of the ability to fight. And it was, as Brown had said, quite a fire.
Chapter Ten
“I have been considering again the prospect of changing position of the sick berth,” Manning said. It was two weeks after the attack which had seen the hull of the Fraternité, as well as a sizeable shore battery, destroyed. The wounded that had cluttered up the place since were now returned to their own messes and, in many cases, duties, so the surgeon was able to assess his department after its first proper trial following their refit.
“A good few third rates are now siting theirs on the upper deck; usually near to the stove, for warmth, and allowing more convenient access to the heads.”
He looked up. As he had suspected, Kate's mind was elsewhere. She seemed to be gazing into the distance and had not heard a word; something she was prone to do of late, although such instances were not always as annoying as they appeared.
In the past the surgeon had even found them useful; much might be said which may be referred to later and, when challenged, he could honestly claim to have already informed her. This was hardly such an occasion, however, and sincerely wished for her opinion. It had been a long journey from loblolly boy to surgeon and, now established, Manning felt himself to be a made man. But approaching the captain with any major suggestion was still something that daunted him, and he was loath to do it without his wife's support.
“This place is poorly ventilated,” he continued hopefully. “It is now a proven scientific fact that the humours are disrupted by foul smells, and there would be enough of those in such a sealed up hell-hole as this, even without its proximity to the bilges.”
He waited, but Kate was still apparently distracted and had yet to even begin her breakfast, whereas his was almost finished. By now she would usually be annoyingly busy and for the first time he wondered if something was seriously wrong.
“Kate, have you been listening?” he asked finally.
“Why yes, Robert; of course I have.” She glanced up and fixed him with a stare. They were in the dispensary; a place used as their day cabin when it was free and, even in such poor light, he could not have avoided that expression.
“You were saying the captain wishes you to move the sick berth,” she said, in triumph. “And I think it to be a capital idea.”
Manning shook his head in sudden anger and was about to risk remonstrating with his wife when he noticed the far away look in her eyes had returned.
“Whatever is the matter?” he asked instead and, rather than preparing for an argument, his tone was gentle.
“The matter?” she snorted. “Why nothing. What makes you ask such a question?”
“Because I have known you this long,” he replied, and the truth of his words, and sincerity of intention, struck home.
“It is nothing,” she repeated, although the façade was starting to crumble, and Manning was suddenly aware that tears were not so very far away.
“Tell me,” he insisted,
but for several seconds the woman remained mute. He waited; then she spoke.
“It is Poppy, my maid,” she said slowly. “The girl is pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” he cried, astonished. “How ever did that happen?”
Kate's gaze rose up from the table where it had been fixed, and something of her usual manner returned. “Really, Robert – a seventeen year old girl in a ship full of men – is that truly a sensible question? And you a medical man!”
Manning was getting a little tired of having his qualifications thrown back at him, and felt his anger return. “You know exactly what I mean,” he snapped. “Have you not taken proper care of her?”
“I don't see why I should be blamed for this,” she retorted. “She is my maid, not the other way about. I cannot be held responsible for everything the foolish mot does.”
They both paused, conscious that the argument was in danger of going deeper than either of them wished.
“Actually, I am not sure quite how it did occur,” Kate continued, in a more mellow timbre. “She will not say, though I sense it caused her a deal of worry.”
“And the father?” Manning's voice was also softer.
“She will not tell that either,” Kate replied.
“Well,” he sighed. “And after all you have done to change her ways – I had thought better of her...”
“I would not rush to condemn,” Kate implored. “We both know her history and that she has been unreliable in the past, but I still believe her greatly improved. Besides, whoever is to blame would appear to be taking their responsibilities seriously.”
“Indeed?” Manning asked, although he was only vaguely interested.
“She had placed a jacket on one side that I was to show her how to darn.” Kate explained. “Two guineas and some silver fell from the pocket; it was how she came to tell of her condition.”
The surgeon said nothing. The news was bad enough, how his wife discovered it was simply an irrelevance, and he was annoyed on several levels. What had been intended as a convenience for them both had been neatly turned on end: an asset changed to a liability. And that a girl they rescued from plying her trade on the streets should pay them back in such a way... But these were just superficial annoyances; their personal tragedy lay far deeper.
So far all attempts at starting a family had proved unsuccessful, with their last failure being demonstrated in the most awful and public way imaginable. And now, while it seemed further efforts were to be equally frustrated, the two of them would have to watch Poppy go through a process they both wished for so vehemently.
Kate was not the woman he had married, and he must also have changed: such things were to be expected with the passing of time. But he could not dismiss the thought that her transition from loving wife to fractious scold had more to do with their lack of children than simple ageing. It was a theory he kept to himself, of course, but one that seemed more reasonable with every passing year. Soon she would reach the age when they would be forced to abandon all hope: when that time came he had serious concerns for his wife's mental well being. And it made matters worse that the trollop had found so little difficulty in conceiving.
* * *
“We are invited to dine with the admiral,” Banks told him briskly. “Tomorrow at three.”
“We, sir?” King questioned cautiously.
The captain's harsh expression relaxed for less than a second. “You will be accompanying me,” he said.
Since returning from the attack, King had spent no time on the quarterdeck. As soon as he regained the ship, Caulfield, who had been about to read the riot act, noticed his loss of colour, and sent him down to wait his turn with the surgeon. The subsequent days were now something of a blur; he had been unconscious for most, with Manning seeing off visitors of every rank, and only that morning was he permitted a return to light duties.
But before King could stand his first watch, he found himself summoned to the captain's quarters. The order came as no surprise; there was obviously a deal to speak of and, if Sir Richard were intending to send him for examination by court martial, King was fully prepared for most things, including being returned to his cabin under arrest. But this particular outcome had not been anticipated.
“Do not think for a moment the invitation is in any way a reward,” Banks warned. “It was a successful attack: all performed well, though most did not do so at the expense of their duty.”
King knew enough to keep quiet, especially when things seemed to be going his way. Certainly two weeks should be adequate time for a full report to have been made and, if he was in serious trouble, this would be when it was announced.
“And as I have already said, the example you set the men was disgraceful. No account being taken of the damage your presence caused to the order of command, neither did you show regard for Mr Hunt, who is new to independent assignments. I trust you have sought forgiveness from him, as well as those officers who were forced to stand in your place aboard this ship?”
King mumbled something incomprehensible in reply. In fact, apart from a cold silence from Caulfield, there had been no animosity from anyone in the wardroom. His injury, caused by a strain to the old wound, was judged serious and may have altered their reaction, of course. That and the fact the French were down by one new line-of-battleship, with a shore battery also being placed out of action, while another required a total rebuild. Besides the British Navy had been victorious once more – once more demonstrated that no enemy or obstacle was safe from its might or ingenuity. And Prometheus had added to her battle honours: that could also have been a major factor in his reprieve.
“If there is nothing else, I shall expect you to be ready by five bells in tomorrow's afternoon watch.”
Banks showed no surprise when King opened his mouth to speak.
“If I may ask, sir...”
“You want to know why I'm taking you to the flagship?” the captain enquired, mellowing slightly.
“Yes, sir.”
Banks looked down at the table in front of him, and began to fiddle with a sheet of paper.
“To be candid, Tom, I have no idea,” he replied. “The admiral is aware of your amendment to the plan, which I suppose might bring a commendation. But then he also knows you chose to remain with the brig, which should provoke a decidedly different reaction.” He sighed. “But your attendance was specifically requested, so I suggest you simply thank good fortune, and make yourself as presentable as possible.”
* * *
Mason was the marine who usually attended to him, so it was a surprise when Kennedy, the wardroom steward who had greeted him on his first day, entered Franklin's cabin.
“Apparently your regular man has an extra duty, sir,” he explained, while beginning to make up the cot. “An' I had no other commitment, so volunteered in his stead.”
“Good of you,” Franklin said, shifting along the sea chest to give more room, and slipping the small, leather bound book he had been reading safely out of sight.
“It is no trouble, sir,” Kennedy replied, as he smoothed out the blanket.
Franklin remembered the man from their previous meeting and eyed him cautiously. He was a professional servant, one used to dealing with senior officers as high as flag rank, so would have every reason to despise someone of his age, who had yet to attain so much as a commission. Even Hunt, the other acting lieutenant, was Franklin's senior, as well as more than ten years younger.
“I am happy to wait upon any man, sir,” Kennedy continued, as if sensing his thoughts. “And have long since considered a servant's role to be my calling.”
Now that was more curious still, and Franklin found it hard not to stare. Ostensibly the reply could have been expected from any of the stewards, but there was something in Kennedy's words that touched a nerve deep within.
“Ranks do have their importance,” the man was almost ruminating now. “But, if you will forgive me, sir, they are purely man made. We are all of the same flesh, and come an
d go in a similar manner...”
“And end as dust,” Franklin chanced, to be immediately rewarded by a look of both understanding and pleasure from the steward.
“Indeed, sir,” Kennedy agreed, before taking as much of a step back as was possible in such a small space. “Mr Franklin, I wonder if you have a duty during tomorrow's afternoon watch?”
Now the conversation was taking a decidedly strange turn. By necessity, anyone who served wardroom officers would know the watch bill, and a competent steward such as Kennedy should surely not need to ask the question. Franklin was working the forenoon, but after that had no official commitments until the second dog.
“What have you in mind?” he asked, guardedly.
“It is a meeting some of us holds regularly, sir,” Kennedy explained, and Franklin noted his voice was now softer. “Twice a week – to take account of the changes of watch, though often we gathers during the make and mends as well.”
“Indeed? Where does this take place?”
“Usually in the stewards' room, sir.”
“And a meeting, you say?” Franklin asked. Foolish thoughts of mutinous assemblies were flashing through his mind although, even if the steward had been considering something on those lines, he would hardly have invited an officer.
“Yes, sir. Those of a similar disposition.” Kennedy had stopped attending to the bedding now, but made no attempt to begin another task, and neither did he show any inclination to leave. “There is nothing to be concerned about, we do not keep it a secret, and have full permission from Mr Caulfield. Attendance is by invitation, although we are always looking for new men to join us and, if I may be forgiven, sir, you come across as one who would benefit from our association.”
“The stewards' room?” Franklin confirmed.
“Yes, sir. Five bells, afternoon watch.”
“Very well,” he conceded, “I shall see if that suits my plans.”
Kennedy's expression changed once more, although this time it broke into a smile that was almost radiant. “That is good news indeed, sir,” he said. “And we may all have hope for the morrow.”
