The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  “Thieving bastards, the lot of them,” Doyle replied, although there was little malice in his comment. “Come, they are in the street; there must be a place we can shelter.”

  The door opened slightly, admitting the worried face of a small balding man. “Gentlemen, you had better be about your way,” he told them urgently.

  “So tell us where we should go,” MacArthur snapped. “The impress men have us surrounded, and after you gave me your word.”

  “The word of an Englishman,” Walsh said automatically, as the door suddenly flew open, projecting the landlord towards them at the head of a column of burly men.

  “Come lads, there is no need for alarm,” one of them said as they filled the room. “We are simply here to offer you employment.”

  A naval lieutenant had followed and was smiling triumphantly. “A proper find, methinks,” he surveyed them with satisfaction. “Prime seamen, by the look of it, though the yonker might take a while to show his worth.”

  “I, sir, am a clerk, and have no business with the sea.” Walsh’s face had grown paler still, and as he spoke Crowley noticed his lips were working terribly.

  “Then it will be good to have a man of learning,” the lieutenant replied. “Another fine haul for King George,” he turned to one of the gang. “Take their belts, then add them to the lot below. I’d say our evening’s work is progressing rather well.”

  * * *

  Sir Richard had finished dining but still felt restless and oddly unsatisfied. His father, who sat at the head of the long table, was just selecting a cigar, and did not indicate for his butler to offer the box to his son.

  “If you’d kept a better eye on the dockyard Johnnies, this would not have happened.” The older man was talking through regular puffs as he lit the cigar from a proffered taper, and Banks took a couple of seconds to work out what had been said.

  “That is hardly fair, sir. They were under pressure for a speedy job.”

  “Too much pressure,” his father regarded him through the smoke. “Too much hurry to be back at sea, and this is the trouble it has caused.”

  Banks shifted uncomfortably. The old boy was right, of course, but that hardly made matters better. Yes, he was in a hurry; he had spent almost six months in England, and hardy seen the sea for all that time. But it was not the element he missed so much, rather the chance to be in charge: in command, not dependent on anyone for favours or approval.

  The spell in the country, when he had been eyeing the Reading constituency, had been a farce. He had thought being a member of parliament would be roughly the same as a ship’s captain, that he could govern his borough pretty much as he wished. But the science and intrigue of politics had confused him from the start; rules and official procedure could be read up and learned in an evening, but there was so much more. Subtle allegiances, nods and winks across crowded dining rooms; he had felt completely overwhelmed by the whole circus even before applying for the seat.

  His father had come up trumps, of course, as father always did. Nothing had been said; it was clear he was not government material, and a ship was promptly found for him. He had wanted a liner, or at least something a little more solid than poor old Pandora; and Vernon, with her lumbering bulk and lower deck of thirty-two pounders, had seemed the ideal solution. She would be fresh from a major refit; no crew, no officers. It should have been the ideal start to the rest of his naval career. Once he had seen her lines and walked amongst the mess and confusion that was her quarterdeck,he had felt totally at home, and the need to be at sea once more was undeniable.

  But that had been more than two months ago; she was still no nearer seeing open water, and he was starting to find life in London, in his father’s house, in his father’s care, and at his father’s expense, stifling in the extreme.

  To begin with, he had taken time out and mixed with his colleagues: eaten pies at Bellamy’s and drunk wine at White’s, but it was the company that soon began to stick in his craw. He had already made quite a name for himself in naval circles, and no one begrudged him any of his success. But a liner, and a newish one at that, given to a man still wearing the single epaulette of a junior captain – that was just too much for his fellow officers to take. Many of them had progressed through interest; the subtle old boy’s network that gave positions to those who could afford them, but there were limits to what family connections, and good old fashioned funding, could provide. Or so it seemed. The longer Banks stayed on shore, the lower his standing would fall. It made little difference that he was due to achieve his seniority in a few weeks time; he was doomed now, and possibly for the rest of his professional life, to be marked as the man whose father had bought him a battleship.

  “Have they given a date?” the old man asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “Three months,” there was a catch in his throat. “And another, at least, for the coppering. Then we can start to fit her out.”

  His father shook his head but did not speak. Banks closed his eyes; he knew himself to be a worthy ship’s captain. He had commanded Pandora credibly enough through two notable fleet actions, and won the praise and admiration of admirals and commanders-in-chief. Yet all the old man could see was a small boy who could not get his ship into the water.

  “What about that frigate?” his father asked finally.

  Banks pursed his lips. The frigate had indeed been mentioned more than once over the last week, and was an option, he supposed. She was British built, at Rotherhithe, and of the Artois class, a design that was popular and well proven. But despite all that was in her favour, she was still a frigate; he had loved Pandora, but no one could pretend her to be anything other than a scout and message carrier. This new one was a thirty-eight, of course; far greater fire power, and from a firmer, stronger, platform, though she would doubtless show a good turn of speed when required. But she could never stand in the line of battle, and might be wiped out with a single broadside from a ship like Vernon.

  “I will see her,” Banks said slowly.

  His father considered him. “Good of you, I am certain.”

  Banks shook his head. “I meant no ingratitude, but had my heart set on the liner.”

  “Well the liner is yours should you want to wait for it, or you can have the frigate now. I can give you that option but no more. And no more when this is done.” The man was now staring at him quite intently. “You may regard the smaller ship as a temporary measure: there is a term for it, I believe?”

  “A jobbing captain,” Banks replied.

  “Indeed, and that is how the Navy may regard you. And you have every reason to hope that Vernon will be ready on your return, I have no doubt?”

  “Her or another. Of course I do not know how long the temporary command should last, but if successful, I would then be eligible for a larger ship.”

  “Well, be it short, or long, I urge you to make the most of your time.”

  There was something in the old man’s tone that drew Banks’s attention.

  “I am not saying your service to date has been anything other than exemplary; indeed, you may well have progressed to your present position without assistance from me. But this is where that help must end; otherwise you would never rightly know what you could or could not achieve on your own. You must also understand that there are those who will happily credit your success to my connections, rather than any skill you might possess.”

  Banks lowered his head; he certainly understood that.

  “So, view your frigate and, if she pleases, take her. And place her in swap for a larger in time, should you so wish. But that is now totally under your control; I will have no more to do with your career.”

  Banks went to speak, but his father stopped him.

  “I am well aware of the frustrations of living at home. With your mother gone and sisters married, this is not an easy household, especially for one so used to being in charge. Well, you have that command now; partially because I think you deserve it, and partly because that is
the correct way of things. Stay and await your liner, and show the world you are worthy of her, or opt for the frigate, and be at sea before the summer is out. That choice is yours, as will be all the others from now on.”

  * * *

  They had been taken back to the Rondy, a building the impressment men were using as a base for their operations. Crowley and the other Irishmen were put in one small cell, along with seven other unfortunates who had been picked up at the same tavern. The adjoining room was lit by two lamps that hung from the ceiling and gave a modicum of light, some of which found its way into the prisoners’ area. Three men were there already when they arrived, so it was clearly going to be a crowded and uncomfortable night, especially as the gang had set out once again almost immediately.

  “A bunch of Irish, or so I hears.” An older, grey haired man dressed like a clerk regarded Crowley and his fellows once they were safely locked up. “Don’t make the best seamen, but I suppose you’ll do,” he said, before squirting a narrow stream of spit and tobacco juice that landed just short of the nearest man’s feet.

  “You’d know about being a seaman, then, would you?” Crowley asked.

  The man snorted. “Not me, matey, I gets a regular wage, and sleeps in a warm, dry bed. Wouldn’t catch me on the briny,” he pulled a face. “Not for as long as I got this job, anyways.”

  “I’m not a sailor,” Walsh, the young man, spoke quietly. The clerk considered him.

  “No, I can sees that. An’ you’re Irish, so we don’t get much lower, do we? But that don’t mean we can’t take you an’ all.”

  “‘E may be a freeholder, or an apprentice,” Crowley said. “Don’t you check, don’t you even ask?”

  The man’s face was suddenly pressed close to the bars, silhouetting him against the lamplight. “Or don’t we care?” he asked, and moved away.

  “Well this here is a seaman,” Doyle shouted after him. “And he got a berth already.” He pointed at Crowley.

  The clerk swung back with a look of mild concern. “You signed on?” he asked.

  Crowley shook his head. “No, but I’m bound for the Vernon, just as soon as she is clear of the yard.” He felt in his pocket and brought out King’s letter from a few weeks back. “Got word from a lieutenant in my last ship,” he said. “Confirms my berth.”

  The man took the paper nearer the lamp and looked at it quizzically for a few seconds before thrusting it back through the bars.

  “I may not be no scholar, but I knows a protection when I sees one, and that ain’t even close. Besides, Vernon‘s likely to be months more ‘fore she’s aready. An’ with Sir Richard plum-face Banks in command, heaven knows where they’ll send her.” he considered the Irishmen once more, and the smirk reappeared. “Whereas I know darn well where you lot are bound. Got a jaunty little sloop for you, all set up and ready for the orf. It’ll be the Leeward Islands, nice warm climate, an’ plenty of flies for company. Reckon you might last a year; that’s if yer lucky. Main thing is, you’ll be a world away from England. England an’ all the troubles your miserable little country’s causing ‘er at present.”

  Walsh snorted. “The trouble is all one way, if you asks me.”

  “Well I ain’t askin’ you,” the man yelled suddenly, slamming his palm against the bars, making the metal ring, and them all start slightly. “An’ I ain’t gettin’ into no discussions where you gonna be servin’. The high an’ mighty Captain Banks’ll have to find ‘iself another arse-wiper; you’re for the ‘Indies, and sharp: ship sails with the mornin’ tide.” He moved back from the bars, grinning once more. “You’ll be there by Set’ember, and dead by Christmas.”

  Crowley looked away. He longed to smash his fist into the clerk’s fat face and had the reach and space enough between the bars to make a credible job. But there were two gormless louts sitting in the gloom not six feet away, and he knew that any satisfaction he may draw would be more than outweighed by the punishment they would dole out. Instead he looked away and caught the eye of MacArthur, who had clearly been studying him.

  “So this would be the splendid British Navy you’re so soft on?” he asked quietly.

  Crowley snorted. “You ain’t seeing the best example,” he said.

  A tap came from the front door, not loud or demanding, just enough to attract their attention.

  The clerk turned. “They’re back early, must ‘ave got lucky.” He gave a slight chuckle, winked at his two companions, and sauntered out of the room.

  “Looks like we have company,” Crowley grunted, but the other men’s eyes were alight and eager.

  “That’s just what we was hoping,” Doyle muttered.

  Crowley was about to ask further when there was a shout, closely followed by the sound of the door being pushed back against the wall. Then the outer room was suddenly filled with the bulk of several heavy men, all carrying short wooden staves and advancing towards the cell. A brief fight broke out, but it was decidedly one sided, and in no time the two guards lay senseless on the floor.

  “Where’s the Oirish?” one, a lightly bearded brute, shouted in a broad accent.

  “Irish be damned, Jackie,” a smaller, slightly better dressed man with strangely cropped hair told him brusquely. “We’ll let ‘em all go, there’s none of them that wants to be here.”

  The clerk had lost much of his swagger and was being held against the back wall, while one of the men pulled at his belt. His trousers slipped and a bunch of keys fell clattering onto the stone floor. Within seconds the cell door was opened, and Crowley and his friends began filing out.

  “Give us a moment, lads,” the smarter man told the others. “We gets clear and you can make you’re own way as you wish. Press is a good three streets off b’now, an’ not expected back for a spell.”

  The other prisoners muttered their thanks, and one took a purposeful kick at the prone body of a guard as Crowley and the Irish were bustled out into the dark night.

  “Stick together, lads,” they were told, and the men slipped their clubs back into their clothing. The bearded man winked at them in the soft evening light. “We got a bit of a walk ahead of us, an’ don’t want you fallin’ in with no trouble.”

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Peter Chilton had not held a commission for more than a few months and yet already was in charge of one of the finer frigates in His Majesty’s Navy. Admittedly it was a harbour command and an unofficial one at that; he knew he would relinquish her as soon as a more competent, or at least a more experienced officer was appointed. But for the moment, all one hundred and forty-six feet of her hull, each of her twenty-eight, eighteen pound carriage guns, plus the additional twenty-four pounder carronades, and every one of her fifty or so regular seamen and junior officers that remained of the crew were his to direct. He strode about the quarterdeck, revelling in the space that was entirely his for the prowling. Forward, at the break of the forecastle, a group of men were busily engaged cleaning and polishing the bell. Once that was done they could turn their attention to the galley chimney, which was due for a sweep, and should be cool enough by then: a good officer checks on such things. Part of the main deck was being re-caulked and a team of painters were working on a stage over the larboard side, touching up the broad yellow-ochre stripe that ran the length of her hull. The rich smell of tar and oil based paint filled Chilton’s nostrils, giving the very air a scent of workmanlike efficiency. By the time the new captain came aboard, he intended having the entire ship shining like a new pin.

  Just as he was imagining the scene, Marshall, the lieutenant of marines, came up on deck. He was a good ten years older than Chilton, at least thirty-one, and carried himself with all the swagger that age, experience and access to a notable private income can give a man. Chilton watched him surreptitiously as he took the morning air to the windward side of the quarterdeck. Although apparently of the same status, Marshall was actually inferior to him in rank, and yet boldly shared the quarterdeck, and even took the coveted sheltered side, wit
hout the courtesy of reference or formal acknowledgement. It was a small matter, but Chilton was inclined to sensitivity, and Marshall’s domineering ways never failed to gall him. But then, he told himself, it was probably the only annoyance in his life at that moment, and was certainly not enough to dispel the feeling of goodwill that had been present in Scylla pretty much since Captain Jenkins and the two more senior lieutenants had left.

  The captain had been the first to go; Lieutenant Chilton supposed it should have been a sad occasion: a man who had spent his life at sea, leaving it for the last time. But Jenkins had been a miserable blighter, at least for the brief time that Chilton had been aboard, and probably for always, if the stories were correct. Gruff to the point of bloody-minded, Jenkins had bitten the heads off officers and men alike, giving scant encouragement or regard, and absolutely no credit for good work. But when presented with anything that fell even marginally below first rate, a new energy took hold of him, and whoever was responsible would be stamped down upon, almost literally, with glee and gusto until there could be no doubt that the wrong had been put firmly to right. Chilton supposed it was Jenkins’s condition that made him so; certainly the advanced stages of gout were not known to be pleasant. This failed to evoke any sympathy in the younger, healthier man, however. In fact, the occasional cry when the captain knocked a clumsy foot or bashed one of his gammy legs actually became the source of a good deal of silent satisfaction.