by Alaric Bond
Once clear of his presence, the ship had enjoyed three days of relative holiday before the lieutenants departed. She was moored in the harbour, with little for a tired and homesick crew to do but wait until the time when they would be paid off or transferred to another vessel. There was no official wedding garland hoisted, but that did not stop women and a good deal of illicit drink coming aboard, and for a brief period the scenes of revelry and indulgence were enough to totally distort a young man’s mind. At the same time, the first lieutenant was set on marking his promotion to commander, and regularly held receptions in the recently vacated great cabin, consuming much of the stores that Captain Jenkins would later send for. The second lieutenant was to follow the first as premier of the new brig they had been promised, and both celebrated their elevation with some of the finest meals, and prettiest young women, Chilton had ever seen.
Then they left in a flurry of handshakes and goodwill, taking quite a number of the lower deck men with them, leaving only a few to be transferred to Ardent, the liner currently working up a few cables away, and Chilton to his current role of ship keeper. There was much talk of a new man coming; the regular victualling boat was often alive with stories of officers seen viewing the ship from ashore, or coming down post-chaise and immediately ordering cabin stores, or sending for possessions. But so far there had been no official notice, and they had not been bothered. Scylla was a fine ship: well built in a British yard, and with plenty more serviceable years in her. Still, whoever came would have much to do before she saw the open sea again. There was nigh on a full crew to find, as well as a good few junior officers, and a fair amount of sorting of stores and equipment. She would be a clean ship, though; that was certain, at least for as long as Lieutenant Chilton had command.
“Another fine day.”
Chilton brought himself back to the real world to find Marshall addressing him from the starboard bulwark.
“Indeed.” The lieutenant was about to take a step forward but stopped himself. He was of superior rank; it was Marshall’s duty to approach him. Consequently the two remained a good ten feet apart, and shouting slightly in the morning sunshine.
“I trust all is now well with you?” Chilton asked. “There has been no relapse?” Marshall had claimed to be poorly for over a week, and had spent much of that time lounging in his cot.
“Very fine fettle, thank you,” the marine replied, “though at the time I was a little concerned.” Marshall’s symptoms had been rather vague and mysterious. Mr Clarkson, the surgeon, was in London and unable to attend him, so no diagnosis had been possible; but from the fuss the marine made it was thought to be something between consumption and the plague.
“You have plans for today?” Marshall asked; Chilton shook his head.
“There is plenty of routine maintenance,” he replied. “And I would like to take advantage of this sun to air the sails.”
“Would that I were as busy. My sergeant keeps the men occupied, and we will no doubt be transferred to the shore if the ship remains at ease for very long. But there is precious little for me to attend to until then.”
Chilton felt scant sympathy for the man. Presumably he had been detailed to stay in the ship, possibly it was even some form of mild and private punishment; but Chilton refused to believe that a professional officer could remain idle and apparently bored for very long.
Marshall had turned back and was once more watching the anchored shipping. As junior lieutenant it was amongst Chilton’s duties to instruct the men in the use of small arms. He had minimal experience of hand-to-hand fighting, and was just about to suggest that Marshall held a drill that afternoon when Betsy Clarkson appeared on the deck below.
Chilton watched her as she made her way towards him, avoiding the caulking team and their comments with a quick and easy response that drew respectful laughter from the men. Then she nimbly mounted the short ladder and greeted the quarterdeck in general with a vibrant beam that was equal to any salute in the young lieutenant’s mind. She could only be twenty-five at the most, a good fifteen years younger than her husband, although her golden hair and fresh, clear complexion made her appear even younger. He cleared his throat as she approached, but it was Marshall who spoke with her first.
“Splendid morning, Mrs Clarkson.” Marshall was not wearing a hat, but had he been so, Chilton felt certain he would have doffed it in a ridiculously flamboyant manner. The woman stopped on her way to Chilton and regarded the marine with obvious approval.
“Why yes it is, Mr Marshall. We are having a fine summer.”
Chilton felt somewhat piqued at being denied his conversation, but would be damned if he was going to move now.
She turned and addressed Marshall. “I was wondering,” she said, seemingly forgetting all about the naval lieutenant standing alone on his part of the quarterdeck, “my husband has sent word that he will be in London a while longer. I thought it might be a good time to spring clean our quarters; there is linen to wash, and the floor deserves a proper scrub.”
Chilton winced as he heard the deck of the gunroom being referred to as a floor, but remained silent as she continued.
“Would it be so very much of an inconvenience were I to hang some of the laundry from your ropes?”
Marshall laughed. “My dear Mrs Clarkson, it would be no trouble at all.” He looked pointedly to the foremast shrouds where a collection of seamen’s washing was currently flapping in the breeze. “Indeed, a change of clothing might even spice up the view.”
Now that was pushing things too far. Chilton gritted his teeth; it was bad enough for Marshall to give permission for something that was not his concern, but to make lewd jokes about a lady’s laundry…
Mrs Clarkson did not seem in the least embarrassed however, or even annoyed; instead she laughed openly in a way that Chilton found oddly attractive.
“Oh, you need have no fear. I am very used to being aboard a ship, and will not discompose any man with my undergarments. I was thinking of some bed sheets, towels and hangings, nothing more.”
Marshall bowed to her gravely. “I am sure that whatever you wish to air will be most acceptable, Mrs Clarkson. And if you would care for any assistance in your quarters, I would be happy to oblige.”
Their eyes met for a moment and Chilton had the impression he was suddenly witnessing a very private conversation. Then she thanked the marine almost formally before turning to Chilton, giving him a brief but sunny smile, and leaving the quarterdeck.
Marshall strode slowly over towards Chilton and stood next to him for a moment. “Well,” he said, turning finally. “It appears I might not be quite so much at a loose end as I had thought.”
* * *
Crowley woke on a strange floor, and it took several seconds before he recalled the events of the previous night. His room was small and quite stuffy; enough light from the curtained window showed him that Doyle, Doherty and MacArthur were still sound asleep. Of Walsh there was no sign, but then Crowley would not have expected him to bunk in with his fellows. He pulled himself up and yawned. Doyle, to his left, murmured, but it was MacArthur’s eyes that opened, and a slight smile spread across the man’s face.
“Slept past the dawn, Mike. We must be gettin’ old.”
Crowley could only agree, and rubbed at his face; he certainly felt anything but young at that moment, and was not used to lying on quite so hard a surface.
“Come on, lads, let’s be about.” MacArthur seemed far more supple, and was even standing as he brushed down the creases in his trousers and tucked in his shirt. Doyle moaned again, and Doherty grunted, then groaned, as MacArthur began to open the door against his legs. Light from outside flooded in, making them all pull themselves up, and Doyle began to cough heavily.
“There’s a man who is missing his share of fresh air,” Crowley said, glad to see someone in a worse condition than he felt. Doyle rolled his eyes, but was too taken up with the spasm to comment. Doherty yawned, and nodded at Crowley.
; “He does this every morning,” he said. “Won’t get a sensible word from the old wreck until past breakfast.”
“How long have you been staying here?” Crowley asked.
“Just over a week. Place belongs to a cousin of the baker in Athy. When the time comes, he’ll be a godsend.”
“When the time comes?” Crowley mused. “Sure in any uprising it is good to have a deal of bread about you.”
“You wouldn’t be taking the Micky, now?” Doyle asked, before the coughing recalled him.
“Not I,” Crowley assured them all. “But when the soldiers make their call there’ll be a bit more needed than the help of a baker.”
“The man was one of the earliest to test the triangles,” Doherty said seriously. “It were Lake’s idea; he was the British general who took over from Abercromby. He tried them out in County Kildare first.”
“Triangles?”
“Aye, it is a marvellous invention; a large piece of wooden scaffolding that can be set on any green for all to see. A man is bound to it and beaten with the cat-o-nine tails while all the town are rounded up to watch. They carry on until someone cracks; if he don’t peach on his mates, it’s likely someone else will to spare him the pain.”
“Do they always talk?” Crowley asked.
Doherty gave a brief snort. “We’re here, ain’t we?”
Crowley’s eyes fell as the other man continued.
“Baker, fisherman, farmer, mercer; there’s few who haven’t allied themselves to the cause. I’m tellin’ you, the country’s ripe for rebellion. If there be help from the Continent, so much the better; if not, we can do it on our own.”
“And leave yourself open for the French to walk in anyway?” Crowley asked.
“That’s as maybe, but we don’t see them as the enemy. They were the ones who showed us the way: there is much they can teach us about running our own country.”
“And those of others they have invaded.” Crowley grunted. Doherty went to reply, but Doyle was still coughing heavily, so the two moved out of the room and in to a warm, bright kitchen that had been barely lit the night before. The bearded man from the previous evening was there. He had been introduced as Jack Douglas, and now stood before a metal range. A pan of bacon was started to make itself known as the smell and hiss of breakfast filled the morning air.
“Sit you at the table, Michael,” Douglas said without turning. “There’s no tea, but you’ll find fresh milk in the jug and a slice if you wish.”
Crowley sat at the worn wooden bench and cut the heel from a loaf that lay on the table. Doherty joined him, along with Doyle, his red hair spectacularly awry and still coughing intermittently. MacArthur returned from a trip outside and settled himself also, muttering a brief grace as he helped himself to milk. The bread was quite hard, but would be welcome for all that, and when Douglas topped it with a chunk of hot, dripping bacon, it made the best breakfast Crowley had eaten for a long while. Walsh came in just as they had finished and Doyle was collecting the plates.
“I’ve checked with yer man; all should be ready in a few days,” he said, taking off his coat and folding it. “Last thing they are awaiting is the powder, and that is expected the day after tomorrow.” He placed the coat down carefully and took a seat at the table. “So then I went down to Collins at the quay, an’ nothing has changed from last night. He’s ready whenever; we should be fair for Thursday.”
“Do we go at night?” MacArthur asked.
“And risk being arrested as smugglers?” Walsh laughed. “I think not.” Douglas passed him a plate of bacon and he dipped some of the bread in the fat as he spoke. “No, dawn, first thing, along with the fishermen. We’ll probably follow them out as far as we can, then make a start for France.”
“Where is it you are heading?” Crowley asked, then instantly regretted the question. Suddenly the eyes of every man in the room were on him, and he felt himself lean back slightly under their combined glare. “I mean, it is nothing to me…”
“No, we can tell Michael,” Doyle said slowly. “He may not be with us, but there’ll never be a man less likely to turn.”
“Brest,” Walsh said softly.
“It must be nigh on two hundred miles to Brest,” Crowley murmured, when he had digested the information. “Long way for a fisherman. And there’ll be a weight of Navy ships blockading when you arrives.”
“We’re none of us afraid of a little discomfort,” Douglas told him. Crowley could accept that of his friends, who were seamen through and through, but wondered quite how Walsh would take to being chucked about in a small boat for a day or more. He was about to enquire further, but the younger man was there before him.
“First, there is something you might find interesting. I have been making enquires about your ship. She’s the Vernon, is she not? Being refitted at the government docks, and currently coppering further down?”
“Aye that’s her,” Crowley said doubtfully.
“Well she’ll be there a while longer,” Walsh said evenly. “They have more work to do than was thought; word is it will be months afore she sees water; some say the spring.”
“Spring?” Crowley shook his head. “That’s not what I’ve heard,” he said.
“Well, you can take a view; I might have it wrong, though I’m pretty sure of my story. Main thing is, Portsmouth ain’t the place to wait, not when the press is about. You could think about headin’ somewhere else.”
“Aye, a spell inland, maybe,” Doyle agreed. “Or take up with a coaster?”
They were right, holding off a few weeks for Vernon was one thing, but the time had already stretched on far longer than that. And if he did really have to wait until the following year, he should at least find somewhere a little safer. Shipping with a merchant was not in any way a guarantee against being pressed, but the money was far better than any the Royal Navy paid, and he was starting to feel the lack of funds.
“Or come with us, Michael.” MacArthur said as if in revelation. “By next year you could be back in England. See the country put to rights, then choose where you want to sail, and who to sail with.”
Crowley grinned. “I have to give you credit for trying. But my mind is made up.”
“Made up? Now how would that be?” Doyle had total control over his coughing now and stared hard at Crowley. “You know not when you will go, and little more where. An’ you as any understand the way the yards work. Chances are high it will be six month or more afore your ship is ready, and then what? Spend the rest of the war rubbing against a lee shore on blockade? Do that if you wish, but in the meantime you can choose between staying with your friends and supporting a just cause, or being taken by the press and ending up in some Godforsaken hulk until someone else decides on where you are bound, and who you will fight.”
“I’m not sure, I have to think.”
“Send a message to yer man, if you will.” Doherty suggested. “Ask him how long the ship will be. He’ll fill you in, no doubt.”
“Aye, that is a thought.” Crowley reached into his pocket and found King’s letter. He unfolded it on the table and looked about. “I’ll go now, if that suits?”
“Beware the press,” Walsh cautioned. “We can see a message gets delivered.”
“No, I’d better do this in person,” he said, and folded up the letter once more. “And if it is as you say, well then, maybe we should talk some more.”
* * *
The frigate was by no means a certainty, but the round trip from Portsmouth to see her would take all of a week, so King had felt justified in giving up the tiny attic room and leaving his sea chest and most other belongings with the Mannings. The captain’s carriage had collected him and Caulfield from Exeter’s post stop the day before; and now, as he bounced along on the final leg of the journey, he was starting to feel mildly excited. It was mid-afternoon: there would be plenty of time to view the ship in daylight, and Banks must have been impressed to have sent for them in the first place. He grinned at Caulfie
ld who, despite the rigours of mail coach travel, seemed just as eager and ready as him.
“Sir Richard said to be sure to meet him at the hotel,” King shouted above the noise, as the carriage swung round and began the long, narrow decline towards the harbour. “Probably doesn’t want us digging about his new ship afore he has had a chance to view her first.”
