The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  “Thank you, Mrs Clarkson,” he said, a little stiffly perhaps. “You have been most helpful.”

  * * *

  Crowley and the others had been allotted space on the orlop deck of Hoche. It was a dark and unwelcoming place, but it would be their home for the foreseeable future and Crowley, for one, was simply relieved to be there.

  “The smell is rich enough to cook your boots,” MacArthur complained, as they slung their ditty bags on the hooks that would later take the hammocks. “Sure it’s even worse than the old Charlotte.”

  “You’ll never find a British man-of-war scenting sweet,” Doherty agreed. “But I’d have thought a Frenchman might have fared better.”

  “Aye, especially with the word that she is such a fine ship; yer man last night was almost cryin’ ‘cause he had to leave her.”

  “So maybe she has benefits other than her smell,” Doyle said. “Wexford was a barkie sure enough. Sweet sailer and as faithful as a gun dog, yet she ponged from here to Tuesday.” He paused for a moment, then continued, his eyes clearly somewhere else entirely. “She had a manner about her that was pure poetry. Never loved a ship so much in all my life, and neither shall I again, not ever.”

  “All ships are the same, no matter what they carry, no matter where they go,” Crowley said firmly. “Anyone who tries to say they have personalities or souls, is simply talking so much rot.” Of them all he was the only French speaker, even Walsh having barely a schoolboy’s knowledge of the language. Consequently the last few weeks had been spent with Crowley involved in every conversation and decision, and now that the major problems were either solved or postponed he was starting to feel the strain. But they had finally embarked, and were to sail for Ireland in the next few days. They were heading an expedition that might settle the country’s future. And if her bilges were a mite too fragrant, well he really could not care the less.

  “Any sailor-men amongst you, lads?” A man wearing a black lacquered hat with the words Éirinn go Brách stencilled on it had emerged from the gloom. He was holding a small ledger and spoke in a light Irish accent. The men looked back at him with blank expressions.

  “Never been to sea in my life,” Crowley confirmed and the others agreed.

  “You’ll be with the land forces, then; let’s have yer names.” He marked off in his book as each spoke, then looked up.

  “Uniforms’ll be provided, though it might be jus’ the hat an’ maybe a jacket. There are arms a plenty, an’ if you take my advice, I’d go for a pike.”

  “A pike, you say?”

  “Aye, the British are using cavalry.”

  “Would not a pistol or a musket be of more use?” Doyle asked.

  The man looked at him in mild contempt. “For the first time, maybe, but you’ll find a pike the better weapon, and I’d guess you’ll get the chance to use it more than once. You’ll be shown how during the voyage, but there’ll be precious little time for practice.”

  Crowley felt a chill run down his body; this was all becoming horribly real, and he knew that his faith, bolstered by Wolfe Tone and constant tales over the last few weeks, would be easily shaken.

  “If you’ve no hand for a ship better stay below and leave it to the experts,” the man continued. “It may not be the most comfortable of berths, but you will be fed whilst on board.” He relaxed slightly. “I’ve had better scran, but it is plentiful, and you’ll be needing all your strength where you’re going.”

  “How long will it take?” MacArthur asked.

  “The journey? Couldn’t rightly say. We have the wind with us at the moment; if it stays that way we could be in sight of Ireland by the weekend. Otherwise it may be a fortnight or more, but you’ll be informed.” He looked at Doyle, whose red hair was tied back in a queue, his upper arms bare, revealing two massive tattoos. “You certain you ain’t sailors?” he asked.

  * * *

  Surridge would have to face official retribution, of course. Few men could indulge in violence aboard a ship of war without incurring some form of punishment or discipline. And when two of any status came to blows it simply could not be ignored. There was also the very real fact that he, being merely a quarter-gunner, had attacked a boatswain’s mate; a far more respected rank and one that was also considerably senior. To strike a superior officer was a major offence, one which, if the captain chose, could be sent for judgement by court martial, and might even end in death at the end of a rope.

  The captain interviewed both men and weighed the case with care. The facts were indisputable, witnesses abounded, and there was no argument on either side. One mitigating factor remained however: Surridge’s medical condition. Black-hearted bastard he might be, but it was clear that the mumps had played an important part in precipitating the incident. For him to face court martial, and potentially a severe penalty, would be tantamount to punishing the man for being ill. Banks naturally hesitated before taking such a step and finally decided to deal with the matter himself.

  Of course Surridge could have been flogged beyond the twelve lashes officially allowed. There were instances a plenty of quite vicious and unofficial punishments being doled out by a ship’s captain, many of which were accepted as just by prisoner and crew alike. But this was a minor dispute between two men. Such an action might only inflame an already sensitive situation, and could even evoke sympathy amongst the hands. Instead he would be disrated, receive his dozen, and be denied spirit for a month. The loss of status and prestige, together with his prized daily grog, would compound into a very public humiliation, and might even encourage a change in Surridge’s future attitude, although the captain was realistic enough to accept it was probably a vain hope.

  But whatever the authorised outcome, all knew well enough that the lower deck would also organise their own resolution. The Articles of War might be the official rules by which all men were governed, but many more complex and unwritten laws existed that were every bit as important to the regular hands and enforced with just as much feeling.

  The procedure was remarkably similar to that followed by gentlemen when a point of honour was to be settled. Johnston, as the injured party, had the right to choose the time, place and method of combat, leaving Surridge the alternative of a full and public apology, or compliance. The only other option was for him to refuse to take part. Such a denial must mark him indelibly, however; he would be shunned and excluded, forced to mess alone or with others so despised, and in the seaman’s world at least effectively cease to exist.

  But then no one anticipated Surridge backing down; the very reverse, in fact. During the short time he had been aboard Scylla the man had gained such a reputation for hostility and sheer bloody-mindedness that many were half expecting Johnston not to enforce his right. Both were set, however, and the time was arranged and fixed in under a week. Surridge might still be suffering from the effects of the mumps as well as his flogging, but for many of the same reasons that had influenced the captain, justice had to be swift and public.

  And it would be a milling. It was a sport that most of the lower deck particularly appreciated, one that was uniquely suitable for their lack of space and privacy. Johnston had chosen the cable tier as being a suitable venue, far away from the eyes of authority, yet large enough to allow some to witness what occurred. And the time would be the first dog watch, when hands would be at rest and most officers dining. The night would also be close enough to allow for the inevitable woundings to be set to rights, as well as giving some degree of rest for the injured.

  On the evening in question Johnston was the first to appear along with Dobson, his tie mate and unofficial second. His arrival was greeted by a low murmured cheer from the men already present, and he grinned cautiously in return. The bench was already in place and set beneath two hanging lanterns, with a length of light line attached to either end. Johnston removed his shirt and stretched his limbs, to the approval of the onlookers. He was judged to be well built, but also had the look of speed about him which would serve we
ll. There was a good deal of money pledged on the fight; much of it had been placed on Johnston, as Surridge had few friends within the ship, and the men were clearly intending to will their man on, even before the business had started.

  An ironic cheer greeted Surridge’s arrival. He had Cox with him, a former shipmate from the Egmont, who appeared less than eager to fulfil his duties. Surridge pulled off his shirt; the man was constructed on similar lines to that of a bear, even down to the thick woolly hair that covered his deep and sculptured muscles. He glowered about, clearly recognising his unpopularity, and apparently drawing strength and spirit from the energy.

  Both men were soon seated facing the other on the bench, with the line passed about their waists. Measurements were taken to ensure each was just in reach of the other’s fist, and the seconds secured the opposing man with seamen’s knots. For a moment no one spoke; they were ready, but uncertain how to actually begin. Crouch, a gun captain who had personal reasons for seeing Surridge put down, cleared his throat.

  “Johnston is the aggrieved. He has already suffered one blow, so should strike first.” The statement was received in general agreement, but still no one felt able to start them off. Crouch looked to Cox and Dobson, and received faint nods in return. “Very well then, gents: begin.”

  Johnston balled his fist and gauged Surridge’s bullet head. The man was moving very slightly, it was an odd, rotating motion that would clearly accelerate as soon as the blow was signalled. The boatswain’s mate gritted his teeth, wondering, not for the first time, if Surridge had more experience of this form of combat than he had admitted to. He began to move his own body to mirror that of Surridge, while all the time both men’s eyes remained locked on the other’s.

  Eventually the first blow was struck: Johnston’s fist landed square on Surridge’s jaw, making an agreeable crack and bringing forth a murmur of approval from the crowd. It was of a strength and force that should have caused damage; even Surridge felt that a tooth or two might have been dislodged, and spat absent mindedly to one side. But it proved unproductive and Johnston had to disguise his feelings of disappointment. That had been his best shot: he had hoped for more and now must suffer another blow from a man who had already caused him a good deal of harm.

  Surridge started to weave and dodge again. This time his movements were more exaggerated, but the look in his eye remained laden with evil. Johnston watched him warily, waiting for the first sign of attack.

  He moved instinctively even before he had properly registered the action. Surridge’s fist came straight for the centre of his head, but Johnston was fast enough to swerve and caught only the very edge, on the side of his chin. The pain was still intense, but there was nothing like the damage that might have been if it had found his nose, and Johnston felt his confidence increase. The men were cheering now, causing both seconds to call for quiet. Johnston pulled a sly sneer at Surridge, who looked pure hatred in return.

  The process began again, this time with the pain in Johnston’s jaw actually giving him encouragement. Surridge’s eyes remained set, but there was possibly a falter as Johnston prepared himself and he was certain they actually closed just before the next blow was struck.

  The eyes might have been shut, but Surridge had been ready and, as his head fell suddenly to the right, Johnston had the frustration of feeling his fist pass the expected contact point and flail uselessly in mid air. A collective moan swept through the small crowd, and Surridge gave a self-satisfied smirk. Now the advantage had been lost. Surridge could strike him again, and Johnston knew that an important point had been wasted, both physically and psychologically.

  The man was preparing to attack, his fist clenched and level with the shoulder, while his head raised and lowered in a manner that was very nearly hypnotic. Johnston watched the moving image and braced himself to dodge or absorb the impending punishment. This time he missed it; the blow was half way thrown before the signal even registered, and Johnston was only able to pull back, lessening the impact by a mere fraction. It landed on his cheek; bone was trapped against hard knuckle, and Johnston caught a whiff of turpentine that told him Surridge had prepared himself with some care. The compressed flesh dissolved into bloody tissue and soon Johnston’s chin and upper chest was warm and damp. The men about him gave a broad groan, and one or two added some choice swearing, but Surridge’s low chuckle cut through all other sounds. Johnston looked to Dobson, who had a rag dipped in sea water ready. The wound stung from the cold cloth but the blood continued to flow. Johnston prepared again, telling himself that the damage was more spectacular than dangerous and he was certainly a long way from blacking out. He tightened his fist once more, and prepared to strike.

  This time it was a clean hit, one that seemed to take even Johnston by surprise. Surridge was smitten fairly on the forehead, just above his left eye, and his face was soon a mask of red. The atmosphere in the cable tier grew more tense. All knew that a final blow could be expected at any moment, but no one could tell who would deliver it. Surridge, now clearly angry, was even more terrible with his ghastly visage, and emitted a low rumbling that sounded very much like a growl.

  The men prepared again, with Surridge thoughtfully dipping the face of his fist into his own blood to make the next strike that much more deadly. They circled and dodged for upwards of thirty seconds with the crowd’s total attention focused on them. When the blow was finally released it passed Johnston’s left ear, and Surridge let out one single bellow of anger and hurt. Johnston composed himself; the blood was beginning to clot on his face, and he knew the big man was starting to tire. He went to make his move, and was just preparing to strike when Surridge unexpectedly delivered a sudden upper cut to Johnston’s chin.

  The crowd screamed loud enough to wake the entire ship; both seconds stood up in alarm, and almost came to blows themselves. Surridge gave an evil grin as Johnston realised that at least one of his upper teeth had been broken and casually spat out the remains.

  Men continued to protest, and there were calls of differing opinion, but Johnston’s head was now completely clear. Without waiting he launched one more thunderous attack on Surridge’s face. The fist struck and Surridge let out a shriek of pain as his nose was crushed. His eyes were closed, and for a second Johnston wondered about a swift follow up with his left. It would have been easy, and he may well have right on his side. But things had to be finished in the accepted manner; that was the reason for the fight after all, and if he sank to the same level as his opponent the matter would never be settled.

  Gradually Surridge recovered, opening his eyes and appearing surprised to see Johnston still seated in front of him. Sudden anger boiled, and he threw a mighty blow that the boatswain’s mate dodged easily. He went to move again, clearly intending to throw another punch, but Johnston was in control now, and sent a crashing right hook to the side of the man’s head. Surridge stayed still for almost three seconds while he absorbed the impact, then his body slumped, and he fell sideways off the bench. Cox stepped forward and released the knot, and the body crumpled to the deck amid cheers from the crowd and a deep sigh of relief from Johnston. It was finished.

  Chapter Seven

  The medical officers at Dublin were reasonably blasé about the mumps. Less than seventeen men had been affected, with no new cases reported in over a week. Shore leave was out of the question, although that was more due to the risk of desertion than concern for the illness aboard, and Scylla required nothing in stores or supplies apart from rosin and oil of cloves. Consequently she was permitted to remain in the outer harbour with the yellow fever flag flying, although even that was more to keep the hawkers at bay than for any real regard for the spread of infection.

  Banks stepped from his gig and looked to the midshipman in the sternsheets. “Go back to the ship, Mr Barrow. I’ll signal when I am due to return.” Barrow touched his hat, the boat pushed off, and soon was starting the long pull back to the ship as her captain stood uncertainly on the stone quay. He glan
ced about and noticed a plain but business-like carriage approach and draw up. A smartly dressed civilian skipped nimbly from the doorway and began to walk briskly towards him.

  “Sir Richard Banks?” The slim young man asked as soon as he was close enough, and extended his hand in greeting when they were still several feet apart.

  “Michael St John, personal assistant to the Chief Secretary. I am to act as your escort to the Castle and bring you up to date on the way.” St John was no more than thirty, Banks guessed, with dark intense eyes and a mop of unruly hair that was in need of a cut. He was also clearly impatient and added, “Will you join me, sir?” in a sharper tone that was very nearly a command. The captain opened his mouth to reply, but St John was already heading back for the carriage. Banks hurried to catch him up.