by Alaric Bond
The ship had turned slightly, but a freak gust of wind caught them at just the wrong angle. The main topsail suddenly snatched itself from the grip of the topmen and billowed out to leeward. Crowley felt himself tugged sideways, and grabbed at the yard for support. Another loud crack, and more lines parted. Then the entire topmast began to fall.
He had known he was going even before the spar started to tilt. Beneath him was the torrid sea, and next to that an unforgiving deck. The water might at least cushion his fall, but once down he could expect no rescue, and would be drowned for certain. The mast slipped further, and he felt himself slide down the smooth wood of the topsail yard. The man to his left let out one desperate cry before disappearing into the gloom and Crowley knew that their time was all but spent. A line passed him by and instinctively he made a grab for it, winding the rope about his forearm. It felt like standing rigging and snaked down from the foremast: probably the topgallant mast stay. Without thinking he released his grip on the spar and felt it fall away from beneath him. His weight was now entirely on the stay, and he dropped and swung violently towards the foremast. The wind caught him: for a moment he was floating in the rain filled air, then he felt himself pushed against the foremast shrouds. Crowley snatched at them; he was on the leeward side and they were dangerously slack, but still offered support. Releasing the line, he clambered onto the shrouds, his feet gratefully resting on the ratlines. To his right the main topmast was now hanging at a crazy angle, but he had found safety at least, and slowly began to climb down to the deck.
“Well that was quite a sight, Michael.” It was Doyle, last seen snug and warm in his hammock ten, maybe fifteen minutes before. “Few of us can say they climbed the main, only to come down the fore.” There were further men on deck now, and the broken topmast was being lowered in a tangle of line and canvas. Whistles screamed and there were shouts and calls, but Crowley took no notice. He reached the deadeyes and swung himself inboard, landing with a stagger on the heaving deck. His friend caught him, and they both laughed for a second, then Doyle’s eyes grew serious.
“What is it with you?” he said. “You’re shivering fit to raise the devil.”
Crowley went to speak but somehow the words would not come.
“Go aloft in just a shirt, Michael? Man, you’re lucky not to catch your death.”
* * *
As soon as she heard there were women amongst the rescued Betsy Clarkson claimed them as her own.
“You poor dears, let me take you below, and get you warm.” The older of the two women readily took her arm and both were guided through the dark decks, past the interested gaze of the watch below, and into the sick bay where Betsy closed the door, adjusted the lantern, and began to bustle with a small spirit stove.
“There,” she said when it was finally alight. “Let’s have those dreadful wet clothes off and get you properly dry. We will have no men hereabouts, apart from maybe my husband and Mr Manning,” she said, considering for a moment. “But they’re both surgeons so don’t count.”
The women, one considerably older than the other, peeled off their sodden dresses and undergarments and gratefully rubbed themselves dry with the coarse woollen towels that Betsy provided.
“I can’t do much for you until this wretched storm abates,” she said, heaving up a bundle of clothing from a nearby locker. “But you may have the surgeon’s watchcoats for now, and these will keep you decent.”
“Pray do not trouble yourself,” the older one announced as she regarded the seamen’s duck trousers and cotton tops that Mrs Clarkson began laying out with disdain. “I have plenty of dry clothing in our boat.”
“Oh I am certain something more suitable can be found by and by,” Betsy reassured her. “Mrs Porter, the boatswain’s wife, is about your size,” she said. Then, regarding the younger woman, “And I about yours.”
She was indeed very similar to Betsy Clarkson, both in age and height, though her damp hair looked far darker, almost black, in fact. She smiled readily, slipped a vastly oversized watchcoat over her bare shoulders, and picked up the seamen’s clothes with obvious interest.
“I shall not mind wearing these for a spell, mama,” she said, holding them at arms’ length and smiling appreciatively. “Quite like the night suits uncle brought back from his last trip to the East.”
The older woman sniffed, and draped a watchcoat about her as if fearful of allowing the rough fabric to touch any part of her skin. “Well, you won’t find me wearing trousers; get my things from the boat, young lady.”
Betsy looked concerned. “I’m afraid I do not have them, and rather think your boat has been abandoned.”
“Abandoned?” The woman was clearly astounded. “But it held all we have in the world. All that we could rescue from those murderous thieves, that is.”
“I will check to be sure, but we are in rather a severe storm at present.”
As if in support Scylla gave a particularly heavy lurch to one side. Clearly she was back on the wind, and not faring too well. The women sensed this and looked about in alarm; the ship started to heel almost immediately, and a trickle of water ran down one of the bulkheads.
“You needn’t worry over that,” Betsy chuckled. “The old girl always weeps a bit in bad weather.”
“Well, I must say this is preposterous,” the woman snarled. “We have been plucked from the sea, separated from all our possessions, and now find ourselves on a leaking boat. I demand to speak with the captain forthwith.” She stopped, realising her current state of undress, and added, “That is, just as soon as you have found me something more suitable to wear.”
* * *
“That boat contained nearly everything that I value,” the man told him crossly. He was holding a steaming cup and wearing one of Banks’s own dressing gowns. His damp hair was clogged with old powder and hung in clumps that swung about with each movement, taking much of the sting from his apparent anger. “Damned near everything I owned; all else is left behind. I trust you have good reason for your action, captain?”
Banks said nothing for a moment. To have been rescued at sea in such conditions would usually bring forth a very different reaction. It was quite clear the man was either mad or considered himself highly important, and in either case he was not used to being treated with anything other than fawning respect.
“It would have been impossible to secure your boat, sir,” the captain said finally. “But I trust that you and your passengers are safe, and would prefer to be aboard this ship than left in the ocean?”
“Damn your impertinence, sir; I have every right to expect assistance from one of his Britannic Majesty’s ships. It is why you let my possessions go that riles me.”
“I regret no more could be done in the circumstances, but at least your family are safe, as well as their servants.”
“Servants? They are naught but a couple of fishermen from the village and can go to hell for all I care: nothing more than pigs, the both of them. If they knew more about their duties and treated their betters with a deal more respect we wouldn’t be in this mess.” His gaze had wandered from Banks and was roving about the cabin. “As if the damned rebels aren’t bad enough, I have to put up with a couple of palaverers in my own employ.”
The ship’s motion was increasing. Banks knew his place was on deck, rather than speaking with an ungrateful old man, and stood up from his chair.
“Well, I am glad to have been of service, and look forward to escorting you back to dry land in due course.”
“Dry land? I wish to go to Galway, sir. There we have friends and family who will aid us. You will take us now, and as fast as you are able.”
Banks stopped on his way to the door and gave one short sharp laugh. “I regret, that will not be possible.”
The man regarded him over the brim of his cup. “I do not wish to pull rank on you, sir, but I happen to be a magistrate; I also have some very influential friends who would be more than happy to ruin the career of a simple Navy
captain. Now put this boat about and we will make no more of it.”
“I repeat, that will not be possible; you will excuse me, I am needed on deck.”
The man spilt his drink as he stood, and actually took a step towards Banks. “You, sir, are an imbecile. You will do as I ask without delay.”
Banks spun round, his face suddenly revealing the anger that had been growing steadily. “I will not, and if you continue to make unreasonable requests I shall have little choice but to strike you below. Now forgive me, sir, while I attend to the business of my ship.”
* * *
In the galley they were having more luck. The two fishermen were being entertained by Barrow, Rose and Parfrey, who had sought them out through curiosity rather than any direct order. The men, who had been given dry clothes by the purser, had already eaten one full plate of lobscouse each, and were just starting on their second helping of plum duff. The junior officers accepted their appetites as being perfectly normal in any circumstances, and were gradually prising the story from them as they ate.
“We struck the masts as soon as the storm began,” the older man, who appeared to be the father, was explaining. “Old man Monroe had laden us down so far it weren’t possible to attend to the boat. It seemed like riding it out was the best option, but we failed to allow for the current that took us straight out to sea.”
“How long had you been travelling?” Barrow asked.
“Four days,” the son replied. He was a well built lad, slightly older than Parfrey, and had his father’s dark red hair. “Four days and four nights, and it weren’t the nicest of experiences, I can tell you.”
“Why were you carrying so much?” Parfrey had been one of those assisting the passengers aboard, and knew how low in the water and heavily laden the small boat had been.
“It was Monroe,” the older man told him, as if that was all the explanation necessary.
“He wanted to get everything aboard,” the second expanded. “With no ideas of how a boat will swim.”
“Well he’s lost it all now,” the father said with more than a hint of satisfaction. “Be a lucky man what finds that little lot washed up on the beach.”
“What were you carrying?”
“The crown jewels,” the father replied. “Or you would think so to hear how the old goat went on. Not a care for his wife or daughter, just had to keep the bloody paintings dry and not break any of the china.”
“A strange cargo,” Rose commented.
“Aye, an’ there was silver as well. Not plate mind, the real stuff. My, he’s going to be one unhappy man when he finds out.”
“Look, I don’t understand.” Barrow said. “How did you come to be in the middle of the Atlantic with half a shop full of household goods aboard?”
The father eyed him with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Well, it wouldn’t have done to leave it now, would it? Our Mr Monroe is not the most popular of men in the village; it was either take it and run, or just run. If he had stayed another day the old codger would have ended up hanging from a tree, or stuck so full of pike holes he’d have never enjoyed another glass of port in his life.”
“You mean the rebels would have killed him?” Rose asked, aghast.
“Them or the French, it wouldn’t have mattered which. We would never have agreed to take him, but he was offern’ more than I shall earn the rest of my life, and a man’s got to make a living.”
“I don’t see how the frogs come into this,” Barrow said, then his eyes widened as the awful truth dawned. The father looked at him as if he was especially stupid.
“Why, haven’t you heard?” he asked. “The French have landed.”
Chapter Ten
Before long they were free of the storm and Scylla was once again moving with a spirit of purpose. As soon as he could, Banks had increased sail, adding royals and jibs to topsails, driver and forecourse. The wind was on their beam and fitful, but they were making a credible speed with a white cream of spray showing occasionally at her bow as the ship pressed through the still heaving waves. Once Fraiser had set course for the coast of Donegal a council of war had been called and the officers met in the great cabin, aware that something of importance had been learned and ready to hear the full story.
“The French have landed, but it does not appear to be the fleet we are looking for.” As Banks spoke he observed his officers carefully, noting the subtle reactions each gave to the news. Many captains would have saved such a tasty piece of information to build up the speech and, in turn, their own importance, but Banks had no time for such tricks.
“A small ship has been spotted near Arranmore Island,” he continued. “Last seen it was anchored in the sound, and is carrying troops and supplies. It is also rumoured that a certain James Napper Tandy is aboard. For those who are not aware, Tandy was one of the founders of the United Irishmen.”
There were nods and grunts from the assembled officers and someone gave a low whistle; Tandy was well known to them all and would be an ideal candidate to kindle another revolutionary fire in Ireland.
“You will be aware that my informant is Mr Monroe, a local magistrate. He took to his heels as soon as the news emerged, so cannot be relied upon for more, but I think the story credible enough for further investigation. Of course we cannot tell from whence Tandy came, or if his force is the spearhead for a far greater body of men, possibly even the fleet for which we are currently searching. And chances are strong that he knows nothing about the recent French defeats. However, I consider it vital that we close with his ship, before he has the chance to become properly established. From what I gather the country is still ripe for revolution, and he is likely to find loyal sympathisers near at hand.”
More nods, and Caulfield added a hushed “Yes.” If Tandy intended to recruit men from the local population it would take time. The faster Scylla and her marines could intervene, the smaller the enemy they would fight.
“Mr Fraiser tells me the invasion point is approximately a hundred miles from our current position. Tandy has several days start on us; by the time we arrive he may well have set up a bridgehead or, of course, the military might have dealt with him. But in any event we will be making that our primary objective.”
There was a unanimous nodding of heads, and Banks felt mildly relieved. Diverting to the northwest coast of Ireland was hardly disobeying instructions; by now the French invasion fleet may even be anchored there. But Scylla would have little chance of keeping their watch over the Atlantic while making detailed investigations of Arranmore Island. He turned to Westwood.
“We will be landing your men, Captain; they are ready, I am certain.”
“Indeed, sir.” The marine beamed back, clearly eager to get to grips with an enemy that was likely to outnumber his own small force several times over.
“Very good.” His attention switched to the first lieutenant. “Mr Caulfield, we will also need a party of seamen; suitable hands must be found, and told off, and all boats checked.”
“Do you envisage a night landing, sir?” Caulfield asked. It would be the safest way with a small body of men when the surrounding area was thought to be hostile. Scylla might even attempt to stay out of sight, and send her boats in for the greatest element of surprise.
“Initially I think a small force to reconnoitre, but a lot will depend on the hour we arrive,” Banks told him. “I certainly do not intend to waste time. The last I heard Lord Cornwallis and the majority of the Army were a good distance to the south. It is quite possible that they are unaware of Tandy’s ship, and taking no action at all. As I see it, our mission will be to deliver a force powerful enough to keep them at bay, then take Scylla to raise the alarm.” That made sense, even if the ship would end up sailing with a skeleton crew, and with every likelihood of meeting a powerful enemy.
“So, gentlemen, if there are no further questions, I suggest we adjourn and make what preparations we can.” Banks looked once more at the assembled company, and found he was more than sa
tisfied. Scylla might not be a line-of-battle ship, and doubtless there were officers and men who could be considered more experienced elsewhere. But he felt he had forged a reasonable weapon to use against the enemy, wherever and whenever they finally met.
* * *
“Mr Fraiser said to tell you all that he will resume the taking of noon sights today, and regular navigation classes are to be reinstated at two bells, afternoon watch.”
The announcement, which had been practised several times on the journey down, brought forth a series of moans from the occupants of the midshipmen’s berth, while Parfrey just looked relieved after successfully delivering his message. Most of the lads were still in their hammocks, but Barrow, who had risen, sat at the mess table sipping Scotch coffee, and Rose was by the washstand scraping a dry razor over his completely hairless chin. “How’s the weather topside?” The latter asked.
“Storm’s passed, and there’s a touch of sun, though Mr Fraiser says it will go soon, more’n like.” Parfrey was in no rush to return to the deck. “Boatswain’s having a look at the forestays, there’s a party caulking the forecastle again, an’ the passengers are up on the quarterdeck an’ gettin’ in everyone’s way. Oh yes, and there is something else,” he added with an air of drama.
