by Alaric Bond
“I should introduce you to the captain,” they reached the quarterdeck, and both turned to look as Mrs Drayton was holding up a small pug dog for Rogers’s admiration. “But now might not be the time.”
“I have enjoyed the benefit of Mrs Drayton's company for five days or more.” Langlois’s voice was smooth and low, although his twinkling eyes spoke loud enough. “And could not contemplate depriving anyone from such an experience.”
Paterson grinned again and considered the newcomer further. He was older than the other senior officers, and yet he had not progressed in rank: curious. At that moment, Rogers noticed them and gratefully seized upon Paterson as a distraction.
“And this is my third officer, John Paterson.”
The mate stepped forward, raised his hat and took the woman's hand.
“Delighted to meet you, ma'am,” Paterson gushed. “I hope you will enjoy your time aboard the Pevensey Castle.”
“You will have to meet Bella, Mr Paterson,” Mrs Drayton informed him, proffering the pug.
Paterson was not sure quite how to greet a dog. He extemporised by holding out his hand and attempting to pat the animal's forehead. This was taken in quite the wrong manner, and he snatched his arm away as the beast erupted into a paroxysm of snapping and barking. Rogers chuckled with uncharacteristic good humour, while Mrs Drayton cooed like a young mother and began explaining how much Bella liked a game. Paterson stepped back and looked sidelong at Langlois. The man's face was respectful and attentive; he might have just witnessed a senior captain being introduced to an admiral. One thing was certain; whatever had checked the new mate's promotion, it was not a lack of diplomacy.
* * *
King looked up from his journal. Someone had entered the steerage mess, and instinct told him it was not one of the usual inhabitants. He was behind him now, collecting up the teapot and cups from their earlier meal, so it must surely be a steward. The new mate, Langlois, had impressed them all by being unusually tidy, but this would be taking things too far. He was about to return to his work when the man coughed ostentatiously, clearly wanting his attention. King sighed at the interruption, the last in a long line that had stretched from first light. Placing his book down, he swung round in his seat and then gasped in surprise.
“Michael! Michael Crowley!”
The man grinned self-consciously. “Good afternoon, Mr King.”
“What a grand surprise,” King rose from his chair. “How did you get aboard?”
“Well, I volunteered, so I did.” Crowley shook the offered hand. “Heard from some old Pandora’s that you had gone for the Indiamen. I figured you might be needin' a hand, an' brought m'self along.”
King who always considered himself to be virtually friendless, was taken aback at hearing the man was here because of him. They first met when Crowley had been aboard a French prize. An Irishman by birth, he had spent his life travelling the world and was all but stateless. When given the chance, he readily accepted the Navy as his home and signed on for service in Pandora as a gunroom steward. Together they had seen fleet actions and mutinies, and when they finally said goodbye, King promised to send for him if he took another ship.
“I hadn't expected you to want for John Company,” he said, slightly embarrassed at the memory. “Surely you are a Navy man now?”
“Ah, I might have said the same for you.”
King laughed briefly. “Alas, there are few postings for a lieutenant at present. I considered the Impressment Service, but it were not for me.” He regarded Crowley carefully; a trained hand, one who would be welcomed aboard any warship. He could have chosen his berth with ease and yet had opted for Pevensey Castle.
“Would you be needing a steward?” Crowley asked.
King cleared his throat. Surprise at meeting an old friend coupled with the knowledge that he had been especially sought out, had quite shaken him. “Whether we do or do not, you're in.” He laughed again as a thought occurred. “Never did trust that Tomlinson fellow: too many stories finding their way back to the captain for my liking. Perhaps we can discover another station for him, an' move you in his place?” There was an awkward pause before King, unsure of what to do, yet wishing to convey his feelings, reached out and touched the man gently on his shoulder. “And if you even think of changin' your mind, I'll have you confined until we sail.”
* * *
Rogers’s prediction was wrong. It was not until the following morning that they finally set sail. Amidst a flurry of unnecessary signals from the commodore, the group of ships made a decidedly stately progress as they crowded round the north coast of the Isle of Wight. The wind, which had backed slightly, was in the northwest and gave them every assistance, although some still strayed dangerously close to each other, and on more than one occasion, shouting was heard between quarterdecks. Nevertheless, before long they rounded Bembridge Point and a more regimented order of sailing was established, with two columns of vessels roughly three cables apart, and the frigates snapping about amongst them like dogs herding sheep. By four bells in the afternoon watch, they were in the Channel proper, although the commodore seemed strangely reluctant to increase sail and take full advantage of the obliging wind.
As the first dogwatch was set, this was becoming frustrating. King who had just come on duty, looked about at the other ships in the convoy. None were making more than three knots, and yet there was easily another two in this breeze. He was aware that Indiamen had a habit of snugging down at nightfall, but darkness was still several hours away.
“Once more, slow work, Tom,” Paterson said, joining him.
“We seem destined to remain in home waters,” King agreed. “If they continue at this rate, most will be dead from old age afore any raise India.”
“Well, this time there may be a reason,” Paterson nodded authoritatively. “Just wait and see.”
There was, and it became obvious less than half an hour later, when the sails of a merchant convoy were spotted. It was a homebound fleet of Indiamen, beating up towards them from the southwest.
“Commodore’s signalling” Paterson shouted. “Drummond, look alive there!”
The midshipman was already focusing on the leading ship in their fleet. “General, to the convoy,” he said. “Heave to.”
Paterson ordered the braces round, and the ship began to wallow in the gentle chop. Alerted by the change of motion, Rogers appeared from the roundhouse and strutted up to the binnacle.
“Trouble, Mr Paterson?” he asked.
“I think we might have met with a homebound convoy, sir.”
Rogers nodded knowingly and examined the new arrivals. “Pretty much on time, and just as well, else we might have been scraping round the south of Wight for an eternity. Clear away the longboat and both cutters.”
King watched, mystified, while Paterson simply touched his hat. Without the power of the wind, both convoys were starting to break up and ships soon began to drift in the swell. Only the outward-bound escorts retained any degree of order. Taking advantage of the opportunity to drill, they cruised back and forth, tacking and wearing like automatons.
“A spell in the tropics does not favour a vessel.” Patterson commented.
King looked at the home-coming Indiamen. All appeared weathered, with mended sails and paintwork that, even at this distance, appeared bleached and patchy. Their escorts, two line-of-battle ships and a frigate, looked in far better order, although they would have only joined the convoy at thirty-seven degrees south.
“Come from India?” he asked.
“Me'be China for some,” Paterson considered. “Stuffed full with all the wonders of the East, yet there is only one commodity that interests us.”
The truth was starting to dawn now. The longboat had been cleared of sheep and swung out, soon it was joined by both cutters. Rogers pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket and looked about. King felt his eyes on him.
“Mr King, you and Mr Langlois are for the Salisbury, take both cutters. I need at
least forty, but more if they can be spared. Lascars if you must, but Englishmen are preferred. Mr Nichols will take the longboat to Harlequin,” he indicated the ships concerned with a wave of his hand. “Now away with you.”
“Lascars is all you'll get,” Paterson told him when Rogers was out of earshot.
“Are we to press them?” King asked.
“Hardly,” the third mate snorted. “They'll be only too pleased to come with you. Given the choice of a quick trip back home and carrying on to England, I'd say you'll be hard pushed to keep the numbers down.”
“But they've not even reached home waters.”
“Why should they want to? If they did, if they landed in England, they'd only be laid off. Then, they gets another choice—starve to death or freeze. Few Company ships will take them back. There are laws against employing too many Lascars—laws that we're about to flout, 'though no one will report us for it.”
King looked across to where boats from other ships were already bearing down on the homebound convoy. It seemed a strange system, but then no stranger than taking a man from a farm and forcing him to serve at sea. If what Paterson said was so, they might well be doing the Lascars a favour, and no one could pretend Pevensey Castle did not need the extra men.
His cutter was the last to leave, and as he settled himself into the sternsheets, he noticed Johnston seated as stroke oar and without any sign of a truss.
“We're making for the black-hulled number over there,” King said, pointing at a ship about half a mile from them. “Might as well rig the canvas.”
The crew quickly erected the twin masts, and soon the small boat was skimming through the seas behind the other cutter. The late winter sun was welcome, and King began to enjoy both the trip and the brief time away from Pevensey Castle. He found himself beaming at Johnston. The seaman also appeared to appreciate the change and grinned in return.
Close up, the Salisbury looked in even worse order. Her black paintwork, although touched up in places, was badly blistered and peeling, revealing dark, damp wood beneath, and a small stream of water from the scuppers told that the pumps were currently being manned. King's cutter stood off her starboard beam, waiting while Langlois’s boat was loaded. The cargo was human, a line of apparently emaciated bodies that slowly descended and settled themselves in the boat. All were slightly built, dark tanned and wore a variety of headgear ranging from light skull caps to full turbans. Some carried small bags, some short rolls of cloth, but there were no birdcages, no monkeys, no musical instruments, or exotic fruit; none of the usual baggage so beloved by British seamen. And, neither was there any banter. They continued in silence until the boat, finally filled, pushed off and passed them, with Langlois sitting, equally impassive, in the sternsheets. King noticed that not one of the new intake looked back at their old ship or forward to the new. Their expressions, if the word had any meaning at all, were totally neutral. They appeared to expect nothing and were willing to accept all, without a hint of curiosity, complaint, or even understanding. What was happening to them might just as well have been affecting someone else, and on the other side of the world. The other side of the world where they came from, where they would shortly be returning to and where their minds apparently still lay.
Then, it was their boat's turn. The cutter bumped once against the side of the merchant ship and was secured. King stood up gingerly, expecting to board, but before he could do so a line of men began clambering down and into his boat. A head appeared through an empty gunport just above him.
“This lot will make thirty-eight.” A sheet of paper was thrust down. “Details are there for your pusser; all fit, all healthy, and all about as much use as a bald man's brush.”
King looked about, slightly embarrassed. The man, a fourth mate, identified by the buttons on his sleeve, laughed readily.
“You ain't had much to do with our foreign friends, 'ave you?” he asked. “Some can't speak the language, an' those that can don't care much what we says. Long as they 'ave their food, a place to caulk, an' a chance to pray, they'll do you no 'arm, but don't expect much more.”
“They're trained, though?”
“Oh yes,” the officer assured him. “Most 'ave done several trips, an' can 'and, reef, an' steer with the best of them. Feel the cold somethin' awful, mind. An' wind blows 'em away easy as sneezin'. Lost two in Biscay just the other night, an' three to the fever since Helena.”
“Fever?”
He grinned. “Na, not real fever; we'd call it a cold or a chill; drop of burnt rum and a dab of butter would 'ave sorted an Hinglishman out, but not these little fellows.” He looked at the last as they settled themselves in the boat. “Na, as seamen they're more 'elp than hindrance, but not my choice for shipmates. I wish you joy of 'em.”
The Lascars were all aboard now, and King ordered the cutter off. Johnston caught his eye as he leant into his stroke.
“Ain't as bad as he says,” the seaman muttered. “I known a few good uns in my last passage, and most can handle theirsel's on deck sound enough. Though 'e's right about the sickness. Get 'em near fever, or action come to that, an' they're sure to let you down.”
King looked at him questioningly. “How so?”
“It's the one thing everyone agrees about Lascars,” Johnston told him. “They're always the first to die.”
* * *
The convoy, now considerably better manned, was back on the wind by the time the sun began to lower in the sky, and with dusk they had left the homebound ships far behind. A group of fresh passengers who had gathered at the rails to take their last look at England stayed to be heartily sick over the side when the regular chop of the Channel asserted itself. And as the first call went out for supper, there were noticeably few takers. Paterson, now seasoned to the motion, had already eaten and sat in the steerage mess, working through yet another draft of the watch bill with King, while Kate stole a few clandestine moments talking quietly with Manning over the light of a shielded pusser's dip. Langlois, the new fifth mate, sat at a table on the opposite side of the small room and appeared to be sketching on a white tablet of paper. King leant back from his work and rubbed his eyes.
“We've all passengers aboard now,” he said, turning to the couple in the corner of the mess. “An' I can certainly fix it so that cabin I mentioned is free.”
Kate looked up, and Manning grinned. “Is that right, Tom?”
King nodded. “Reckon so.”
Paterson glanced round. “Mind, it would only be for the one. If the captain gets to hear of you sharin' there'll be the devil to pay, an' no pitch hot enough.”
“Still, t'would be a marked improvement,” Kate sighed.
“We're not too filled with passengers, then?” Langlois asked.
“No.” King consulted another list. “Several that had been marked down were actually taken in the Surrey or the Glen Eden, and that detachment of troops never did materialise.”
Manning looked up. “Strange, surely?”
King shrugged. “Not for us to know the goings on in higher circles. Maybe Mr Rogers has caused some upset.”
“Maybe he has,” Langlois agreed. “Or perhaps other captains offered better terms.”
“Quite possible,” King nodded. “But we are certainly left with a deal of space; I'd say it must be twenty or so light at the very least.”
“Those are homeward numbers,” Paterson grunted. King looked at him, and he explained, “Always get more going out than coming back; it's usually two-thirds or so. At this rate, we'll be returning to England empty.”
“Do that many stay?”
Paterson shook his head. “That many die,” he said bluntly.
“But then this is the captain's first trip,” Manning added. “Surely he has not had time to properly make his mark?”
“Even this far into the voyage his reputation will be established,” Paterson continued. “He might claim the breeding, but ain't got the prestige; doesn't know how to handle the better class of passeng
er.”
“And I suppose word soon gets around,” Manning agreed. “Surgeon said he heard all manner of stories when he were ashore at Pompey.”
“But we've hardly been clear of Gravesend more an' a week.” King was still not convinced. “And we only called at Deal before Portsmouth; how can rumours spread so wild?”
“Bad word knows no bounds,” Paterson replied enigmatically. “And it seems to me that our dear captain's repute started some while ago.”
“I should chance that a man in his position has to be more than just a seaman,” Kate mused. “There is also a need for diplomacy, and Mr Rogers seems somewhat remiss in that quarter.”
“Aye, his position is far more complex than it might appear.” Paterson sat back in his chair. “The seamanship he can leave to us, but he must manage the passengers, in the same way he does the crew. Respect is every bit as important in a merchant as a warship—probably more so. When folk are paying a good deal and risking their very lives, they don't want some puffed-up drunkard in command telling tales of derring-do.”
Langlois regarded him over his sketchpad. “And that is how you consider our captain?”
The third mate pulled a wry face. “There I go again; speakin' out of turn: it’s a fault with me I am aware, and I apologise for it,” he said, a little abashed. “But, in truth it is hard to respect such a man.”
“I fear John is right,” King added. “The voyage is hardly started, and Mr Rogers has already worked up quite a feeling.”
“Mr Keats said you was a-staying at the George.” Manning looked at Langlois. “Along with Mrs Drayton; did you hear anything?”
“Not that I can recall.” Langlois began to take more of an interest in his work.
“You were with Mrs Drayton's party, though?” Paterson asked.
“On the same floor,” the new man agreed vaguely.
Paterson looked round from the watch list. “Drayton's pretty high up with the Company, ain't he?”
