by Alaric Bond
THE JACKASS FRIGATE
by
Alaric Bond
Fireship Press
www.FireshipPress.com
The Jackass Frigate - Copyright © 2009 by Alaric Bond
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-935585-31-2
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC014000 FICTION / Historical
FIC032000 FICTION / War & Military
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1.0
To Mat
CHAPTER ONE
She was fresh from the dockyard, and as King made his way along the lower deck of HMS Pandora, he was conscious of her strangely sweet aroma. It was the scent of tender paint mingled with fresh cut wood and new canvas; quite at odds with the normal shipboard smells of wet rot, bilges and closely packed humanity. What light there was strained through the frigate’s hatches and the grating forward of the main mast, only this and his innate instinct for ship’s architecture told him he was outside the starboard midshipmen’s berth. He opened the screen door and stepped in.
It was a dark, narrow room with a deckhead just lower than five feet. Directly opposite, to the other side of the passageway the larboard berth would be a mirror image; together they provided a home for all the midshipmen and master’s mates, as well as an eclectic assortment of other junior warrant officers. At that moment the berth was empty; Pandora was still working up and not yet carrying her full complement. King dropped his ditty bag next to a small table and looked about.
His last berth had been the wardroom of a sixty-four where he had carried an order as acting lieutenant for a heady and eventful few weeks. Since then, although he had passed his examination board, his commission was still to be confirmed and his sense of adventure, coloured not a little by hunger and an extreme lack of funds, had persuaded him to volunteer for Pandora at his former rank of midshipman. The table held a half burnt purser’s dip. King fumbled with a flint and lit the wick. The fat-fed flame burned grubbily, instantly adding a dense cast to the already stuffy cockpit. There was a little consolation in the knowledge that a short distance along what was often, erroneously, called the gundeck, senior and commissioned officers would be sharing similarly uncomfortable conditions in the frigate’s version of the wardroom that was equally inaccurately known as the gunroom.
The screen door opened and a marine appeared, looking oddly casual in shirtsleeves and seaman’s duck trousers.
“Mr King?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr Fraiser sent me to see to you, sir.”
“Very good. The rest of my dunnage is being taken down.”
“Deep storage is for’ard, near t’surgeon’s dispensary. I’ll see to it after sortin’ your berth, sir.”
King nodded, although his head was already bent to clear the deckhead and much of the effect was lost.
“What’s your name?”
“Collins, sir.” Even out of uniform and in the cramped and gloomy conditions, the voice of the marine sounded firm and businesslike.
“Very good, Collins. How many other cockpit officers are aboard?”
“One master’s mate berths in ’ere, sir. Then there are two other mids and a volunteer; one of them’s a big bastard, but youngsters they are, none the less.” He grew confidential. “Two of ’em will be first voyagers, I reckons, ’spite what it might say in their papers. They’ve taken the larboard berth, along with Mr Manning, who the captain’s trying out as surgeon’s mate; he’s little more’n a squealer hi’self. T’other master’s mates an’ the clerk ’as yet to be appointed. An’ there’s no news of a chaplain.” He grinned suddenly, treating King to a sight of his blackened teeth. “Might ’ave got away there.”
Two young midshipmen and a lad, that didn’t auger well for King, who would be in charge of training them up. He decided to leave them to their berth; they would spend enough time together without sharing the same quarters.
Where’s the other master’s mate?”
“Mr Lewis, sir. He’s in the chart room at present.”
“Lewis?”
“Yes, sir. Come down from the Essex, I believe.”
HMS Essex was the nearby receiving ship, a permanently moored hulk that took in the harvest of the local press, as well as acting as an accommodation and training ship for junior officers.
“Thank you, Collins. I’ll berth in here; set out my things, will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
The marine turned to King’s bag and began to sort the contents into the small locker that would hold all his ready use clothes as well as his razor, comb, and quadrant, and other personal equipment. There would be little space for much else, although he had once shared with a man who insisted on bringing a cockatoo into the berth. The bird had lasted three days before dying in mysterious circumstances.
Left alone King mused about the identity of the other warrant officer. A man named Lewis had been an able seaman in his last ship; in fact King was his divisional officer. He remembered him as being of roughly his own age; exceptionally bright and, more importantly, the type that men naturally respected. King had put him forward for promotion and had been pleased to learn he had been warranted after Vigilant paid off. If this was the same man it would be good to see him again, although King held a slight reservation about working with an officer of equivalent rank who had served under him as a lower deck hand.
There was one way of finding out; the sea chest that sat against the bulkhead would belong to Lewis. King picked up the warm dip and carried it across. The name HMS Vigilant, though crossed through in the naval tradition, still stood out plainly as the owner’s previous ship.
“Mr King?”
With a taint of guilt King turned to see the well-remembered, though cautious smile.
“Lewis! I’d hoped it was you, I wish you joy!”
Lewis mumbled something in a shy, low voice, although his handshake was warm and firm.
“Why I haven’t seen you...”
“Since Vigilant, sir?”
“That’s right, quite a time, eh?” King gave a meaningful glance at the marine, still poring over his clothes in the corner of the berth. “There’s no need for the ‘sir’, I’ve yet to be confirmed. On deck we’d better keep to the formals, but down here I’m Thomas.”
“And I, William.” They both smiled again, the smile of men united by past experiences.
“Might you show me the ship?” King asked.
“Aye. Now’s a safe time, Mr Pigot’ll be asleep, more’n like.”
“Mr Pigot?”
“First lieutenant.” Lewis opened his mouth to say more, then seemed to think better of it. “What say we start with the fo’c’sle?”
King followed him out of the berth, his mild confusion about the strange reference to the first lieutenant vanishing as they began to explore the frigate. He would have a bunch of adolescent reefers to knock into shape, and there was about as much chance of having his commission confirmed this side of the century as being made bishop, but it was always good to meet up with a former shipmate, and he knew in his bones that he and Lewis would work well together.
*****
“Good on yer, Josh!” Wright felt an overwhelming sense of joy flow through his body as his friends thronged about him, slapping him on the back and shaking both of his hands in their excitement. H
e looked across to where Jenny was being equally mobbed by shrieking females. Their eyes met and the love that had been steadily growing between them became almost tangible.
“Well, Joshua. It don’t do to stand about here all day!” His father’s voice was unusually gruff, hiding emotion that threatened to take him over. “We got a ’pointment at The Star; folks’ll be waiting.”
In fact most of those invited to the wedding reception were already with them, but Wright allowed himself to be steered out of the churchyard and on to the lane that led to their village. Jenny caught him up, and thrust her hand under his arm. They were both still smiling, as they had been for as long as each could remember. Wright stopped to brush a length of auburn hair that was trespassing across her face. Her black eyes shone lovingly at him, and there was little holding back the tears as her arm gave his an involuntary squeeze.
At half past four the dull December day was drawing to a close, but there was just light enough for them to find their way along the track. Their friends grouped about them as they went, laughing and shouting in such a way as to draw smiles from strangers that passed by. In no time The Star appeared in the gloom, lamps flickering at the small square windows. There was Jack, the landlord, waiting for them at the step, waiting to greet the happy couple and their friends, most of whom were already good customers, and all about to become a good deal better in the next few hours.
“Tables are set in the back room, Josh. Betty will be in to look after Mrs Wright shortly.” The landlord smiled, a rare occasion in itself, adding his congratulations and a slap on the back for good measure.
“Take yer coat, lad, and get yon seated.” His father slipped the long tailed jacket from his son’s shoulders as Josh helped Jenny to her chair. The jacket had been borrowed from Mr Johnson, the apothecary who acted as doctor to the small community. Josh had been a sailor since he was fourteen, and for all of those eight years he had never owned or needed a jacket longer than the standard naval “round” design that ended just below the waist.
Jenny pushed her hair, hair that by now was becoming decidedly unruly, back beneath her veil. The two had known each other for most of their lives. For most of their lives they had fought and played together, sharing pranks, chills and the occasional fight, and living less than twenty yards from the other’s home. When Josh went to sea the separation only made their friendship stronger. By the time he returned from his last voyage, a three-year Indies trip in a third rate, their wedding had been simply a matter of course; a formality that gave public acknowledgment to the love that was as natural to them as breathing.
“A glass of ale, Josh?” Ruben’s voice this time, breaking through the hubbub with difficulty.
“Glass? Now there’s a fancy,” Wright boomed. “Since when have you known Jack to possess a glass?” The rise in laughter was stifled as the landlord reappeared carrying a small tray.
“It’s glasses for yon today, Josh,” he said, placing a pint of Porter in front of him. “An’ for you, Mr Wright.” Jack’s father also accepted a drink. “Rest on you’ll have pewter, same as normal, an’ mind; those who dents ’em, gets to mends ’em.”
Jenny had also acquired a glass of beer, although not from Jack, who never served women. She raised it in the air, tapping twice against Wright’s, before they both drank to further cheers from the crowd. Food began to appear, and soon the noise subsided as the wedding guests settled themselves to the serious task of feeding. Josh’s father was at his side, a place he had occupied on every practicable occasion for as long as each could remember.
“Make the most of this, Joshua, only happens once.” Wright nodded. It could have happened twice for his father, whose wife had been dead some twelve years, although both knew the old man had never considered marrying again. “In a week’s time yo’ll be at sea, more’n like.”
“More’n like,” Wright agreed, although strangely the idea didn’t worry him. This was the happiest day he could recall, and part of him wanted nothing more than to be with Jenny forever. But the sea held as firm a claim on him as the love for his new wife. The sea, in all its moods; life on board a man-of-war, the only vessel worth shipping in, if he was any judge, and the travel that opened up, not only new worlds, new experiences, but an extra portion of his life. “This one’s a frigate,” he told his father. “Reckon we might see a bit of action.”
A frigate. Not the largest, but with all the dash of her class. Wright had signed, on condition he be allowed to stay ashore until the following Friday. The impressment men were reasonably happy with the arrangement; he had come as a volunteer after all.
“If it’s action yon lookin’ for, best keep bright,” his father told him. “You’ve more’n one to look after now.”
“Aye, an’ it could be two, if him plays ’is cards right!” Ruben’s voice broke through again, as common as ever. Wright grinned gamely, while Jenny pretended not to hear the comment, or the laughter that followed.
“That’s as maybe, that’s as maybe,” said his father, to whom the idea of grandchildren was more than agreeable. “Get you back sound, an’ you can think of families at your leisure.”
“Come back with prize money, Josh,” said Ruben, ever the realist.
“Riches beyond measure!”
“Buy up old Jack’s!”
“Aye, give us’n decent pot house!”
During the laughter Jenny caught his eye.
“Just come back safe,” she said, softly. “And soon.”
*****
HMS Pandora was certainly small for her rate; armed with twenty-eight long nine-pounders as the main armament, with thirty-two-pound carronades on her forecastle and quarterdeck and a handful of popgun chasers. Her lines had been copied from a French capture, giving her a sleek hull, just under one hundred and thirty feet long, with a midships barely in excess of thirty one feet. A sixth rate, commonly known as a “Jackass,” she was considered, by some, to be too small for the large jobs and too large for the small. The class had been superseded by the more powerful twelve and eighteen-pounder thirty-twos, and was decidedly inferior to the thirty-six gun frigates that were now appearing at increasingly shorter intervals. And now the French were building forty-fours; devastating ships that delivered more than twice Pandora’s broadside weight from a hull far stronger, yet every bit as fast.
Lieutenant Pigot considered this as he swaggered confidently along the quarterdeck, and stared out over the waist. In fact the chances were very strong that any enemy worth the fight would be considerably more powerful, while there were barely enough men on board for a successful cutting out expedition. She might fare well with a sloop, but where was the prestige in that? And it was prestige that he needed; a dashing ship-to-ship action; or even a successful cruise; something that would pluck him from the mediocrity of the lieutenants’ list, and on to that vital step to commander. At forty-nine, Pigot knew that he was by no means too old, although his brother, Hugh, was already a post captain. A post captain, two steps ahead of him, and with a jaunty little frigate of his own to command. However fast he made his promotion, Hugh would be ahead, while each ensuing year diminished the hope of even making it onto the captains’ list. There would have to be something dramatic; something to make the rest of the world take notice of him and undergunned, undermanned and undersized as she was, Pandora could easily be his last chance.
He smiled grimly to himself; if it was to be a last chance, he’d make the best of it, and that began with setting the right impression on the men.
Turning back he started to pace the quarterdeck once more, hands clasped behind his back, and chin jutting forward in an attitude he had decided made him appear tough and forthright.
“Bosun!” he shouted, stopping suddenly. “The main futtock shrouds are slack.” He pointed forward to the maintop. Johns, the boatswain, who was rather less than bored at that moment, looked up doubtfully.
“We’ve topmasts down, sir,” he began, but the look of fury on Pigot’s face stopped him.
“See to it.”
Johns moved away, summoning up a mate and two topmen with a wave of his hand. Pigot watched them as they looked up at the futtock shrouds, and saw one shake his head.
“I’m not asking for a discussion!” he bellowed. The men moved as one, and within seconds were clambering up the main shrouds to the top.
Pigot resumed his walk, pleased with the ripples he had created. This was his second stint as a first lieutenant, although his previous ship, a tarty little sloop that showed a remarkable disinclination to hold any degree of weather helm, had carried no other commissioned officer apart from her aged commander. At least with Pandora he would have a bit more clout; some regular men to supervise and see that all was done properly. By the time they sailed there would be another lieutenant, as well as four mids and two master’s mates; more than enough for the everyday tasks that dogged an overworked first luff.
The master appeared on deck and they exchanged nods. Pigot disliked Fraiser, although that hardly distinguished him from any other officer the first lieutenant had come across. A capable enough fellow, but too intent on his reading, and rather keen on these new theories for defining longitude. Because of this, and his whining to the captain, Pandora now boasted two chronometers of a very up to date design. That would have been acceptable in itself, except that Fraiser was still absorbed with lunar tables and constant sightings, testing out the various mathematical theories of determining their east-west positioning. For the past five days he and one of the master’s mates had spent each afternoon watch scratching out reams of calculations, presumably attempting to work out the exact position of one of the busiest ports in England. This annoyed Pigot on several levels; first that someone should take an interest, let alone positive pleasure, in mathematical calculations, something he was prepared to encounter only when the situation absolutely demanded it. And second, because there was little he could actually do about the situation; as master, Fraiser was charged with the navigation of the ship. There was nothing in his actions that constituted a threat to discipline, or the captain’s authority, and Fraiser, although not actually commissioned, was an important officer, one that he could ride heavily over only at great risk.
