Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  There was still that master’s mate, however. In fact he could see him now, walking along the larboard gangway, with an unknown midshipman in tow.

  “Mr Lewis!” Pigot’s voice carried a deep, guttural rasp that had taken many years to perfect.

  Lewis stopped, turned, and stood at attention in one fast, fluid movement that caught King by surprise.

  “Sir!”

  Rather than say more, Pigot merely extended his right hand in a childish beckoning motion that was intentionally demeaning to those it addressed. Lewis made his way aft at a brisk walk and King, uncertain at first if he was also required, hurriedly followed behind.

  “We have a stranger aboard, Mr Lewis,” Pigot informed him when both young men were on the quarterdeck.

  “Yes, sir. This is Mr Midshipman King. He came aboard...”

  “I am quite certain Mr King can speak for himself.” The heavy eyes fell upon King, who stood uncertainly under their gaze. “Well, Mr King?”

  It was an uncomfortable moment; clearly something was expected, and yet he had no idea what. It wasn’t even a situation for a simple ‘Yes, sir’, usually the midshipman’s panacea for all awkward questions.

  “Mr Midshipman King, reporting for appointment to His Majesty’s Ship, Pandora. I have my papers below, in...”

  “Rather late, Mr King?” Pigot persisted.

  “Sir, I was ordered to be aboard within five days of...”

  “Oh, I am quite certain of it. But you did not see fit to present yourself to me on arrival?”

  “Mr King reported to me, Mr Pigot.” The master’s low voice, that held just a hint of his native accent, cut in. Pigot fixed him with his stare, conscious that he could not continue on the same course and that a change of tack was called for.

  “Mr Fraiser, I would appreciate it if you would not interfere in matters that do not concern you.” That was the way to deal with meddling busybodies; there was nothing in the statement that Fraiser could object to, and he had given what would appear to everyone as a warning shot. Satisfied, he turned back to King.

  “You should present yourself to a commissioned officer upon joining a ship.” Not strictly true, although he could hardly resist the further dig at Fraiser.

  “Boat ahoy!” the call from the forecastle lookout broke into all their thoughts.

  “Aye, Aye,” came the reply; that would mean an officer coming on board, although from the larboard side, and not the captain. Pigot stiffened; this would be the other lieutenant, his junior. A lot would depend on the character of this man.

  “Very well, that will do.” He turned away from the two warrant officers and walked back towards the taffrail to await the newcomer.

  It did not take long; Lieutenant Caulfield was on the quarterdeck facing Pigot within two minutes of the hail. He introduced himself, extending a gentle handshake that Pigot accepted reluctantly. The newcomer was young, under thirty, although premature baldness made him appear older. He was also short and almost plump, with a round, sensitive face, and a pleasant smile.

  “Glad to have you aboard, Mr Caulfield,” Pigot muttered, his face betraying any truth that his words may have held. “The captain’s ashore, expected on the morrow, and we’re to weigh as soon as we finish victualling.”

  “I see; any rumours as to where?”

  “Rumours are for children and washerwomen, Mr Caulfield. You will be informed of everything you need to know as soon as it is necessary.”

  Despite the rebuke Caulfield was perceptive enough to deduce that Pigot was equally ignorant of their destination, and resented the fact. A young, but heavily built midshipman approached them, apologetically touching his hat.

  “What is it?” Pigot did not know the names of most of Pandora’s junior officers, and almost none of her people, and was in no great rush to learn.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the boy spoke in a faltering voice that was clearly on the very edge of breaking. “We was wonderin’ what to do with Mr Caulfield’s dunnage.”

  “Dunnage?” Pigot grunted impatiently. “Stow it in the usual manner, damn you!”

  “Yes, sir. Only it was ’is instrument, sir. Mr Caulfield’s man says to put it in the gunroom, but there’s never the space.”

  Caulfield smiled. “My ’cello. It’s reasonably new and the maker was worried it might come to harm. You see the timbers need to acclimatise, and the officers’ store would be too cold, and probably damp; condensation, don’t you know?”

  “Your ’cello?” Pigot’s voice could not have held more displeasure if Caulfield had just introduced an elephant into the ship.

  “Yes, I play a little. Strictly for my own pleasure, of course.”

  Pigot turned away, and Caulfield’s ready smile increased slightly as he addressed the midshipman.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cobb, sir.”

  “Very good, Mr Cobb. Place the ’cello in my cabin for the time being, I’m sure I can find a home for it.” The boy touched his hat once more and disappeared from the deck.

  “Do you intend to play this instrument in the ship?” Pigot still held his back to the new lieutenant, apparently addressing the horizon as he spoke.

  Caulfield inclined his head slightly to the older man. “I do not intend to be a nuisance, I am sure that an occasional practice will not cause any ill feeling.” He smiled to himself. “Besides, there may be others with a musical bent; perhaps a small orchestra, who knows?”

  Pigot swung round to face him; Caulfield met and held his eye without flinching, and for a moment nothing was said. Then Pigot turned back, giving his entire attention to a seventy-four that was setting up topmasts, while Caulfield, smiling slightly at his back, went below to take care of his ’cello.

  *****

  Frigates, as a class, were relatively spacious; even the largest packed a crew less than half that of a line of battle ship into a hull almost as long, while the absence of guns on the lower deck gave a large, uncluttered area for accommodation. But what was gained in space was offset by a decrease in temperature; the absence of compact living conditions meant less of the airless fug that sailors had come to expect below, and in northern waters cold, with all its associated medical complications, could wear a body out long before the end of a commission. Decks free of guns were also far less private, there being no ridged divisions between each mess so that, on the first evening with something approaching their expected complement, and the novel ship mildly daunting to all but the most seasoned of hands, there was an atmosphere of quiet expectation on the lower deck.

  Jameson and Flint shared the same mess and, being that they had been on the first draft, it was in a good spot; just aft of the foremast and almost directly beneath the galley stove. It was Friday, a Banyan day when no meat was served, and the men had just eaten through substantial portions of pease pudding with cabbage and onions, and were about to start on their duff and cheese.

  “So you two have served together afore?” Wright, who had joined the ship that afternoon, asked, as he bit into a hard chunk of Warwickshire cheese.

  “Aye, we were in Vigilant,” Flint confirmed, all too aware of the effect his words would have.

  “Vigilant, eh?” Wright had been on the other side of the world when the antiquated sixty-four had slogged it out against a far superior force, but even he was aware of the ship and what she had achieved. “You saw a touch of action then?”

  “We did.” For a moment Flint met Jameson’s eye, but no more was said about a time that had changed both of their lives.

  “An’ since then?”

  “Since then we took to the colliers, ’till Matthew here got a calling for change and a proper man-of-war.”

  Jameson accepted the responsibility with a grin, fully aware that they were both equally tired of working in under-manned and ill-equipped brigs.

  “Thought it better to take the shilling and call our own berth, than to wait for the press to do it for us.”

  Wright nodded i
n appreciation. “An’ it’s more than a shillin’ they’ve givin’ out now.” That was the truth; of late the bounty had been driven up to unheard-of heights. With the newly established Quota Act an untrained man might expect anything up to seventy pounds for making his mark, when just a few years before trained seaman, who went on to fight the country’s major naval actions, had signed on for a mere five. Once enlisted, however, they could only expect their regular pay at a rate that had been set for over one hundred and fifty years.

  “Aye,” said Carter, an ordinary seaman from London. “Set you up proper, that do.”

  “Paid for my weddin’ with mine,” Wright reflected. “An’ still enough over to leave for my wife.”

  “Wedding, you say?” Flint’s ears had pricked up, not so much on account of Wright’s marriage, as the possible excuse for celebration it might contain. “Then it’s a party you’ll be wanting!”

  “A party?” Wright laughed. “Nay, not me!” But he picked up his leather tankard and drained it, just in case. “No, reckon I’ve had my fill of fiddlers, these last few days.”

  “Must be good to be married, though,” Jameson this time. He had moved from boy to ordinary seaman by the judicial addition of a year or so to his age, although he still felt slightly awkward when joining in adult conversations. “Having someone, just for you as it were, must be a good feelin’.”

  “Long as it is just for you!” Carter was keen on discussions concerning sexual infidelities and would encourage them whenever possible.

  “No, not my Jenny.” Wright accepted a top-up from Jameson. “She’s straight an’ sound, she is.”

  “Few women you can say that about,” Carter continued, hopefully.

  “Say it ’bout her, I’ve no doubts,” Wright confirmed, and for a while the others considered his situation with various degrees of doubt and envy.

  “So, we know where we bound yet?” Wright broke the silence that had been of his own making. “A trip to New Holland, or scraping off some French coast on blockade?”

  “Tight new ship, an’ a sound captain, who can tell?” Flint’s voice was low key, but there was an energy inside him he had not known since leaving Vigilant.

  “We’re working up quick,” Carter added. “Quicker than any ship I been in afore.”

  “Aye, an’ the buzz is Captain’s comin’ aboard permanent tomorrow.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell us where we’re going then?” Jameson asked.

  “Aye,” Flint assured him. “He’ll tell us all we wants to know; where we’re bound, what we’ll do, an’ how long it’ll take to do it.” The lad eyed him doubtfully. “Just as soon as we gets back.”

  *****

  The first part was easy. As soon as she finished victualling, Pandora would be making for Gibraltar with mail, and then on to Jervis, and the Mediterranean squadron. Her captain, Sir Richard Banks, sat in the rolling carriage as it trundled towards Portsmouth. At twenty-six he was younger than either of his lieutenants and, as the product of interest, had barely enough proper sea time to be officially considered for his present rank. What time he had served had not been wasted, however. Two commissions, one based at the Leeward Islands and the other with the Jamaica squadron had proved him as an officer of exceptional ability. He had taken part in two major cutting out expeditions, commanding one, when a French schooner was taken under the very nose of shore batteries. There had also been numerous amphibious assaults around the Caribbean, raiding small fortresses and batteries. In the space of two years he earned an enviable reputation as well as substantial amounts of prize money, although, ironically, Banks had little use for either. His father’s estate paid him an income in excess of most senior admirals’ and as for reputation, if it had secured him command of Pandora, then all very well; if not, he would have found a ship using his father’s connections. His last command, a fourteen-gun brig, was procured for him in this way, and had famously captured a privateer of nearly twice her size with remarkably few casualties. Now newly promoted and, for whatever reason, given Pandora, Banks looked forward to getting under way as soon as possible. He was established on the captains’ list; if he stayed alive long enough he should assume flag rank by his early forties. And if he failed, if some stray, or intended shot took him, or if he fell to illness or disease, there would be few regrets. Life, like so many things, had been a gift to him, and Banks made a point of using every gift to the full.

  The carriage ran through Petersfield, clearing the small town within minutes. He had been away from the ship for more than a week, organising his financial affairs for what was likely to be a long commission, and ordering the uniforms and stores that would be needed for foreign service. When he had last seen Pandora she had lacked topmasts, yards and most of her standing and running rigging. There had just been time enough to attend to all of this and the rest of the fitting out although, to be certain, he had made the right moves with the dockyard to see that they were not ignored. In addition Pandora’s standing officers, the carpenter, boatswain, gunner, together with their crews, were sound, reliable men. He felt that he could depend on them to do their duties without the intervention of the first lieutenant; a man he did not know well and had yet to trust, respect, or like.

  Banks was more confident about Fraiser, the sailing master. Although yet to prove himself as a navigator, he had already created a good impression with his attention to the ship’s trim, having been making plans for the stowage of her stores even while she was still on the slips. Despite the fact that he readily admitted to preferring navigation to fighting, Fraiser appeared the ideal officer; conscientious, professional and sound; even without having met the majority of the others, Banks was glad to have at least one man he could rely upon.

  The road was opening out now; they would be in Portsmouth before evening. He thought back over the last few days, his mind naturally centring on the final interview with Nepean at the Admiralty. Sir John Jervis was a true seaman; the kind men respected and would follow; it was ironic that, as soon as he had taken over from the somewhat cautious Hotham, the situation in the Mediterranean had deteriorated. After Leghorn had fallen and almost all Britain’s allies had been systematically overrun by the French on land, many valuable supply bases had been lost. Then Spain, always a doubtful associate, turned against them. Nepean had been careful to say nothing definite, but Banks guessed that the days when British ships could sail the inland sea were numbered. The latest news was that Corsica had been abandoned and Elba was about to be evacuated. That would leave Gibraltar as the only British base supported, for the time being at least, by Portugal.

  Portugal. For many years an ally, but now it seemed the French had other ideas. Nepean had told him candidly: a large invasion force, several thousand men, many heavy transports, and well protected by warships, was being prepared in Brest. British intelligence sources had been unable to discover the intended target, but in the Admiralty’s opinion it would be Portugal, and her loss, together with the friendly bases at Lisbon, the Azores, and presumably South America, would be a devastating blow. Gibraltar could not withstand the pressure alone and the Mediterranean squadron would need to be withdrawn completely to reinforce the Channel fleet.

  At home the recent harvest had been particularly bad; with that and Pitt’s policy of repression, the average Englishman’s spirit was at an all time low. There had never been, there probably never would be, a better time for the French to act: a successful invasion was almost inevitable.

  It was into this confusion that they would be sailing, and there was no consolation in the knowledge that his would be a minor part; Pandora was a frigate, and faster than most. She and her like would be depended upon for communication, both within the squadron and beyond. Not for them the glory of a profitable cruise, nor could they stand in line and gain the mutual support of true battleships. It would be hard, exacting, and probably unrewarding work; responsibility would fall heavily on him, his ship and his men; he would have to be certain, equally certain,
of all three.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The biscuits were being swayed up in large nets, each holding several one hundredweight bags. Wright was at the gangway over the open grating, watching the nets as they were lowered into the ship, where Fraiser, along with Lewis and Conroy, supervised their stowage in the bread room. Each bag held roughly seven hundred of the flat hard biscuits that were an important part of the seaman’s diet; when fully laden Pandora would carry eight tons, enough to last over six months at sea.

  “Next a comin’.” Wright spoke in a clear voice that carried easily to Carter and Jameson, stationed on the lower deck. At the falls a team of waisters hauled up the net from the almost emptied lighter. There would be one more load, two at the most, and then a few moment’s rest while the next lighter took her place.

  Below, a team of stewards and holders were opening the nets and heaving the bags onto their shoulders. It was a short walk along the narrow wooden staging set above the casks of the main hold but, in her laden state, Pandora’s deckhead was low, causing the men to seemingly bend double to clear it and making their work almost literally back breaking. Once past the hold they had the narrow passageway next to the magazine to negotiate before the bags could be stowed beneath the gunroom, well above the bilges and at the very stern of the ship.

  Guppy, the master at arms, stood on the larboard gangway. His official duty was to care for the security of the ship and in that capacity he might as well be on the larboard gangway as anywhere. The men were far too busy with the stores to contemplate mutiny, desertion, or any of the more trivial crimes that were his province.

  “That’s it, last one!” Wright raised his hand as the heavy net swung up and over the side. He gave a wave to the crew of the empty lighter and looked across to where the next, sitting considerably lower in the water, was waiting. To either side of him hands cast off the first lighter and stood ready to receive the next. The December day was cold, although the weak sun still shone, and it was mercifully dry; Wright was quietly contemplating his grog and the dinner that would follow when he heard his name being shouted.