by Alaric Bond
“Josh! Josh, over here!”
He looked around, uncertain as to who in the ship would call him so. The voice came again, and with a sudden realisation he looked for Jenny. Stupid though, she was many miles inland, and far further away in time: or so he thought. The shout was repeated; Flint standing next to him heard it as well, and then they both saw the waving figure in the second lighter.
“Jen’, what you doin’ here?”
Her face was alight with smiles, and her arm continued to wave as if possessed. The lighter crept closer until it was up against their side. It was madness: the woman he had just said goodbye to for what would probably be several years was standing less than twenty feet away from him.
“Father was comin’ into town; he had a delivery for the victualling yard. Superintendent said he were loadin’ your ship, and it were all right for me to come down.”
The other men on the gangway grinned and began to make appropriate comments to Wright. Guppy, the master at arms, also started to show an interest.
“You shouldn’t ’ave come, I got work to do.” Wright’s words, though stiffly spoken, carried a tenderness within and Jenny beamed back, pleased with herself and her ingenuity.
“What goes there? Eyes in the ship!” All stiffened at the voice of the first lieutenant, and even Jenny began to look slightly doubtful.
“Master at Arms, what’s that a shoutin’?”
Guppy turned back to the quarterdeck. “One of the hands ’as recognised a friend, sir.”
The spirit of the moment dissolved instantly as Pigot moved from the quarterdeck and on to the gangway, his tread echoing through the light decking.
“Take that man’s name at once!” he bellowed, near enough for them to hear his boots squeak.
Guppy turned and pointed at Wright, a wicked gleam entering his eyes as he whispered, “You’re for it now, matey!”
“Captain’s to join us in three hours, ship not fully victualled, and the hands have time to prattle.” Pigot was looking about for a boatswain’s mate with a rope’s end when he caught sight of Jenny standing in the lighter and read the situation.
“Madam,” he shouted, “you are disrupting the King’s work!” Jenny looked blank with amazement; in fact the blue jacketed figure pointing and ranting so almost made her laugh out loud before an inner sense saved her.
“Sir, I’m awful sorry if I caused a problem. I was only tryin’ to see my man, Josh.”
“Your man?”
“Yes, sir. We was married three days back.”
Pigot took the information in, as he did the pleading look on Jenny’s face. He looked to the master at arms for a second, then back at the girl.
“Bring her aboard.”
The order caught them all unaware, and there was a moment’s pause.
“Bring her aboard, I say!”
There was no man-rope rigged, but Flint laid hold of a length of fall and held it over the side to Jenny. A lighterman slipped the rope under her arms and took her to the narrow steps that led up at the break of the quarterdeck. Jenny reached for one of the wooden ledges, and clambered up in a confusion of dress and petticoat. The steep tumblehome of Pandora’s side, a feature of her French design, made the journey relative easy, and in no time she was on the gangway, smiling uncertainly at the group of men around her.
“Madam, you should be aware that there is no wedding garland hoisted aboard this ship.” Pigot’s words were harsh, and his expression had not altered from one of acute distaste. “However, I understand that you are recently married, and am prepared to make an exception.”
There was a slight, almost imperceptible muttering amongst the men who wondered, even at this late stage, if the first lieutenant had been unfairly judged.
“I’m sorry to have caused a problem, sir.” Her voice was soft and low, but she sensed a victory and caught Wright’s eye with a gleam of triumph.
“First, of course, you will have to be searched. I’ll have no sailors’ joy contaminating my people. See to it, Mr Guppy!”
Guppy stepped forward at the command, although he clearly felt awkward. He had searched countless doxies in the course of his duties, but very few legal wives, and never with their husbands looking on.
“I said search her, Master at Arms!”
Guppy reached forward and patted her waist apologetically.
“Search her, man!” Pigot pushed him out of the way and proceeded to run his hands down the girl’s body. Flint took a sharp intake of breath, but Wright was totally silent; only the reddening of his cheeks and his clenched fists betrayed the anger that was welling up inside him.
“Brandy in a bladder, tobacco stitched into shifts; there’s no tellin’ with doxies,” Pigot muttered, to no one in particular. “Reckon you’ve more than a touch of lace under here, my pretty one!” He had his hand on her skirts now, and with one quick movement, lifted up the material, together with the petticoat beneath. Jenny let out a gasp and most of the seamen looked away as a white thigh was exposed. “Known women carry any manner of things in my time.” His voice had mellowed to the level of casual conversation, although his questioning hands continued to explore further. “She’s clean,” he said at last, a hand lingering for a moment about her. “Let her have ten minutes with her man…” He paused as if out of breath before continuing in a stronger snarl, “They takes more, I want to know about it!”
The men looked uncomfortably about them as Pigot walked away, and Jenny lowered her head. Wright approached her, his hands held out.
“You shouldn’t have come, Jen’,” he said weakly. “The man’s a swine: ’es no gen’leman.”
“I wanted to see you.” All her previous joy had been ripped away and she appeared several years younger.
“Go for’ard,” said Flint. “Take her to the foc’sle an’ talk in private.” The crowd of seamen separated allowing them to wander slowly along the gangway.
“Ten minutes, ’member!” Guppy called after them, his toothless grin marking him out as the only man still smiling. “Not a second longer, or the first luff’ll hear of it.” He paused to chuckle again, “Then there’ll be no tellin’ what he’ll do!”
*****
“I’ve been reading up on the ship,” Lewis told King as they finished their dinner. “Seems she wasn’t meant for the Navy original.”
King raised an eyebrow. “British built though, surely?”
“Aye, British, but not from an Admiralty yard.” Small ships of war were often commissioned from private shipyards, but this was rare for any vessel larger than a sloop.
“Made for a foreign buyer then?” A reasonable assumption, although there were precious few countries that would need even a small frigate that were not actively at war with Great Britain.
“No, a privateer.” That made more sense, although Pandora was large for a letter of marquee, and would have cost well over twenty thousand pounds, just for her hull.
“Expensive project. Must have been someone a trifle warm.” King had pushed his chair back from the table and reached for a small mahogany box. It had been a rash purchase; one he had made just after Vigilant had paid off and before the money began to run out. King’s family could never be called comfortable, and he had begun life in the Navy with a minimal uniform and equipment. His present dirk had been won over a game of whist, and even now his best coat was threadbare and well patched. The pistol had been an indulgence, it was too small for service use; totally impractical in fact, and yet it was beautifully made, a real gentleman’s piece, and he liked it.
“Viscount Medwood, or rather his son,” Lewis continued. “He’s on the list: commander. Mind, he’s hardly at sea more’n two weeks in the year, an’ then it takes the other fifty to clear up the mess. Amazin’ what interest does when it comes to making commissioned officers.” Lewis dropped his voice at the end of his sentence as he remembered King’s position, but the passed midshipman hardly noticed.
“So, can’t his father get him a regular command
? Something with a decent premier to keep him out of trouble?” He opened the box; inside, resting on a velvet fitted lining, was a small silvered pistol with an ebony butt.
“T’aint likely. After wrecking one brig and near causing two mutinies, Admiralty would think twice about giving him a powder barge in hell, an’ that’s in spite of his father.”
“And poor little boy still wanted a ship, so Daddy bought him one?” He eased back the hammer on the small pistol and checked the flint, before allowing a small amount of oil onto the frizzen spring.
“’s right.” Lewis nodded. “Mind, he never saw her off the slip. Spent the time she was buildin’ on cards an’ horses, burning all the money put aside for fittin’ her out. Seems ’is father felt he’d put up enough, and refused to give out any more. Threw his weight about a bit, and the Admiralty ends up with one more frigate.
“And a Jackass at that.”
“Right, and you know what they say: too small to fight and too slow to run.”
King shrugged. “Still, she’s a fair ship; reckon they did a good enough job.”
“Aye, least she’s oak.” Lewis patted a hanging knee with respect. “Better than them pine affairs. Ask me they won’t last long enough to change the copper.”
Collins, the marine servant, appeared briefly in the doorway. “Beggin’ your pardon, gents, but we’ve ’ad a signal from shore. Captain’s comin’ aboard in an hour.”
Both warrant officers stood up, and Lewis brushed the biscuit crumbs from his shirt. “An hour, that doesn’t give us long.” King replaced the pistol in its box and gently closed the lid.
Lewis shrugged. “Oh, it’s all pretty tight. Mr Fraiser’s well up with the storage, just got to run through the last supplies with the purser.”
“Wish we could say the same for number one.”
“Mr Pigot a bit behind, is he?”
“Watch bill’s still in draft; I dreads what the captain will think when he sees the dockyard returns.”
“No nap for the first luff today, then?”
“Nor me, neither; do you thinks he’ll bail himself out of this on his own?”
*****
The captain was received on board that afternoon with all due ceremony. Lines of sideboys stood to meet him, along with the petty and commissioned officers, the latter in full dress uniform. Banks came up the prestigious starboard steps, rather than the larboard, so recently used by Wright’s wife. His hand was raised to his hat and as his foot touched the deck he turned towards the quarterdeck in the naval tradition, saluting a crucifix that had not been present on Royal Navy ships for several centuries. The shrill whistle of the boatswains’ pipes ended raggedly, and Pigot stepped forward to shake his hand.
“Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Pigot,” he turned to the group of officers waiting. “Gentlemen, my respects. I look forward to meeting you all shortly, but first I’d be obliged if the hands could be called.” Even phrased in the form of a request, the captain’s order was acted upon instantly and, urged as much by their own curiosity as the boatswain’s mate’s starters, the men assembled.
“Off hats!”
The captain reached inside his breast pocket and shook out the folded paper within. The men were silent as he read out the orders that confirmed him as their commander, and should see the ship clear Spithead with the afternoon tide. King, standing slightly apart from the commissioned officers, looked at the faces of the men as they stood in the waist. It was the usual mixture: young and old, all variously dressed and, for the most part, regular man-of-war types. Something in their expression disturbed him though. It was not quite the usual blend ranging from keen anticipation, through mild curiosity, and ending with outward disdain. Each man’s face was his own certainly, but they appeared to stem from a common root, or were being looked at through the same coloured glass. They held a similarity that was at once potent and disquieting. He perceived a power that drew its strength from being shared. Alone, each was worth very little, but together; together there was nothing they could not achieve.
He had never sensed this from British seamen before. Of course no one who shipped before the mast was without complaints; their country had been at war, and most of them at sea, for more than three years. Conditions were not good, and only a few were genuine volunteers. But there was something else; something more fundamental, more direct; something that was not part of the usual sailors’ lot had clearly upset them. Banks was still speaking when, as if in answer to his question, Pigot coughed once, immediately drawing the eye of every man standing in the waist and realisation dawned on King. He was aware that Pigot’s intimidating ways were unpopular, but this was the first time he had noticed the effect. At the order to stand down the men did so, but not with the usual relief and chatter; they moved slowly, in silence, and on their own terms. Their attitude worried King, and as Pigot called out to a boatswain’s mate to start a man he considered to be taking too long, his concern grew.
*****
She weighed as dusk was turning into night. Banks had intended to take the earlier afternoon tide, but there were problems raising the second anchor. He had had to wait, fuming, under the amused eyes of the Channel fleet, while Caulfield investigated the difficulty, and it was a good two hours later that the Solent’s second high took them out.
The matter had not been eased by the fact that, rather than being foul as reported, the anchor had only required a little extra effort to free it from the Spithead mud; by the time this had been discovered they had lost the flood. Caulfield rounded on Conroy, the new master’s mate who had been detailed to supervise capstan work, and was disconcerted by the man’s reaction. Conroy was clearly cautious, not so much of doing damage to the ship and her equipment, but of taking action on his own initiative. Ships sailed and the Navy existed at all because men took responsibility; there were numerous occasions when it was not possible to consult a superior. Caulfield could not conceive how Conroy had been promoted to his present rank if he was really as hesitant as he appeared.
“You should have ordered more effort, doubled up on the bars; rigged swifters if need be,” the lieutenant told him under his breath. “What were you frightened of, parting the messenger? Twisting a fluke?”
Conroy had joined Pandora two days before, and had already encountered Pigot and his ways on several occasions, and the knowledge that such a man was on board did not make him inclined to take chances. Caulfield dismissed him, deciding that he should be given a greater opportunity to acquaint himself with the ship before further judgement was passed. In fact Conroy was gaining that very experience now, working double tides for the next forty-eight hours.
Caulfield had still to report to the captain, and while on his way to the quarterdeck he spotted Lewis, the other master’s mate, and a man he was familiar with, they having been together in Essex until a few weeks ago. Caulfield took Lewis to the empty gunroom pantry, a place of relative privacy, and asked him what he knew of Conroy. Lewis had been noncommittal, a reaction Caulfield would have expected when any man was being questioned about a colleague. Still, he did say something of importance, something that bothered Caulfield even now. It was a chance remark, made almost under his breath, although Lewis made it quite clear that, had he been in charge of the cable, he might well have shown the same caution; an amazing admission from a man with enough enterprise to pluck himself up from the lower deck.
Caulfield’s report to the captain was as bland and indefinite as he could make it; he had no intention of raising more questions, or implicating Conroy further. But the problem was still there, and would have to be faced in the future. Until then one thing was certain: when working under Pigot the men were not inclined to show initiative.
*****
Rose, who berthed with Dorsey and Cobb, was the youngest of the young gentlemen, and had yet to reach the dizzy height of midshipman. The son of a Lincolnshire farmer, he had spent almost the whole of his fourteen years in the village, amongst peop
le he had always known, and even within this protected space, the lad had shown little inclination to move beyond the boundaries of his father’s farm. Though no slouch—he was always ready to work long hours during lambing, or when the fences had to be repaired—he also liked his own company, and was content to read all day, if the chance were given.
The idea of going to sea had been completely his father’s, and in no way was the intention meant to be unkind. He was genuinely concerned for his son. He knew that before long the boy would have to start himself out of books, and other childish things, and begin to take some responsibility. Rose had two sisters, but no brother. One day the farm would naturally pass to him; what good would stories be when it came to getting the best possible price for mutton, and paying the least for supplement? The sea seemed an obvious choice, even though the nearest shore was more than a day’s ride away. Rose’s uncle, who had died of an unconfirmed ailment in the West Indies, had been a purser, and his mother’s cousin was a master in the East India Company. She had suggested that her son be sent to join him as a servant but her husband was against the idea. The East India Company may be honourable by name, but the old farmer had vague suspicions about the position and exact duties of an officer’s servant.
The Royal Navy was another matter; a respectable service where the lad could do well, maybe make a small sum in prize money, before he left the sea and with it all traces of boyhood. And so he had used what influence he had, and a rather greater sum of money, and secured him a berth as first class volunteer in HMS Pandora.
The fact that all the major decisions should be made without reference to the lad was of no surprise to anyone; it was naturally assumed that parents should know and do the best for their child. Rose was allowed ten days of increasing dread, from the time he heard his future to the day he began experiencing it. The first officer he had met on boarding Pandora had been Pigot; it had been an omen of the worst kind, and from that day his nightmare had begun.
