by Alaric Bond
All eyes turned aloft to where the masthead lookout was peering out across a dark heaving sea.
“What do you make there?” Pigot’s voice, loud and demanding.
“Lost it now, sir. It were no more’n a glimpse,” the first lieutenant snorted with annoyance.
“Foremast, what have you?” There was a pause before the apologetic tones of the second lookout reported a clear sea. Pigot glared about the deck, his eyes naturally falling on the most able midshipman.
“You, King - get aloft to the main with a glass. Tell me what you see.”
There was only one response acceptable when Pigot gave an order. King moved quickly, collecting the deck glass from the binnacle and strapping it across his back as he made for the main shrouds. He swung himself out with barely a thought, rapidly climbing up the sodden ratlines, letting the tight weather shrouds run through his hands as he went. Up to the main top, hang back for the futtocks, then on to the main crosstrees. Here the ship’s motion could be felt more readily, with every movement magnified by the height of the frigate’s main mast. The lookout was from King’s own division and he knew him to be trustworthy.
“What did you make, Wright?” he asked, as they clung to the mast.
“Nothing to be certain of, Mr King. Looked like a ship, a warship or a big Indiaman; mebbe a liner or frigate, couldn’t be sure.”
“Where away?”
He stretched out a hand. “Two points off the starboard bow. Headin’ west nor-west, or so it seemed.” He stopped, then added more guardedly, “Might have got a sight of sommat afore, sir; a few points off the larboard beam, but I couldn’t be certain, like.”
King nodded and peered out. The horizon to starboard was indistinct; small patches of fog were rolling with the wind, and there was a band of heavy weather slightly behind the point that Wright indicated.
“Reckon it’s closing in,” Wright said, as the midshipman swept the glass along the horizon. It was true, even in the brief time he had been aloft Pandora’s motion had lessened; the main topgallant was just beginning to loosen, although the air still felt as cold.
“Nothing to see now.” King tried hard to mask his feelings. It was the worst sighting possible, no more than a peep, and that just by one man. Wright’s report might easily change the ship’s course. An enemy warship - perhaps a squadron, maybe even a fleet - could be heading up towards the Channel. At that very moment Pandora might be the first line of defence against an invasion.
But then, of course, he could be mistaken; with the best of intentions Wright might have taken the combination of fast moving cloud and poor visibility and made it into a ship. Instances had been known of two or three men making the same certain sighting, only to find their supposed squadron was no more than scud and spindrift. Pandora might be off course for days investigating the mirage. Then the wind could shift; they could waste more time fighting to regain their original course, and all the while her mail would be delayed, and Jervis deprived of a valuable frigate.
Topgallant and topsails were flapping now as the wind died further, and King felt the pain in his tooth return. Wright pointed out to windward. “There’s a fog comin’ for us. An’ a thick’n, by the looks o’ it.” The midshipman glanced back across their quarter: sure enough the individual patches had spread into a dark grey wash that was rolling forward, eating up the horizon by the second.
He looked again, while Wright reported the fog to the deck below. Now there was something; a shape, nothing more, several points behind that which Wright had reported and almost abeam of Pandora. King felt the blood drain from his body as he raised his glass. Yes, that was definite. He nudged Wright, pointing at the break in the cloud. As he watched the image detailed into a ship: a warship; hull up and a Frenchman, judging by her bow. There was also a trace, no more than that, of other sails. Not merely another vessel; two, maybe three, further forward. He held his breath, straining to make the misty shapes more distinct.
“Maintop, there - what d’ya see?”
It could have been his imagination, or did Wright stiffen slightly at the sound of Pigot’s voice? The seaman’s eyes were more accustomed to the work. He handed the glass across without a word; Wright took it, and focused on the spot.
“What do you make of that?” King asked, after several seconds had dragged by. The seaman passed the glass back and shook his head sadly.
“Nuthin’ I can see, sir.”
King took the glass and raised it again; no, the cloud had thickened and now sat like a rug over his sighting. There was no ship; certainly no squadron: that was assuming there ever had been to begin with.
“What do you see there?” Pigot’s voice was edged with anger as it drifted up to them. King swallowed; here was a quandary. He could say nothing, he could stay safe; or he could report exactly what he had, or thought he had, seen. Report it and accept the consequences. If Banks believed him and altered course only to find him wrong he could kiss goodbye to any hopes he might have of his commission being confirmed.
“Masthead, make your report!”
“Ship sighted to windward, sir; mebbe two or more,” he shouted back, with barely a shake in his voice. “Headin’ west nor-west.”
King gave Wright a grim smile, while the seaman looked at him with renewed respect; now he had really started something.
*****
The air in the great cabin could never have been called warm, and yet King’s coat steamed liberally, while his damp nankin trousers (breeches were only for ceremony) cloyed about his legs making him long for a hot, dry towel, and his sore tooth ached like it was five times the size. Banks wore a heavy dressing coat over a baggy shirt and his feet were wrapped in old flannel carpet slippers, although his manner and poise remained very much that of a captain.
“For how long did you see this ship?”
King swallowed and repeated his story once more. Banks nodded, “What do you think, Mr Pigot?”
The first lieutenant appeared composed and thoughtful; very different to the man King had met on returning to the deck. “I’ve been in the same position m’self, sir. I know what it’s like, expectin’ to see somethin’, and only half certain. Still, what Mr King says hardly constitutes a sightin’. I don’t think we should take any action at present.” Pigot smiled benignly at the midshipman, every bit the well meaning and supportive executive officer; King wondered how much Banks really knew about his second in command.
“Thank you, Mr Pigot. I feel Mr King is reasonably experienced, and there is also the matter of the lookout’s earlier report.”
Pigot stiffened. “May I remind you sir, that convoys from Lisbon and Quebec are at sea? Both are due about now, and both could be hereabouts.”
“They could be in the area, certainly, but not heading west nor-west.” Pigot said nothing although King could almost sense him begin to prickle as Banks continued. “I had not intended to alter course, but I think this puts a different perspective on matters.” He looked across to the tell-tale compass. “Take her two points to starboard, if you please; that way we should run into whatever it is Mr King has spotted. I could wish for a little more wind, but so be it.”
King was prepared to go, but Pigot, it seems, had other ideas.
“Forgive me, sir, but that will delay our arrival at Gibraltar, as well as meeting with Admiral Jervis.”
Bank’s expression did not change, although his voice became marginally cooler. “That is so, Mr Pigot.”
The first lieutenant opened his mouth, and closed it again. Any late rendezvous would reflect as badly on him as the captain. “I was just concerned, sir,” he said, eventually. “Concerned that we would be wasting our time.”
King closed his eyes. Pigot was talking himself into a hole, and the midshipman already knew how any displeasure encountered from the captain would be paid back many times over on those whom Pigot would consider rightly to blame.
“Mr Pigot, I have made my decision, and I do not wish to discuss matters further.�
�� The atmosphere in the cabin had suddenly become distinctly unpleasant. “If there is nothing else, I will not keep you from your duties.” There was nothing else, and the two turned to go. “Not you, Mr King, I’d like a word. Thank you, Mr Pigot.”
King felt a pain in his breast that almost overtook that in his jaw; in one action he had caused the ship to alter course and fallen foul of Pigot. The latter would be seething from the interview with Banks and the fact that King had also been witness to the captain cutting him down to size and present when he was dismissed from the cabin, would not have made him any more popular. The door closed, and they both could hear Pigot’s boots as he stamped out along the upper deck.
“Mr King, I recollect that you have passed your board but not been made, is that right?”
King said that it was.
“I have no need for another lieutenant in this ship, but I am aware of the risk you ran this afternoon. Many would have chosen the easier path and not reported the sighting. If you are proved in any way correct, I will be happy to speak for you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Banks was clearly influential; a word from him, or his supporters, would secure King’s commission.
“Very good, you had better return to the deck now. I am sure the first lieutenant will appreciate every sharp eye.” Was there just the flicker of humour in that face? It could be that Banks was not totally ignorant about Pigot, although King could not be sure. “And I do hope you are right,” the captain added, as King left the cabin.
*****
The fog had reached the ship by the second dogwatch. A dense, evil mist that coated her every fibre. At times it was so thick as to hide the forecastle from the quarterdeck, with only the occasional break, when an area of fifty, maybe a hundred feet would show clear, and the black night was allowed in to fill the temporary void.
As the watch wore on Caulfield stared vainly at the traverse board. There had been no change of course since that ordered by the captain, but the wind had also shifted several points, and their speed had altered, dropping to barely three knots despite the addition of jib and staysails. They could increase sail further, although creeping through the fog as they were, without any audible warning, was the very edge of folly. Caulfield looked up to where the main lookout, only recently relieved, would be settling in. The previous man had reported dense cover, and Caulfield guessed it was likely to remain so for the rest of the night. King appeared, summoned by the inescapable urge to be where the news would come first. To stand on deck, smell the fog, pace up and down, to hope; only to return below, as he had done for every half hour or so since Caulfield had taken the watch.
“You’ll be on in no time,” the lieutenant informed him, approaching out of the gloom. “Better get some rest while you can.”
King shook his head. “I’d be happier out here, if that’s agreeable, sir. The waitin’s far worse below.”
“Very well.” Caulfield turned away; it was not the night for conversation, even if there had been anything to say. King might have been right in his sighting. Even now, an enemy force could be crossing their path, heading for the Channel and invasion. Colpoys’ offshore squadron would miss them in this fog, as would the main force of Bridport’s Channel fleet, currently sheltering in Spithead. They might be there, they could be within a mile of them at that very moment, but there was nothing he, nothing anyone on board Pandora, could do while this darned fog persisted.
Flint was on watch, along with Lawlor and Jameson. The three were sheltering in the lee of the larboard gangway. No action had been called for from them for several hours and they were cold, their kerseymere jackets wrapped tight about them and woollen caps pulled down over their ears.
In the cockpit Lewis was looking at his glass, peering at the gauge in the dubious light. The reading was low, very low, with barely a flicker of movement since that afternoon. The tension had eased slightly since King went on deck, but there was still an aura of hushed expectancy that filled the entire ship. Lewis shivered suddenly, rubbing his hands against his forearms to warm himself as he moved back and sat down at the table. In front of him was the cold and fast congealing portion of lobscouse that Collins had served over an hour ago. He looked at it with surprise, and picked up his fork to annoy it for a moment or two, before sitting back in his chair. There was a Guernsey top of his chest, fine knitted from heavy wool, and just waiting to be put on. He leaned forward, still shivering, and pulled it over his head, stretching the tight garment around his body. The rich smell of lanolin came out to greet him, and he gratefully pressed his arms into the sleeves. He knew that in a few moments he would start to grow warm, although now it seemed the Guernsey was merely trapping his damp shirt against him. He shivered again, considered turning back to his food, dismissed the notion, and pulled off the Guernsey, before getting up to study his glass.
In the great cabin Banks had supped sparsely and alone and now lay, fully clothed but without his jacket, on the upholstered stern lockers. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and regular although he remained wide-awake and ready to move at a moment’s notice. On a clear night it would have been relatively easy to miss another ship, even a whole squadron, if they were properly darkened. With this fog it would be strange, no a miracle, if anything was spotted, and yet still he remained alert, still ready for the call.
Stuart, the surgeon, had heard of the supposed sighting, but gave it little consideration. The ship, so recently fresh from port, was healthy, and until anything came along to cause him a nuisance he was content to allow illness and injuries to appear in the normal way. Certainly there was little enough for him to do; the amount of preventative medicine available to him was too small to consider. He had the standing orders from the physician of the fleet, and his medicine chest and tools were in order; Manning, his mate, had seen to that. Some might spend this time of relative leisure in reading, although Stuart had no intention of improving, or even changing his mind. New techniques might have been developed, but in the end the human body remained the same. In his youth he had attempted several surgical operations, some with reasonable success, but now he had no desire to open a body that had not already been penetrated by injury. He could remove a man’s leg in four minutes, far less if it was a lad and the saw sharp. He could tell a case of scurvy, and identify most of the more common types of shipboard ailment. He was especially good with venereal disease; few were novel to him and most could be, if not cured then at least delayed long enough to allow the sufferer to pay the regulation fifteen shillings for his trouble.
He walked into the cubical partitioned off from the gunroom that was his berth. On the spirketing next to his head the carpenter had erected a small shelf for him to keep a few personal possessions. It was to this shelf that he reached now, and removed a large blue bottle. Laudanum, the alcoholic tincture of opium, was one of his more powerful tools; one of the few drugs that actually made a positive impression on his patients, although Stuart was in no way deceived by its healing powers. Still, for a bored and indolent man it was exactly the right prescription and he added a generous measure to the half filled wine glass that he had taken from the gunroom. This would give him just the right amount of comfort to see him through a cold night. He drained the glass, feeling the warmth of the drug run pleasantly throughout his body, before filling it once more. From somewhere far, far away he heard the tolling of Pandora’s bell as it marked the half hour, but Stuart was no longer concerned with the ship’s routine, or even time itself. He drank the neat dose, and fell heavily against his cot, gripping the sides and swinging himself in with practiced ease. Within seconds he was snoring heavily, lost to the ship, the world, and anyone who might need him.
Back on the quarterdeck the tension persisted. “No ships yet, Mr King?” It was Pigot, presumably the waiting had affected him as well, and he was reacting in the only way he knew. “No fleet of invading Frenchmen, ready to burn our homes and cut up our wives and sweethearts?”
“No, sir.” It was the
safest reply.
“I suppose you’ll ask the captain for a change of course shortly?” Say, we must ’ave missed ’em on our first pass, time to go back for another?”
“No, sir.” King swallowed. He was on duty shortly, and Pigot would be the officer of the watch. Just his luck to run into him now, a good hour before he was officially due on deck.
“I’d send you aloft, young man,” Pigot continued in a conversational tone. “Send you aloft; masthead you for the rest of the night, but I fear for what we might run in to. M’bee a school of fightin’ whales, hell bent on takin’ the ship an’ sailin’ her to China? Who can tell?”
He was going to evoke the first lieutenant’s wrath whatever happened, so when the next glass was turned, and Pigot became distracted by the casting of the log, King did go aloft. He took a slow passage; the ratlines were thoroughly soaked and slipped beneath his feet, and he was in no rush to reach the masthead. Once there, however, he found the situation was starting to change.
“Mist’s fadin’, Mr King,” Lawlor, the Welshman informed him. “Not clear nuff to report, but I gets a proper view everso often. Give it a couple of moments and we’ll be fair.” King nodded, and together they stood looking out into the blank mist.
Then, as Lawlor had predicted, it lifted. Lifted, but only for them, only for those many feet above the soft waves. The light from the half moon began to break through, and then they were in clear air. Clear air, over a bed of cloud, a bed that sat barely eight feet below their position. They could look out for several miles in each direction. It was a strange experience to be many feet above the deck, and yet apparently safe over a dense floor of solid mist. King looked about as Lawlor reported the situation to the expectant deck below. No sign of topmasts, no break in the solid rind of cloud. There was an empty ocean, and Pandora was in the middle of it.
“Bad luck, sir,” Lawlor muttered.
King smiled grimily as his toothache returned to pester him once more. Now he really would be for it.
