by Alaric Bond
The boy Rose tapped at the door and Banks’ eyes opened instantly.
“Mr Caulfield’s duty, sir, an’ the masthead’s clear of the fog.”
“Anything in sight?” It was an obvious question but one he had to ask.
“No, sir.”
“Very good.” He closed his eyes again as Rose left. So that was it, a wild goose-chase. King had either been wrong, mistaken, or just plain unlucky; whatever, they had ventured off course and far deeper into the fog than was necessary. They should turn back right away. Now that the threat had gone he realised just how tense he had been. For a moment he considered staying as he was, maybe dozing for a moment. It was a feeling that had become rather common of late; possibly the onset of old age. That was the exactly the right thought to stir him into action, and he sprang to his feet and made for the quarterdeck, the very essence of youth and vitality.
*****
“A fleet, he says. An invasion fleet!” Pigot’s voice was low, but dangerous. “Saw a bunch of liners, did yer?” The face was barely inches from King’s and his breath clashed horribly with the clean cold night air. “Took us on a right little rainbow hunt, didn’t you my lad? Well, I’ll tell you what! I’ll tell you what you can look forward to once the watch is called.” He turned away and caught the eye of Rose who was acting as the midshipman of the watch, and sheltering unhappily by the binnacle.
“Pass the word for Mr Smith,” he said. Smith, the gunner, was the officer traditionally responsible for discipline amongst the midshipmen, although King, with his age and experience, had not had to face such a situation in years. Pigot turned to King, an evil expression on his face. “I’ll show you the correct punishment for barefaced cheek.”
Smith made his appearance fully dressed; only his eyes, still bleary with sleep, showed that and he had been roused from his hammock.
“Mr Smith, Mr King here wishes to become intimate with your daughter.” To kiss the gunner’s daughter was the euphemism given to that particularly humiliating punishment that Rose had experienced so recently.
“Mr King, sir?” Smith was not so wide-awake as to accept Pigot’s suggestion without question. “But ’e’s a lieutenant, sir, near as can be!”
“Mr Smith, you will do your duty!” Pigot’s voice rose unnaturally in the still night. Smith stood uncertainly for a second, before his eyes became fixed on someone approaching from behind.
“One moment, Mr Pigot, if you please.” King drew a sigh at the captain’s voice. “I think we will discuss this matter in my cabin.” It would be wrong to countermand Pigot’s order in public, although Banks had no intention of allowing King to suffer any form of punishment, simply for doing his duty.
For several seconds the lieutenant remained staring at King before the spell broke.
“Yes, sir.” Pigot’s voice was sulky, and he turned to follow Banks toward the companionway with a look of thunder on his face.
“Very good, Mr Smith, you may go below.” Caulfield, this time. He gave King a sympathetic smile. “It might have been better for you if the captain hadn’t turned up,” he said, softly. “When that bastard gets back he’ll want more than just blood.”
King’s eyes fell. Caulfield was right; he could not rely on the captain’s protection forever. In his elevated position Banks would always be unaware of the subtle unpleasantries that Pigot could inflict at will. And Pigot was no fool; he had eyes, and knew exactly when it was safe to use a rope’s end on the men, unheard of for a commissioned officer. He knew just how many beatings and mastheadings he could inflict on the midshipmen, without arousing comment; how often he could have the same man flogged and it be ignored. There had been many supposed instances when one unpopular officer wrecked the lives of many. King had even known an oldster midshipman who swore he had been passed over for treading on the port admiral’s dog. But this was real, and happening to him. The captain’s words about having his commission confirmed came back to mock; there would be little likelihood of that once Pigot got his teeth into him. Any lieutenant had the power to make a mere midshipman appear incompetent: a first lieutenant could do it without leaving his cot.
“You’ll be on duty in less than half a glass; get something hot inside you.” Caulfield again, speaking sense and giving more than advice, although there was little he could actually do to ease the situation. King turned to go below, when a voice cut into his thoughts.
“Sail ho! Two points off the larboard bow!”
Caulfield waited while the report was repeated.
“What do you see there?”
Topmasts; two ships, no three. Tops’ls set, one looks to be a liner, headin’ west nor-west.”
Topsails, in this weather, hardly likely to be Indiamen. Caulfield smiled at the midshipman. “Mr King,” he said, as the ship erupted to the call of all hands, “I think we might have found your squadron.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Take in tops’ls, stays’ls and jib, if you please,” the captain’s voice was steady, with only the barest trace of excitement as he bounded up the companionway from his cabin. He caught the eye of Caulfield, still the officer of the watch.
“How far off?”
“Lookout reports a fair way, sir. Fog’s levelling but the horizon’s obscured.”
Banks nodded. “Mr Caulfield, have the maintop lookout replaced; I’d like to speak to him. You can dismiss the old watch at eight bells.” The call for all hands might have been slightly premature, although there was little point in releasing them now, so close to the end of watch. He looked about the deck, taking in the situation. A few seconds ago he was handing out a reprimand to his first lieutenant; now, for all he knew, there was an enemy fleet bearing down on them. Pigot made a more sedate entrance behind him but Banks chose to ignore the man for the present. “Mr Conroy, perhaps you would take a glass to the maintop? Mr Rose, I’d be obliged if you would do the same at the fore.”
In fog it was easy to creep almost within hailing distance before danger became apparent; Banks drew a breath of relief as he realised that this was not the case. In fact, judging from the density of the mist, and the distance from the enemy, he was reasonably sure Pandora had escaped detection; it was one thing to spot a number of ships in fog, especially when they were expected, quite another to notice just one. Besides, if they had been seen, it would be little trouble to drop back into the mist. Even without the windward advantage, Pandora, with her new copper and fresh spars, would be lithe in stays. Her people might not be working quite as a team yet, but they included a good proportion of experienced sailors: more than a match for Frenchmen cooped up in port for goodness knew how long. The lookout slipped down a backstay, and swung himself in from the main chains. He approached the officers knuckling his forehead.
“Make your report, Lawlor,” Banks told him gently.
“It were five ships for certain, sir,” the man said. “Others I couldn’t be sure of, then I started to lose them as we fell back.”
“How far off?”
Lawlor shook his head. “Can’t rightly say, not with no horizon, like. Several miles, though, a fair distance.”
“What about their size?” Caulfield prompted.
“Liners, were they?” Pigot this time. The tone was brash but Banks noticed his face held a set expression, as if he was trying to hide his emotions.
“One was, t’others I couldn’t say, but reasonable, sir. Mebbe frigates, mebbe heavy transports.”
“Silence there!” Fraiser’s voice cut through the general hum of comment that followed Lawlor’s report. For several seconds everyone on the quarterdeck held their breath as they listened. A faint whistle could be heard as the wind cut through the shrouds; there was the constant muttering from the stem and the periodic slop of the sea hitting her hull, but nothing else.
“What is it, Mr Fraiser?”
“I thought I heard something, sir,” Fraiser said, stubbornly. “Sounded like gunfire.”
They were quiet once more, before a fluke of wind brought the n
oise to them all. A deep rumble, not unlike gunfire, but more regular and constant.
“They’re beating for fog,” said Caulfield. For a group of ships to avoid collision in poor visibility some sort of loud regular sound was invaluable. “I suppose you wouldn’t expect them to fire a gun.”
“Pardon me, sir, but that noise is off our larboard quarter.” It was Lawlor, the lookout. Of them all his senses would be the most primed.
The officers exchanged glances. The different bearing, together with the fact that sound was reaching them, meant there was at least a second group of ships, and closer to them. “Very good, Lawlor.” The silence returned to the quarterdeck as Lawlor made his way forward. No one could accurately determine the direction of a fresh sound in fog, although once the suggestion had been made it was hard to believe that the noise was coming from anywhere else.
“Larboard quarter means more’n a squadron,” Lewis whispered to King. “Reckon we got ourselves a proper fleet.”
King shook his head; it was equally feasible for two groups of ships to have separated in the fog, although his heart seemed to be beating extremely fast.
“Sail ho!” Conroy, the master’s mate, bellowed out from the main top. “Sails on larboard beam - an’ quarter!”
“Bring her around, Mr Fraiser,” the captain’s voice cut through Conroy’s report. “Take her three points to starboard.”
“Seven in line an’ more, off the larboard bow.” Rose’s voice this time, the excitement causing it to crack up the octave.
“A fleet all right,” Lewis muttered.
“What course in the main, there?” Pigot hailed the masthead.
There was a pause while Conroy considered this. “No change, sir. West nor-west, near as makes no difference.”
Banks waited until the ship settled on her new heading. The fog was starting to disperse, and would be gone before long. When it did Pandora would have to show her heels, but he wanted to stay close enough to make as accurate a sighting as possible. He took a turn along the deck while his mind raced. This could only be the fleet he had heard about; presumably they had either avoided or annihilated the blockading squadron off Brest and escaped into the North Atlantic. Nepean’s theories about an invasion of Portugal could be forgotten now; they must have another target in their sights.
The heading ruled out a Channel invasion, although they could still be making for Devon or Cornwall with a wide margin for error. But Plymouth and Torbay were right on hand and in winter, with many ships in harbour, there would be little difficulty in mounting a reasonable force to stop them. Or they could be heading for Wales, a popular choice in the past. Not so heavily defended, and with a minimal militia compared with the South Coast. Then there was Ireland.
He stopped at the end of the quarterdeck level with the fife rails, and peered forward through the mist. It might have been his imagination, but the fog seemed to be clearing as he looked. Ireland it would be: he was sure of it. Admiral Kingsmill had the station and at the best of times there would be no more than one ship of the line and a handful of frigates, nothing like enough to dissuade a determined enemy. As for military, Banks could not be sure but at a time when England was scouring all her forces to serve more vulnerable areas, he would be surprised to see more than a few thousand regular troops, and a minimal militia.
“Deck there, fog’s clearing further.” Conroy’s voice cut through the gloom and all on the quarterdeck turned to windward, although there was still nothing to be seen.
“More ships in sight, sir. Hull up, an’ headin’ west nor-west.” Rose at the foremast lookout this time. The fog must be falling away quite quickly and the wind, now on their beam, was also strengthening.
Banks turned to Caulfield. “I want the jib, and forecourse on her as soon as I give the word.”
“Aye, sir. Jib and forecourse.” Caulfield nodded, “Prepare to make sail.” Banks had been wrong; all hands would certainly be needed before the end of the watch, and possibly for the rest of the night.
“Here it comes!” Pigot this time. Banks noted that his first lieutenant had been almost silent since the sighting. This might have something to do with the dressing down he had just received; then again there could be other reasons. Sure enough the mist was moving in the strengthening breeze. Deep swirls of dark and light moved about the ship in complex marbled patterns, while all eyes stared towards the enemy that still lay hidden.
Then they were hidden no more. The half moon broke through clear air, giving enough light to pick out the details of their rigging. Real ships, and large ones, just as they had been promised. Banks stared across the short expanse of dark water while Pigot, Caulfield and Lewis made notes. There must be thirty or forty out there, less than six miles away. The majority were apparently warships; frigates and line of battleships, were it to be an invasion fleet some would be armed en flute, their guns removed to make space for soldiers. Otherwise, they were looking at the most powerful fleet currently at sea. Eight bells rang out: the end of the watch, although few noticed. They had stayed long enough; it was time to be moving.
“Make sail, Mr Caulfield. Jib and forecourse at first. See if she’ll take more after that.”
There was nothing that Pandora could do faced with such a force, and the information she now carried was worth a good deal more than her tender hull. The enemy had the windward advantage and could press a close action; he might wear away now, but adding sail first would make the manoeuvre faster. The deck bucked beneath him as Pandora picked up speed.
“Very good, take her round, heading east.”
“All hands wear ship!”
She turned neatly, almost within her own length, and soon was tearing through the water, heading away from the enemy fleet and vaguely in the direction of the French coast. There were still some patches of fog ahead, and Banks was confident they could disappear into the night within a few minutes. He looked up to the maintop. “Any movement there?”
“No, sir.” Conroy’s voice was reassuringly positive. “One’s showing three blue lights, but they’re still keeping to their...”
“Sail ho! Sail fine on the starboard bow!” Rose cut through Conroy’s report. “She’s a heavy frigate, sir, hull up an’ headin’ straight for us!”
Banks dodged round to the windward side of the quarterdeck but the night was dark and with the forecourse set he could see nothing.
“No colours showin’,” Rose continued. “But it’s a strange pendant; not British.”
“Must have lost the main body in the fog,” an anonymous voice came from the darkness. Yes, that made sense. Banks toyed with the idea of raising French colours, but rejected it almost at once. This was not through any sense of decency; it was a common enough ruse to show foreign colours to deceive an enemy and providing he didn’t open fire while doing so, no offence would have been committed. Pandora, like all British ships, carried a selection of ensigns, although his course and sail pattern would mark him out as anything but French.
That being the case, now would be the time to change course, to turn to larboard and try and shake the other ship off before it had a chance to respond. He opened his mouth to give the order, then closed it again. The fog was clearing all the time and altering course might only prolong matters, stacking the odds in favour of the larger ship, and giving them time to call for support. Then they would be trapped, with superior forces on each side, and all their hard-won intelligence would follow them into captivity. Better perhaps to try and slip by, and take cover in what was left of the mist.
“Bloody lucky,” the mystery voice continued. “Leaves them fair set to take us out.”
Not if he had anything to do with it. Banks turned back. “Clear for action and send the hands to quarters, if you please, Mr Pigot.”
Pigot touched his hat and bellowed across the waist of the frigate. Immediately the men began to clear away the guns and break down bulkheads, making a clear gun deck from forecastle to stern. Banks watched them as they went. So
me, the newer members, seemed uncertain as to their duties. Most were taken in hand by older men, but there was still too much noise and confusion in the operation. The marines were forming up on the quarterdeck. One collided with a member of the afterguard and dropped his musket. Banks closed his eyes; but the men could not be blamed, it was desperately early in a cruise to go into action; the conditions could hardly be worse, and it was difficult for the captain to ignore the deep, heavy feeling of foreboding that lay inside him.
*****
On the upper deck Flint was already with his guns. According to the watch sheet he had overall charge of both number four long nines of the main battery, although he usually gave the care of the larboard piece to Dobson, the second captain and reliable, despite his less than sanguine attitude. Jameson joined him; the last time they had tended a gun together the lad had been the powder carrier. That was more than a year ago though, and he had done quite a bit of growing since then. Without a word the two began to release the tackle. It was a procedure that neither had followed more than once before, there being little time for practice. Flint swallowed as they loosened the ropes and eased them through the blocks. He had been in action many times before, but the last occasion had almost cost him his nerve. The knots unravelled under his experienced fingers, and he told himself that this time it would be all right.
Bennet and Johnston appeared, and began to clear away their equipment: the flexible rammer, worm, feeder and crows of iron, while Dobson broke out a cheese of wads and drew fresh water for the butt.
“Where’s Lawlor and Carter?” Flint asked. Billy, the lad, was with them and had drawn a charge, the three pounds of cylinder powder needed for a standard round, and Johnston was sprinkling sand and water on the deck around the gun. A shout came from above as a man slipped, stumbling against the launch stowed on the skids above their heads. For a second or so he groped for a purchase, before falling away from the boat and tumbling down onto the deck beside them.
Laughter, followed by shouts of “Butcher” came from the gun crews, as Jameson and Wright went to help him.
