Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  “Of course I only saw him for a moment.” Caulfield paused and drew breath. “But it didn’t look good, sir. He’d been shot in the head.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning broke with no sign of ill weather. Banks stood at the open deadlights that covered what remained of the stern windows. A fragile but welcome sun played upon his face, and the sea, calmer now with barely a trace of white, refracted the light into a thousand cracks of phosphorescent brilliance. He took a deep draught of cold, clean air, exhaling slowly as his mind wandered over the events of the previous night.

  Caulfield had done well. From the moment Pigot had fallen the second lieutenant stepped into his place with confidence and ability. They had been fortunate in taking little damage (Banks gave scant credit for his own actions), but no ship survives raking fire without some important repairs being necessary. Caulfield had attended to it all, from the shattered sternposts and larboard mizzen chains to the deadlights that were in front of him now, and had allowed Banks a few hours of precious sleep. Above him he could hear the sound of the carpenter’s crew setting up a new taffrail. The sail maker and his men would also be busy stitching a new suit of signal flags, while the boatswain, his mates, and whatever topmen could be spared had been running fresh shrouds, stays and braces since the end of the action. Caulfield had organised much of this, although he had done so with the full cooperation of every man in the crew. It might have been the action, the action that had come upon them unexpectedly, and caught many out: frightened the new hands and made fools of the old. It might have been the nearness of the enemy, an enemy that some had only read about, yet now appeared actual, alive and deadly. It might have been the relief that death had passed so very close, and yet left them to live a while longer. It might have been any one, or a combination of many other smaller factors, although Banks knew that there was a far simpler reason for the oppressive atmosphere that had been part of Pandora since she had first set sail, to suddenly lift.

  His mind registered the scent of fresh roasted coffee and, turning he saw Dupont slip quietly into the cabin with a loaded tray.

  “Breakfast, sir?”

  Stupidly Banks always felt a slight shock on hearing the French accent after being in action with Dupont’s countrymen, even though the man had served him for many years, and was an ardent Chouan. The captain turned and seated himself at the dining table while Dupont brought in the rest of the meal. The sound of the ship’s bell was followed by the usual shouts from each sentinel. With Pigot gone the watch system was in disarray, and Banks felt mildly guilty that he had been sleeping peacefully while Pandora was one watch-keeper down. Fraiser should have the deck now, allowing Caulfield to go below and finally rest. Banks sipped at his coffee; it would be far better to talk to the lieutenant here, in the cabin, besides he would sleep all the better with a good breakfast inside him.

  “Pass the word for the second - for Mr Caulfield, if you please, and lay an extra place.” Dupont nodded and wafted from the cabin.

  The lieutenant arrived simultaneously with a covered plate of devilled kidneys, and accepted Bank’s invitation to join him. They ate guardedly and in silence, each conscious of the novel situation, and the many events of the previous night that would have to be dealt with. In fact it was while Caulfield was spreading salted butter over toasted soft tack that Banks began to speak.

  “I’ll take inspection later this morning, although I have every confidence in what you have done. Before that I want at least two hours on the great guns. There’s nothing like an action to show the people what they should be about.”

  The lieutenant nodded; formality could not be upheld over buttered tommy.

  “Bosun reports we’ll be in full rig afore noon, sir.”

  “What speed are we making now?”

  “Six knots at the last call.” It was a fair pace for a ship under limited sail.

  “Very good, but we should make all haste.” Colpoys’ squadron could be barely over the horizon, or many miles away. It might even have ceased to exist, but whatever, Pandora was carrying vital information; every effort must be made to pass on the news of the French invasion fleet. Both had finished eating now and Banks paused, a little self-consciously, before continuing.

  “There is still one matter we must address; something that, I will confess, is beyond my experience.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  Their eyes met and Banks very nearly smiled, although heaven alone knew the situation did not merit humour.

  “Indeed; the loss of the first lieutenant.” He paused for several seconds; Caulfield’s face remained totally impassive. “Tell me,” Banks continued, “just how did Mr Pigot die?”

  *****

  Banks was right - the exercise with the great guns took on a far greater importance. Freed from the tyranny of an overbearing number one, and yet deeply conscious of the disgrace they had brought upon themselves, the gun crews fell to work with a will never known in Pandora before. Watched by the boatswain’s party aloft, and the carpenter, his mates, and any idlers not involved in repairing damage below, the heavy guns were run back and forth, with the straining servers and tacklemen giving everything they had and still more. The early morning sun lingered, and the men’s backs were wet with sweat when King blew the silver whistle that marked the end of the exercise.

  “Secure your pieces and stand down.” Once more the trucks rumbled along the deck, this time to be trussed up soundly. King descended to the cockpit. The berth was already half full; Lewis sat at the table with a needle and thread darning his better woollen waistcoat that had been torn in the action, while Manning was reading up on common ailments. He hoped to have his position as surgeon’s mate confirmed at the end of the commission, and was already researching the many subjects he might be tested upon when he finally stood in front of his betters at Surgeon’s Hall. His current subject was syphilis, the mysteries of which were fast turning him into a confirmed bachelor.

  Lewis looked up as he entered. “Good exercise, Thomas?”

  “Aye, the men did well.”

  “Trying to make up for last night?” Manning asked.

  King eyed him uncertainly. “How do you mean?”

  “The balls-up they made of those broadsides.” There was no malice in the words and the surgeon’s mate stayed with his book.

  “I seen an Indiaman filled with monkeys do better,” added Lewis.

  King pursed his lips. “Well we won’t be needing your apes, not if this morning is anything to go by.”

  “Improvement?”

  He nodded. “You wouldn’t credit they were the same men.” He looked about; Collins had returned his possessions to his locker, although he noted that his pistol case was not properly closed. On impulse he opened the other clasp and looked inside. The ebony butt glowed in the half-light, and the maker’s name “Whitehern of Abingdon” stood out on the side of the lock. A mark on the barrel caught his eye and he picked the pistol up, examining it carefully. The pan was heavy with soot and there was an unmistakable scent that could only mean that the thing had been fired. He dropped the gun back into its box, almost frightened to hold it. The other two were taking no notice of him, and for a moment he wondered if he should tell them what he had found. He thought back over the events of last night. Both cockpits had been cleared during the action. Despite the fact that the deck housed no guns, space was needed to tend the wounded, and everything would have been bundled into the storeroom forward.

  King looked at his locker; his other possessions appeared in order, in fact were it not for the mark on the gun and the faint aroma he would have said nothing had been touched. He wondered over the likelihood of someone taking a pistol before going in to action. It could not be mere personal protection; pistols, muskets, cutlasses, pikes - even tomahawks were on hand for those who felt the need of them. And however accurate his piece may be, the charge and calibre were too small for the rigours of shipboard fighting. His mind wandered, and a chill began to gr
ow inside him. All of the ready use weapons were heavy, clumsy affairs. They were also stored in open view, although under the scrutiny of a warrant officer. He suddenly became aware of Manning’s eyes on him, and snapped the box shut.

  “Hiding your guilty secrets?” Manning enquired.

  King forced a grin. “Any secrets I had wouldn’t be kept in here,” he said.

  There was a tap on the deal bulkhead and Collins appeared at the door.

  “Captain’s sendin’ for you, Mr King.”

  “The captain?” King looked blankly at Manning.

  “Yes, nice man with a big hat, you must remember.”

  “All right, but what does he want with me?”

  “One way to find out.” Lewis grinned at Manning and went back to his darning as King hurried from the cockpit.

  *****

  The mood of the ship had lifted after the successful gun exercise, and improved still further with dinner. To date this had been a solemn meal with only the rum issue and hot food to lighten stilted conversations that were carried out sotto-voce across the mess tables. Now there was a far more healthy murmuring and several times actual laughter could be heard above the clatter of pewter plates and wooden platters. Flint took a pull at his beer and grinned at Jameson.

  “Aye, were a perfect mash, but at least some good come of it.”

  “You mean Pigot?” Lawlor asked unnecessarily. “Ask me, the Frogs did our work for us.”

  “Our work?” It was not unusual for Jameson to find the conversation race ahead of him.

  “That’s right, Matt,” Flint said, pointing at Lawlor. “We got a right firebrand here; Lawlor was all set to finish Mr Pigot off by the next watch, ain’t that the truth, Sam?”

  “Stranger ’as ’appened,” Dobson cut in, his eyes hardly moving from the table. “Seen it afore, seen it many times; fallin’ top hamper, rollin’ ball, trippin’ over a combing. T’aint too ’ard to lose a man, if the people is willin’.”

  There was a brief silence as each considered this. Flint himself had known of one instance when a young and well-connected midshipman had made a living hell for every man in his division. It had taken nothing more than fifteen seconds’ work to send him over the side during a moonless graveyard watch. Two men did it while five kept watch; every man in the division knew the details, and the entire ship was in complete agreement, but for all the fuss the lad’s family raised, the court of enquiry could do nothing. No one said a word, no one was any the wiser, and the death was finally put down to shipboard accident.

  “So, Lawlor would have taken care of Mr Pigot?” Bennet asked, the pieces finally falling into place. Bennet had joined the ship as a landsman and only now was starting to find his voice.

  “More’n likes,” Lawlor nodded complacently. “That, or he’d a been exchanged first opportunity.”

  “Exchanged...” Dobson said, wistfully. “What in Hades d’you reckon we’d have got in exchange for Pigot?”

  “You can see the proclamation,” Carter bashed his tankard down. “‘Bastard wanted, in swap for same’.”

  Those within hearing laughed easily and it was a good sound. It was the laughter of comfortable men, laughter that would have pleased any officer unaware of its cause. But Wright said nothing, his eyes remaining fixed on the tabletop.

  “Anyways, we ain’t got a worry.” Flint looked about for the currant duff that had been promised. “Pigot is gone, and we can get to being a proper ship.”

  “Thanks to the French,” Jameson reminded him.

  “Aye, thanks to the French,” Flint agreed.

  “God bless ’em...” Wright added. His voice was strangely hard, although his eyes remained fixed and distant.

  *****

  All vital work was completed before sunset, and with the information about the invasion fleet still burning inside him, Banks spared no thought for men or fabric. It could well be that Colpoys’ squadron had been destroyed by the French; at that very moment they might be heading for a collection of mastless hulks or worse. But as she made sail and set her stem to intercept, Pandora moved with true purpose for the first time in her short life. Cutting through the grey seas with the dash expected of a light frigate, the icy winter air cleansed the memories of Pigot and the dismal action from her timbers, and she truly began to live in the minds of the men.

  From that day onward a new air of enthusiasm appeared, and grew with each passing hour. There was no more shirking of responsibilities; men became eager for challenges, and competed with each other in simple tasks. The exercise with the great guns was followed by another with small arms, this under the joint direction of Martin, the lieutenant of marines, who was well versed in the gentlemanly art of swordsmanship, and Williams, the gunner, who had been on more than one boarding party and knew the value of a well placed boot. Skylarking was seen for the first time, and more than one mess evening ended with the men drawing together to bellow out the “coalbox” of Spanish Ladies or whatever popular song had taken their fancy.

  The change in atmosphere had a more tangible side as well; hammocks were packed neatly in the nettings, mess tables swept clean, and the men themselves took on a smarter appearance, their pigtails being properly dressed by tie-mates, and the ship’s barber called upon other than on a Sunday. Throughout his time, all Pigot’s bullying and intimidating ways had failed to raise the decks to anything like the expected splendour, and yet now, with little encouragement and certainly no coercion, the strakes shone bright and white as newly laid paper.

  And it was on that very deck that Pigot’s body was laid later that morning. Packed in his closed cot, with two round shot at his feet, it was alone; although several were likely to follow, no one, bar him, had actually died in the action. As the captain read the burial service over his late second in command, he was conscious that the solitary body only brought attention to his death, and invited speculation as to how he had died. It would have been far better for Pigot to have been amongst several of his shipmates, he thought, then instantly recoiled at the image, and the wish that had been part of it.

  “We therefore commit his body to the deep.” The cot slid from the grating lifted suitably enough by Guppy, probably the only friend or ally Pigot had known. As the body hit the water the captain came to the end of the service.

  “On hats!” Caulfield’s voice sounded relieved; indeed every man turned away from the scene eagerly, some pleased to see the end of a particularly nasty individual, others simply comforted by the fact that another funeral had been completed and, once again, it had not been their turn.

  *****

  Later the great cabin had an air of formality as the officers entered. Banks rose to meet them, but there was no smile on his face, and he indicated the waiting chairs with a silent wave. Caulfield seated himself carefully. He had known that this would be a difficult meeting, and was now uncomfortably aware of a prickling of sweat beneath his shirt, despite the damp winter air that whistled through the shattered stern windows. To his right, the surgeon, Stuart, balanced awkwardly on his chair. He too had been expecting an uncomfortable time, and had taken measures to see that he was properly relaxed. Rather too many measures, if Caulfield was any judge. Fraiser entered last, and sat down without a word, fingering his collar and stock nervously in the silence.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. I trust this will not take us very long.” As Banks spoke he managed to hold each with his eye long enough to give the impression he spoke to them, and them alone. “We are all aware of the regrettable death of Mr Pigot, and I think no one can be ignorant of the manner in which he died. Mr Stuart, perhaps you would like to elaborate?”

  Stuart moved awkwardly on his chair. “Shot in the ’ead, sir,” he remarked thickly. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, flattened piece of metal. “My assistant removed this from ’is skull during the forenoon.” He passed the lead ball to Caulfield who took it reluctantly. It was small and light, unusually so. Much less than half the weight of a musk
et ball, and far smaller than grape or canister shot. He passed it on to Fraiser, who seemed equally unwilling to take it.

  “Small arms bullet, probably from a private piece,” Fraiser said, turning the shot over in his hand. “A pot house pistol, minimal power, limited range, and probably inaccurate. Certainly not from the enemy; we weren’t anywhere close enough for a ball like that to reach us.”

  “Pardon me, Mr Fraiser, but do you detect any marks?”

  Fraiser looked again. Sure enough there were a series of thin but regular lines on the rounded side of the ball. “Yes, sir. Yes, you’re correct. There are rifling marks.”

  “Exactly. Which means a slightly different matter. No cheap pistol has rifling, this is a more sophisticated piece.” He paused, with just a hint of theatrics. “But the main point is, whoever shot Mr Pigot was not a Frenchman.”

  The implications were vast.

  “I was not unaware of Mr Pigot’s unpopularity.” Banks accepted the bullet back from Fraiser and placed it on the table where they could all see it. “And I am also sensible to the ways in which a disliked officer may be dealt with. However, we are in the very early days of our commission. There can be no excuse, no reason good enough for a man to die barely days after leaving port.”

  In the silence each officer nodded. They were well aware of their tenuous hold on authority. Mutiny and insurrection were not uncommon in British warships, and Pigot’s death would serve as a positive indication of the power that the men of the lower deck held.

  “Naturally I will have to present a full report as soon as we reach Admiral Jervis; until then I wish for you all to be particularly alert for any murmuring amongst the people. Any chance word must be reported to you, and subsequently to me. If it comes to it I would rather see a dozen innocent men in irons than run any risk of mutiny.”

  Once more the three officers nodded, and Caulfield felt the tension ease slightly. The matter had been dealt with, and they were going to move on, although there remained a nagging doubt inside him. There was something that did not fit, something that he knew, or had known, something that he should be recalling now, although for the life of him he could not think of it.