Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  “If we may just turn to the watch-keeping arrangements. Mr Caulfield, you will assume the position of first lieutenant.”

  There were few other statements that would have distracted him so successfully. His reply was brisk and automatic, although it was difficult to keep a smile from coming to his mouth as Caulfield absorbed the news. Fraiser looked his congratulations while his mind raced; a move to second in command was not likely to be overridden by a subsequent appointment, and he was now next in line for promotion to commander, should Pandora fare well in action.

  “I have already spoken with King; he has passed his board, and will be supporting you as acting lieutenant.”

  Doubly good for the lad, Caulfield thought, and a move he richly deserved. The feeling of well-being grew; maybe this would not be the disastrous commission he had anticipated. It should only be a formality for Jervis to confirm King’s promotion, and with such a popular and competent subordinate, Caulfield was reasonably certain of knocking the crew into shape. Then a chilling thought struck; one that took all the pleasure out of the recent news. It suddenly occurred to him that he was assuming, they were all assuming, that a lower deck hand had dealt with Pigot. The pistol bullet seemed to draw him like a magnet as he realized where he had seen just such a piece. No one had considered it might have been an officer. No one until now.

  *****

  Whatever doubts the captain may have had about the crew were totally unfounded. Mutiny could not have been further from any mind, and the improvements continued, until it was hard to remember the suspicious and frightened men who had so very recently made up the lower deck. The weather also changed; the wind rose and remained strong and constant, and Pandora began to make excellent progress, her dark tarred shrouds screaming as she ripped through the black Atlantic with a white crust of spray rising from her stem.

  They spotted one of Colpoys’ frigates on the morning of the third day; by noon they had closed with the squadron, and shortly after Pandora lay hove to as Banks clambered up the flagship’s steep tumblehome. Caulfield and King watched him go, conscious that the frigate’s battered appearance was attracting a fair amount of comment from the men of HMS London and the offshore squadron.

  “Admiral dines at three, reckon we won’t see him back before the first dog.”

  King nodded, it was a fair enough prediction, but the tooth that had been nagging him for the last few days was playing up again, and he could not get excited about an admiral’s dining habits.

  Martin, the lieutenant of marines, came over. “Sir John has his nephew, Griffith, as captain; the pair of them keep a fair table I hears.”

  Caulfield nodded. “Their premier’s Peter Bover; we served together as midshipmen. Rest of us always said he had worms, judging by the rate he ate; seems he’s found the ideal berth.”

  “Belike we could have ourselves a bit of a feast as well. What say you to one of the suckling pigs? We could have it killed, drawn and roasting in no time.”

  The thought of biting his way through heavy pigskin made King wince. Noticing this, Martin slapped him on the back and laughed.

  “Come on, none of that sissy ‘hide me in the cable tier stuff’ - you’re a lieutenant now. Get used to the company of gentlemen, and eating like one!” Martin chortled loudly, and went off in search of the cook.

  Caulfield grimaced. “There’s some that ain’t as gentlemanly as others,” he said, nodding towards the departing marine. “An’ some who wouldn’t deserve the name if it were tattooed upon their forehead.”

  Together they watched the men in the three-decker in silence for a moment, then Caulfield turned to him.

  “You have a pistol, I believe?” he asked. King sucked at his sore tooth, too distracted to note the change in tone. “Do you carry it with you?”

  “No.” King became aware of Caulfield’s words and their implications. “Why do you ask?”

  The older man was still looking at the flagship. “No reason, I just wondered if you could account for it during the action.”

  His collar had suddenly become tight, and King felt a warm flush sweep over his body. He knew his cheeks had grown red, and hoped that the chill air would be blamed.

  “It’s too small,” he said softly. “I only keep it for going ashore.”

  “But has it been fired on board this ship?” Caulfield asked, turning to him.

  King nodded. “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Aye, I thought as much.” Caulfield gave him a grim smile. “But better mind who you tells that to,” he said.

  *****

  Banks surprised them all; within an hour he had boarded his barge, and before he was half way back to Pandora, a line of signal flags had broken out from London.

  “Private, to the squadron,” Dorsey, the signal midshipman, reported. “They’re making sail, they’ll be a headin’ soon, no doubts,” he added, with an assured voice.

  “They’ll have to move some to catch the French,” Lewis commented.

  “If that’s what they’re about.” Fraiser looked meaningfully at the captain’s barge, now just approaching the larboard entry port, where Banks could board without ceremony. “Reckon it’ll be little of our concern whatever they do, Pandora’s not gonna make one iota of difference to this lot, or the Channel dodgers, an’ Jervis is crying his eyes out for frigates.

  “So it’s south to Gib, and sunshine?” Lewis asked him.

  “I would say so,” Fraiser nodded.

  “And blackstrap, and singing, and dark Spanish ladies,” he grinned at the master. “There’re worse ways of spendin’ a war.”

  *****

  It was the first time that Caulfield had taken his ’cello from its case since they had sailed. He did so now, a little guiltily, tightening the strings and bringing them gently up to pitch with a delicacy few would have credited him with. The bridge had slipped slightly, and the lieutenant gently eased it back into position, remembering the caution that the maker had given him over the tender oil varnish. Caulfield looked at the finish in dismay; what had once shone with a deep and full lustre was now saddened by a bloom of condensation. He took up his silk and rubbed at it to salve his conscience, before reaching for his bow and tightening the tortoiseshell frog. The ’cello had been an indulgence; similar in part to King’s pistol; it was the sort of thing a sailor bought when on shore and with money in his pocket. The lower deck equivalent would probably be a parrot, or a gaudy gold watch, although Caulfield had wanted a good ’cello ever since he had first started to play.

  This particular one had been bought from Hills, and had their distinctive fittings. The bow was also made by them and in addition to the tortoiseshell frog, was gold mounted with a fine logwood stick. He plucked a stray hair from the bow, and adjusted the A, which had fallen flat. Then, bringing the bow down onto the gut strings, he drew it across. The low, reverberating noise filled the officers’ store, a place he had chosen as being about as far as anyone can get from the rest of humanity in a Jackass frigate. He closed his eyes and played again, gradually carrying up the C major scale, on and on until he was pressing the very edge of the fingerboard. His vibrato was appalling, but that was hardly to be surprised at. He descended, passing through each of the strings, finally ending on a low and mournful open C. Then he began to play a piece he had learnt as a child. Simple, but fulfilling, his fingers readily fell into the well-remembered patterns, while his mind was free to wander over the events of the last few weeks.

  Caulfield usually regarded himself as a good judge of character. Certainly he had summed up Pigot in a trice, yet King had surprised him. He had every time for the lad, and honestly thought he would make an excellent officer, although that would all be for nothing now. There was bound to be a court of enquiry and, despite his own warnings to the boy, these matters had a way of coming out, especially in a ship as small as Pandora. The piece was ended now, and Caulfield began to play another, again from his youth, again from memory. One thing was quite certain - if
King was revealed as the murderer, he could expect little quarter. In a service that had seen an admiral executed on his own quarterdeck, there was small chance of a mere acting lieutenant avoiding the same fate. He stopped, mid phrase, and brought the bow down, before gently releasing the tension and replacing it, and his ’cello, in the case. His mood had changed, as moods do, and suddenly he had lost all desire for music.

  *****

  The tooth would wait no longer. King made his way to the sick bay assuring himself that whatever immediate pain there might be in pulling the thing, must be worth ending the prolonged agony of the last few days. There were four hammocks rigged for men recovering from wounds received in the recent action, and a cot secured to the deck held Powell, a topman with a head wound. A distracted groan came from one of the hammocks, and King recognised the voice of Carter, who had been badly wounded and wasn’t expected to make it. Stuart looked up from his counter as King entered. His face appeared flushed in the shaded lantern light, and King suspected he was already three parts inebriated.

  “A tooth you say? I’ve men dying about me, and you come botherin’ with a tooth?”

  King swallowed; he had little taste for arguing with a drunk, but the pain had now reached the stage when he would gladly resort to violence if it meant even temporary relief.

  “If you’ve no mind to pull it now, so be it. I’ll take a dose of laudanum, and be back to you in the morning.

  “Ah, so it’s my laudanum you’re after, is it?” Fresh colour now filled the man’s face, and he eyed King suspiciously. “Ach, talk to my assistant, he’ll do for you. Reckon there’s little he can muff in pulling a tooth.”

  King turned gratefully, and headed back towards the cockpit where Manning would be found. He would prefer to trust the tooth to the mate. Although young and relatively inexperienced, Manning inspired confidence, and was almost certain to be sober.

  He opened his mouth as wide as possible while Manning peered and poked about inside, his free hand holding a lantern above King’s head.

  “To the right you say?”

  King nodded, and tried to talk further, but Manning was blessed with large fingers that almost filled his mouth.

  “There’s two there that need ’tending to,” he said, finally removing his hand. “One looks like the tiger; care to have them both out and be done with it?”

  King shook his head. “Stick to the one that troubles.”

  Manning nodded wisely, “Aye, you could die tomorrow, and then there’d be a waste.”

  He reached for his brown leather bag and produced a small metal key with a wooden handle. It was about the size of a corkscrew, but in place of a spiral it had a straight metal bar with a recess, and a small fin to the end, not unlike the foresight of a gun barrel.

  “Just have another look about,” Manning said, deftly feeding the tool unnoticed into King’s mouth. The tooth was locked into the recess in the key, and twisted free of the gum in under a second, less time than it took King to feel a sudden stab of pain and grunt in surprise.

  “There’s the blighter!” It was big and appeared almost entirely black in the dim light of the cockpit. Manning looked up to where King was exploring his mouth with his tongue. “Better wash out with hot sea water for next few days. Gum’ll heal in no time.”

  King thanked him and left the cockpit. Since his promotion he had been allocated a cabin in the gunroom. He would be on duty in under an hour; there would just be time to get a steward to boil up some salt water. Stuart weaved into his path in the dim light. He had a stupid smile on his face and King guessed that now he was well into his cups.

  “Something I thought you might like to see, if you’ve a moment,” he said, raising a beckoning finger. Unwillingly King found himself following the man as he swayed along towards his small cabin. Once inside he fumbled with the lamp for several seconds, before turning back to King with a look of smug triumph on his face.

  “I have to take the watch shortly,” King said, his face still smarting from the extraction.

  “All in good time, all in good time.” Again that stupid smile and King felt anger replace his annoyance. Then Stuart reached under his locker and brought out a small package wrapped in canvas.

  “I thought you’d like to see this, knowing how fond you were of our late, lamented first lieutenant.” The surgeon’s voice was thick, and King watched as he began to unwrap the bundle.

  “Some folks gets upset, but we medical men, well, its jus’ the stuff we works with.”

  All memories of the tooth left him now, as the contents of the package became obvious. King tore his fascinated gaze away, and looked at Stuart’s face.

  “I’ll bottle it proper soon as I gets the chance, but it’ll never look the same preserved.” There was an evil pleasure in the surgeon’s expression that neither his drunken state, nor the poor light could disguise.

  “There, what you says to that?”

  King felt his body chill; reluctantly he switched his gaze from the surgeon to that of his package, and found he was looking straight into the bloodshot eyes of Pigot’s shattered head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pandora was heading south, but still the icy winter held her firmly in its grip. The weather deteriorated shortly after they left the inshore squadron and it had been slow progress, logging ninety, a-hundred-and-three, and eighty-nine miles on each subsequent day. But now the air cleared as the wind picked up, tightening her canvas as the ship gathered speed.

  Caulfield paced the quarterdeck as the dark night showed signs of giving way to gloomy dawn, and looked about. Apart from the fresh timber that had yet to be painted there was little visible sign that Pandora had seen action. Certainly the boatswain had set all to rights aloft, and even without reference to the traverse board, he could feel the ship bite into the black seas under the press of canvas. He turned to Dorsey, the midshipman of the watch.

  “Take a glass to the masthead and report.”

  Dawn; one of the few times a well run ship can be taken by surprise, and Caulfield was determined not to be caught napping during his first week as first lieutenant. When light broke at sea all manner of dangers might be uncovered; after twelve hours of relative security, they must be prepared for anything.

  The cry came from Lawlor at the masthead, well before the lad had reached the maintop, making him quicken his pace in an effort to join in bearing the news.

  “Deck there: sail in sight, fine on the starboard bow!”

  Caulfield’s pulse quickened. “What ship?”

  “Hard to tell, sir. She’s hull up an’ headin’ for us; ’bout four mile off. Look’s like a heavy frigate, maybe somat smaller.”

  The first lieutenant turned to send a boy for the captain just as Banks appeared on the quarterdeck.

  “Good morning, Mr Caulfield. We have company, I hear.”

  Caulfield touched his hat and tried to assume the captain’s air of nonchalance.

  “Much lighter than a liner, but well built,” Dorsey’s voice squeaked with excitement as it cut in. “Not flyin’ no colours, though she’s sailing trim enough, and showin’ a deep roach to the forecourse.”

  “A warship, sir!” Caulfield could not resist the comment; Banks barely grunted in acknowledgment. The light was still bad, although the strange vessel would be visible from the deck as soon as day properly arrived. Banks still seemed unconcerned; with a hand to his brow he was looking up at the yards, as if inspecting the boatswain’s work of the day before.

  “I can see just the one line of ports.” Dorsey again. Every man on board was listening to his words, and clearly the lad was relishing the rare power. “But she’s a big ’un, more’n forty for sure.”

  Almost any size of frigate would be larger than Pandora; it was plain bad luck to pick one of the heaviest of her class. Caulfield swallowed as he turned to the captain, expecting some form of action. He was not disappointed; Banks took three paces to the weather mizzen shrouds and reached up to the deadeyes. Swinging
himself out, he raced up the ratlines in true seaman fashion, the shrouds slipping through his hands as he climbed. Up, and out along the futtock shrouds under the mizzen top, before continuing up the topmast shrouds to the masthead. Fraiser made his appearance just as the captain reached the crosstrees, and was holding a glass to the sighting.

  “What’s afoot, Michael?” the master asked. Caulfield shook his head.

  “We got a heavy frigate before us.”

  “Colours?”

  “Not as yet.”

  Not as yet, although both were fully aware that there should be no lone British frigates in the area. The nearest would be one of Kingsmill’s squadron, probably Kangaroo, and she was stationed more than two hundred miles to the north.

  “Could be a scout from a convoy.”

  Caulfield nodded. “Aye, but whose?”

  Fraiser digested this for a moment. The likelihood that this was yet another of the invasion fleet was surely slight; they had travelled a good way since they had met the main body, a straggler would never have been so far adrift. He thought further; nothing was impossible, and the North Atlantic in winter was known for its contrary weather. Assuming the French had come from Brest, one or two ships may well have separated earlier on and then hit adverse winds. That being the case they would expect to find just such a ship heading north, almost exactly the heading of the sighting. In fact the more Fraiser considered, the more likely it was that they were facing yet another Ireland bound vessel.

  From the mizzen crosstrees the captain looked down and hailed.

  “Take in the forecourse, sharply now. Then slacken the foretopmast shrouds.”

  Caulfield stared up for several seconds while he considered what the captain had said before springing into life, repeating the order in a manner that was automatic.

  Working only under topsails and driver Pandora began to wallow as she lost way. All about the men began casting worried glances at the quarterdeck as the topmast was allowed to creak forward and slightly to one side.