by Alaric Bond
“You have come to accept our surrender?” he asked, his voice faint, but with an air of confidence. King assumed he was used to being obeyed.
“Yes, sir,” King said, automatically. “And to render what assistance we can.”
The man nodded. “That will be very welcome. I am afraid Le Captain de frégate Pahlen was killed early in the action. I am Lieutenant Segond; I was in command until one of your round shot did for me. I would offer you my sword, but I fear I cannot account for it.”
King nodded, almost apologetically. “It is of no matter, sir, I accept your word.”
“We will give you no trouble,” the officer continued, his voice now perceivably softer, “although I might not say the same for the soldiers.”
A man approached and for the first time King was pleased to see the bulk of Lieutenant Martin looming up behind him.
“You have all the marines aboard. Cap’n said I was useless on my own, so I’d better come across and help you.”
King was grateful, both for the brisk return to normality and the knowledge that he had a good number of disciplined fighting men with him.
“Would you see to the soldiers? There seem to be a fair number on board.”
Martin nodded, “I’ll take care of them. Meantime we’re promised a few more to help out as soon as they can be spared from Pandora.
The marine turned and left, striding past groups of wounded men as if they did not exist. King turned back to the lieutenant, who was closing his eyes once more, and seemed on the verge of sleep.
“I will request medical assistance immediately,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. The man opened his eyes again, and smiled faintly.
King drew himself away from the scene and made for the companionway. The novelty of being on a beaten enemy ship was fast disappearing and as he came up on deck again, he looked about for a familiar face amongst the many who watched him.
“You there, Dorsey. Has the surgeon arrived?”
“No, sir. Reckon he’d be needed back in Pandy.”
“Then send a message, ask for Mr Manning, or even a couple of loblolly boys.”
Dorsey touched his hat and reached for his block of paper.
A shout from aloft was followed by the clatter of falling top hamper that rained about them for several seconds.
“What the devil goes there?” King bellowed, staring up to the remains of the mizzen top.
“Sorry ’bout that, sir.” It was the voice of Thompson, one of the boatswain’s mates. “Bit of a mess up ’ere, an’ we was try’n to make some sense of it.”
King made towards the break of the quarterdeck; his movements were slow and laboured, as if he was wading through a deep river. There was so much to take in, so much to think about that he had to regulate his stunned mind to face each decision as it came. He looked down into the waist, ignoring the appealing cries from a wounded boy. Below the marines had formed up and were organising the French soldiers, watched by Dobson and Smith who had rigged one of the smaller carronades to bear down on them. Dobson was silently spinning a length of burning slow match, and there could be little doubt that he would use it, albeit at the risk of injuring the marines.
Dorsey was saying something and he had to concentrate hard to understand the words. “Beggin’ you pardon, sir. But shouldn’t we see to the hull?” Of course, they were bound to be taking in water; in fact there was even a chance the ship might sink beneath them.
“Take a party and sound the well,” he said, his voice disguising any sign that he had been remiss in his duties. “Are there any English speaking officers on board?”
Dorsey looked blank. “Not that I’ve noticed, sir.”
“I speak English.”
King looked round to see a young man of his own age dressed in the international uniform of a sailor, standing next to the fife rail. He was clean-shaven, and wore his dark hair cropped about his ears in the modern fashion.
“What’s your name?”
“Crowley.”
“You’re British?”
He shook his head. “Irish, if you please.”
King considered him for a moment; there would be time later to sort out the rights and wrongs of Crowley’s situation, at that moment he needed someone who spoke the language.”
“Very good, Crowley. If you give me your word to do right, I’ll see you well cared for.”
“I’ll do right by the men in this ship, you can be sure of that.”
King’s heightened senses detected an ambiguity in the remark; he took a quick breath. “This is not the time for Nationalist principles, Crowley. It is this ship, and the people in her that I am looking to save. If you will help, then so be it. If not, you may get back to the scuppers where you belong.” His voice betrayed the exasperation he felt, and he was somewhat surprised to see Crowley’s soft brown eyes twinkling into a smile.
“Then I’m your man,” he said, pausing for a second, and adding, “sir.”
*****
On board Pandora Banks was having problems of his own. The damage to the forecastle had not been confined to the masts. A shot had hit them just above the waterline and slightly to larboard of the stem, shattering several planks and opening up a sizeable hole. There were few worse places to take damage; the structure of the hull meant that access was difficult, and any repair would have to withstand the entire weight of the ship pressing against it and the water as she made forward progress. Banks stood on the lower deck with Caulfield and the carpenter, as they surveyed the damage.
“I’ve nailed two lead plates over the spot, and shored ’em up, best I can,” Everit explained in his usual slow drawl. He shook his head as he regarded the damage, and it was difficult to believe that he did not derive some mild pleasure from the situation.
Caulfield had been bruised by the shot that damaged his jacket; at the time he had felt no pain but now his arm ached terribly. “What about from outside?” he asked.
Everit shook his head again. “Tried all we can, young Griffin and Glass went over the side on a bosun’s line, but they couldn’t get a patch over the spot. Too near the stem, you see.”
“What about packing it with canvas?”
“They stuffed some oakum in the hole and sealed what they could, but it’ll not take a heavy sea.”
Banks had already received a message from King; the enemy frigate sailed without any spare spars; this was not surprising, considering the lack of supplies the French were enduring due to blockade, but it did mean that she would make slow progress under what was effectively foremast alone. The main had been weakened in two places, and could not be considered sound enough to carry canvas.
“So, little chance of us making a tow?” he asked, his tone completely neutral.
Everit shook his head. “Ask me I’d rather see us takin’ a tow than making one, sir. An’ that’d be stern first an’ in choice weather.”
“I see.” There was a moment’s pause as Banks exchanged glances with Caulfield, who was surprised to see a smile flicker across the captain’s face. “And what about transferring some of our spars to the Frenchman?”
“And let her tow us?” The obvious disgust in Everit’s voice broke his usual monotone.
“By my word, sir, I hadn’t thought of that!” Caulfield fought hard to control his voice, although Everit was too upset to be aware of any manipulation.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I don’t think it need come to that.” Everit’s depressed expression had become agitated now. “Reckon she’ll do as she is, if she’s treated gentle.”
Banks shook his head in a credible imitation of the carpenter’s previous attitude. “Can’t guarantee that, I’m afraid. Nearest port’s a good few leagues, and you know the Atlantic in winter as well as I do.”
“I’ll go an’ take a look me’self, sir,” Everit said with sudden determination. “Fair bet we can ’fect a repair, even if it means shippin’ some weight back temporarily, to raise the bow an’ give us room.” There was more than j
ust lower deck stubbornness speaking now, Everit was a standing officer; he had been present almost from the moment Pandora’s keel had been laid. Despite the fact that she had been at sea for so very short a time, the ship was clearly dear to him and the idea of her being pulled backwards through the water by what he would probably always consider an enemy ship disturbed him greatly.
Banks laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Ask the master for any help you need with altering our trim. The important thing, the only thing for you to worry about is making this bow watertight again.” Once more the smile returned, although this time it was open and more general. “We’ll leave the towing option ’till last, I assure you.”
*****
Manning appeared on board Aiguille two hours later, in which time King, assisted by Crowley, had set two teams of French prisoners to work the pumps, and routed out the carpenter and his mates to attend to the damaged stern.
“Pretty picture,” Manning commented dryly, looking about the shattered frigate. “Thought more’d be sorted, bearing in mind the time you’ve had.”
“Didn’t seem much point in starting early and cheating you of your share,” King replied in turn, but as he led the surgeon’s mate down to the horror that was the lower deck, all attempts at banter vanished.
“I’ll need some help,” Manning said, looking about at the misery that surrounded him. “Not skilled, but someone to sort things. Maybe a midshipman?”
“We’ve none of us with the language, but there’s one who has who’d give you a hand.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Irish, but sound. He’s been more than a help to me.” This was true; almost all that King had achieved was due in part to Crowley, and the support he had given.
Manning nodded, trying not to meet the eyes of the desperate men who all but covered the deck. “I’d take help from the devil himself on this one. Have they had no medic on board at all?”
“No physician, no surgeon, not even an apothecary. It seems they were to sail in convoy, and thought none necessary.”
Crowley joined them and the job of sorting out the patients into those who might survive, and those who could not, started. Several of the soldiers were impervious even to Crowley’s particular brand of French, but eventually some order was made, and Manning began work. He had no loblolly boy to assist, and it seemed completely natural for Crowley to help him. A succession of shouts from above told that the topmen were rigging fresh backstays. King told himself there were other things for him to do elsewhere, and with more than a twinge of guilt, left the deck in the hands of capable men.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The captain came on board at the beginning of the afternoon watch, and was met by King. With few words he allowed the younger man to lead him on a tour of the capture, noting the salient points and reckoning the likelihood of both ships reaching harbour once more.
The French frigate was still leaking badly, although the measures King had taken: setting both pumps into operation, stopping the accessible holes and fothering two sails beneath her hull to reduce those that could not be reached, meant that she could be kept afloat. Using French soldiers to man the pumps by rota also served to keep many of the disproportionate number of prisoners he had to attend to occupied.
Manning seemed to be coping well with the wounded, although there remained a large number of swollen canvas parcels awaiting burial on the gratings. Banks made a mental note to deal with these reasonably quickly; nothing could depress or upset a defeated enemy more than to have their dead left unattended. A swift sea burial would also put an end to any question of interring the bodies in their ballast, a vile French practice that Banks was determined not to have any truck with.
Aloft, the mess of rigging and top hamper had been sorted to a good degree. The foremast was now secure, and would take moderate sail, staysails could be rigged from the truncated but stable main, and it may even be possible to set some sort of canvas on the stump that was all that remained of the mizzen. Martin had organised his men into two watches, the second of which had just come off duty as the captain arrived and were now dozing on the small area of lower deck that had been allotted to them. Too tired to eat, or rig their hammocks, the marines huddled together in a way that reminded Banks of his father’s hounds at the end of a day’s sport. Watching them, Banks realised quite how tired he was himself. It was barely nine hours since he had been roused from his own cot, and yet the strain he had gone through since then was beginning to tell. He would have gladly found a comfortable spot to catnap, were such an unthinkable idea possible.
“You have done well, Mr King,” he said, when the inspection was over. “There is still much else to do, of course, and Pandora needs several hours yet before we can move, but I think we may be able to make sail afore nightfall.”
“Thank you, sir.” They paused while a group of waisters came past, their shoulders bent under the weight of a fresh foretopsail. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but where would we be heading?”
“Gibraltar,” Banks said simply.
“Of course, sir.”
“Admiral Jervis may well be there, either that or Tagus. We can look in there on the way.” Banks raised one ironic eyebrow. “And are you happy to stay in command here?”
That was a question. King looked about the stricken deck, noting the weakened rigging, the clank of the pumps and the groups of morose prisoners that greatly outnumbered their guard; happy was very much a relative word. A smile had replaced Banks’ look of enquiry, and King found himself grinning in return.
“I’d be greatly honoured, sir,” he said.
*****
In fact it was barely five hours later, although quite dark, when Pandora showed the white light at the main that was the signal to make sail. King ordered the acknowledgment; Smith at the fore showed one red light before being all but swamped by thirty of his fellows as they rushed past, eager for the novelty of setting foreign canvas. The ship gathered way, and King heard the rhythmic mutter from the jury rudder as she swung round to point vaguely in the direction of the Spanish coast some four hundred miles away. She was moving under an odd mixture of foretopsail, forecourse, and staysails; the wind was strong and steady, coming conveniently over her starboard quarter, and as Dorsey and another ran the log, King was reasonably pleased with the four-and-a-touch knots they reported.
Looking back, Pandora appeared far more normal, although the foreshortened bowsprit was out of proportion. King took a couple of paces up and down the quarterdeck. His men had been fed this last hour and were now distributing hard tack and water to the prisoners. Tomorrow they might experiment with the coppers to cook up something hot but before then there were several hours of darkness to endure. Three lanterns hung above the waist, giving the deck an eerie, flickering glow, while forward, at the forecastle, two marines stood next to the rockets that would be lit at the smallest sign of trouble. This agreed signal should bring Pandora bearing down on them, although King suspected that despite these measures the British ship would keep them under close supervision throughout the night.
The bell rang twice, the deep unfamiliar note jerking King from his daydream. He had eaten nothing all day other than some cheese and biscuit several hours ago, and was suddenly hungry. Dorsey was at the conn, with Broome acting as quartermaster. King took a quick look about the deck, decided that there was nothing that warranted his immediate attention, and hurried below to find supper.
He looked in at the captain’s quarters, but little had been done, other than to secure the four guns mounted there. He moved on down to the gunroom. Here there was order at least, the officer’s cabins had not been cleared for action, and the assortment of watch coats and discarded boots gave the place an air that was almost homely. A large table ran down the middle of the room; King made towards it, and was aware of a deep growling sound from beneath. He stopped, and glanced under the table to see Dobson fast asleep, a dark bottle clutched affectionately against his breast.
�
�Marine!” King bellowed, and shortly afterwards a shirt-sleeved corporal entered. King pointed at the sleeping man. “Get rid of that, if you please.”
The corporal clambered under the table and together with the two privates who soon joined him, dragged Dobson out and wrestled the bottle from him.
“Let him sleep it off, but see he reports to me at first light.” The corporal, still holding half of the sleeping Dobson, saluted awkwardly before reversing out of the gunroom.
Once he was properly alone King sat at the table with a faint feeling of anticlimax. His stomach craved food and drink, although he felt no inclination to move, and Dobson’s half-filled bottle held little attraction for him.
“Would you be wanting some victuals?”
Turning, he saw Crowley, the Irishman, standing at the doorway.
“I heard you shout,” he said, by way of explanation. “I wondered if you’d care for something to eat?”
King nodded. “I’d welcome it.”
Crowley disappeared without a word, returning less than a minute later with a heavily laden tray that he placed down on the table in front of him. It held a generous chunk of dark yellow cheese, together with some cold sausage and what looked like pickled cabbage. There was a long, dry loaf of bread, and a fresh bottle of red wine with the cork pulled.
“You prepared this for me?” King asked, his voice mildly tainted with suspicion.
Crowley smiled, “That I did, and it ain’t spiked.”
King considered him for a moment. Despite his apparent Nationalist stance the man had worked conscientiously at many tasks throughout the day. Apart from assisting Manning, and the numerous translations that had been called for, Crowley had been invaluable in dealing with the frosty French officers, as well as identifying key members of the crew like the carpenter and boatswain. His attitude had been constructive whenever it came to the good of the ship and the men in her, so much so that King had found it all too easy to trust the man far beyond the normal bounds expected between prisoner and captor.
