by Alaric Bond
King gazed back at Pandora, quiet now after her change of course. Her bow was visibly battered by the recent action, but a closer look told him that there was no serious damage, other than a patch close to the waterline that might take four or five days to repair on its own. The ship was bathed in the light sunshine and a slight mist rose up about her. Presumably her decks were drying following holy-stoning and swabbing, a ritual he had been unable to observe in Aiguille. Despite receiving further reinforcements from Pandora, his prize crew were still greatly outnumbered by the French. On the British quarterdeck he could see the vague form of the officer of the watch, impossible to identify from this distance, and a party of topmen were working on the mizzen crosstrees. Something caught his eye, and he glanced forward; a lieutenant was standing at the beakhead beyond and slightly below the forecastle. The customary white facing to the lapels were quite distinct; it could only be Caulfield, although the figure appeared taller. King raised his arm in greeting to no response; either the man could not make him out, or was lost in thought.
King turned back and retrieved the glass. There was something about the figure that bothered him. He opened the telescope and trained it on the ship. Now the figure had gone, there was no one on the beakhead. He swung the glass round; Caulfield was on the quarterdeck, dressed in his old watch coat. Fraiser stood next to him, presumably in conversation. He returned to the head in time to see two seamen appear to take their ease. He lowered the glass and stood for a moment, unsure exactly what he had seen. A line of dark parcels was running up to the main yardarm. Dorsey appeared next to him and King handed over the deck glass as the coloured bunting broke out.
The midshipman shouted the numbers aloud, and continued to repeat them to himself while flipping through the signal book. “Make all sail commensurate with the weather,” he said eventually. King nodded and looked forward. Banks was right; they could try a couple of staysails at least. He gave the order and watched as the freshly fed topmen raced aloft. The ship healed further as the wind filled the canvas, and there was a definite increase in speed. King looked back at Pandora who was in the process of setting her foretopgallant and main staysails. With this wind they would be off the coast of Portugal by night and presumably with Jervis, if he was at Tagus, within three days. It could not be fast enough for King, who was finding the strain of command a trifle wearisome. Already he had made a few stupid mistakes - giving a wrong order or forgetting something so obvious that he had had to be reminded by a hand. He glanced again at Pandora’s beakhead and drew a sigh. It was empty and appeared completely normal, as he would be once he returned to her, and his regular duties.
*****
His estimates were remarkably accurate; within three days they were rounding Cape de Roco and creeping into the harbour. Pandora had taken the lead as soon as the Cape was sighted and now King stood on the quarterdeck with little to do, other than follow in her wake. The sun was warm enough to make his jacket unnecessary, but he had no intention of seeing his command into port in shirtsleeves. He took a turn about the deck, and noticed Crowley standing at the rail, watching the coastline intently.
“Your first time in Portugal?” King asked him.
The Irishman shook his head and smiled gently. “No, I spent many years here, back in the late eighties.” He pointed at the large castellated building they were passing to larboard. “That’s the Castle of Belim, you’ll note the turret missing?”
King nodded.
“The work of Captain Payne, in the Artois nearly twenty years ago. The Portuguese don’t rush to set things right.”
“But we weren’t at war then, surely?”
“Near as made no difference. Your man came in the harbour, friendly like, and the Government threatened to sink his ship where she lay. Sent out a bunch of papist priests to anathematise him into the bargain.”
“And he didn’t take kindly to it?”
“Set off one of his great guns, so he did. Near took their precious castle to pieces. ’Course he said later he had supposed the gun drawn, but that was more for appearance.”
“What were you doing in Portugal?” King asked. Crowley had remained an enigma almost from the moment they had first met. Shipping with a French invasion force, King had naturally taken him for a Nationalist, yet there was little of the revolutionary energy he had noted in others of the cause.
“There for the good of my health, sir,” he answered with a smile.
“You’ve no loyalty to any country?”
“Only myself, and the people about me. I’ve no knowledge of politics, nor desire for it.”
King nodded, and met the Irishman’s smile.
A fleet of bean cods, light fast vessels with angular rigs, shot out from the nearby land and in between the two ships. Their crews waved and shouted at the men of Pandora as their craft altered course and closed until they were almost alongside her hull. Some took to holding up small trinkets and in one case a live pig. They seemed to be ignoring Aiguille, other than to grace her with disdainful looks and scowls.
Crowley laughed. “Your ensign might be proud, but it’s worrying the hell out of the Portuguese.”
King looked up to the mizzen lateen yard where the British flag was flying victoriously over the tricolour of France. “You mean they think we’re the enemy?” he said.
“Maybe, and maybe they’re just not taking any chances. But there’s no love for the French here, and I wouldn’t give tuppence for any of your prisoners if they get set ashore.”
Then they were round and looking deep into the harbour. King drew in a slow breath; it was vast, far bigger than any he had seen before. There were hundreds of ships, some of considerable size, at anchor. Many were British merchants, although a large convoy of Portuguese vessels was also grouped to one side. The entire harbour seemed to be alive with small shipping passing in between the anchored vessels, their bright sails making brief flashes of colour in the gentle sunshine, while the heavy, ancient stone buildings watched on from a distance like dutiful parents; any British port would appear small, mean and dingy by comparison.
A group of battleships could be seen anchored just off the bar. Dobson was at the main, and sang out as the anchored British fleet came into view.
I make it fourteen, sir, no, fifteen. Six are three-deckers; five have their t’gallants up, belike they’ve just arrived.”
“What of the flag?”
“Aye, sir. There’s a first-rate anchored to the east. Looks like Victory.”
King nodded. Though a trifle old, Victory was a superb sailer, and the ideal command for an active admiral like Jervis. From where he was he could see a rear admiral’s flag flying from the Royal George, a three-decker of 100 guns and less than ten years old. That must be Parker, late of the Channel Fleet. For him to be present meant Jervis had received reinforcements, and yet his command still only numbered fifteen line ships. It was possible that they had seen action already and sustained losses.
“There’s what looks like a merchant convoy at anchor further in,” Dobson droned on. “Topmasts up and ready to go.”
“Two-decker in the van,” Dorsey cut in. “She’s making the private signal, sir.”
“Very good… reply.”
It was up to Banks in Pandora to make his number and report Aiguille as a prize, but the private signal would at least persuade the anchored fleet that he was no danger to them. They crept further into the bay and all its shipping opened up to them as they went.
The dull report of gun fire rang out as Pandora began to salute the flag. King had worried over this point for some while; Aiguille was legally a prize, and as such not expected to observe the normal naval courtesies, although he was equally conscious that not doing so might cause offence. Eventually he had decided to remain silent, assuring himself that any firing of guns, when they were so overcrowded with prisoners, was to be avoided.
“Flag’s signalling, sir!” Dorsey was alert enough, his eye to the coloured flags that could just be mad
e out on Victory’s main.
“Pandora’s number, sir. Anchor three cables to west, send boat.”
The wind, which had been dying since they rounded the point, now became fitful and fluky. The foretopsail flapped and soon Aiguille began to drift with the tide as Pandora swept to starboard, under a more balanced rig of topsails and forecourse.
“Anchor in our lee, Mr King,” Caulfield’s voice boomed as the forecourse was gathered in. King waved back, and turned his attention to the forecastle where three hands were waiting to knock Aiguille’s starboard bower away.
“She’s takin’ in ’er tops’ls,” Dorsey reported and sure enough the frigate was coming to a gradual halt, almost exactly where the flag had ordered. King gauged the distance nervously, keen to give both ships room to swing, yet remain close to Pandora.
“Very good, Mr Dorsey,” he said. Aiguille spilled what remained of her wind and the anchor dropped. Momentum carried her the last remaining yards as the bower bit, and the cable ran out. Topmen swarmed up to take in her canvas, and she came to halt with a slight snub. On board Pandora men were rushing to launch the cutter, while Banks stood on the quarterdeck, resplendent in full dress uniform. He would be calling on the admiral, and have quite a story to tell. Watching him without envy, King exhaled a breath he felt had been held inside him for almost a week.
*****
“I’d like a word, if you please,” Nairn said, as Wright sat renewing the messenger cable. The seaman looked up from his splicing; even in a ship as small as Pandora there were some that you rarely came in contact with. Wright had to think twice before he placed the man, and then was reasonably sure he had never exchanged more than a greeting with the loblolly boy before.
“It was about your mate, Carter. I was with him when he died.”
“Aye, I remember.” Wright looked at him without expression. “You cared for him, I’m obliged.”
Nairn nodded. “Happy to, but there’s those who weren’t quite so concerned.”
Wright waited for the man to continue. Nairn sat down next to him, and carried on in a softer voice.
“Mr Stuart, the surgeon. He’s a bad lot, he is.”
The seaman nodded philosophically. “I’ve heard it said, but then I also heard it ’bout most sawbones.”
“Aye, but he’s a wrong ’un, and no mistakin’.” Nairn shuffled uneasily, conscious that what he said was tantamount to mutiny, and might even see him face the noose. “I’m not speakin’ for myself, but I wouldn’t want to be in no action with him to sew me up afterwards.”
Wright listened while Nairn detailed the care Stuart had been giving to his patients. Carter was one, but some of the others had fared no better. “So, what you think?” he said, when he had finished. “Reckoned you were the one to tell if any.”
“Me?” Wright snorted. “I’m no crusher.”
Nairn eyed him cautiously. “You know how to handle yourself, more important, you know how to put others in place.”
Again Wright held his peace.
“I saw you taking that pistol from the reefer’s berth. I saw you stick it in your belt, under your shirt, and I was there when they took the bullet from that bastard, Pigot. Weren’t no regulation gun that fired a pellet like that, were the kind officers carry.”
Still Wright remained silent, although his mind raced. As far as he had been aware no one knew that he had accounted for Pigot. There had been no planning as such; finding the gun had given him the spur: the weapon was ideal, small enough to conceal, and yet accurate. It had just been a question of waiting for the right moment. He had fired from the shelter of the empty galley, the flash had been minimal and all but hidden, and any sound went almost unnoticed in the heat of action. Returning the piece had been equally easy. Now though it looked like complications were appearing. Little though he knew him, Nairn did not appear to be the kind who indulged in blackmail; but then he could not be sure.
“I hear’d what you saying, and I’m not interested.” Wright spoke softly, although his voice carried a definite edge. “You tells who you likes, and what you likes, but Pigot was about as popular as the flux, and you’ll earn no friends by peaching on me.”
Nairn considered this for a moment. “Aye, I thought as much,” he said, finally. “Reckoned you wouldn’t mind me asking, though.”
“Don’t mind at all.” The tension had eased with the level of the men’s voices. Wright sat back and drew a sigh. “You can do something yourself of course; in your line of business there must be plenty of ways to sort Stuart out.”
“Aye, and that’s the truth.” Nairn got up to go but Wright stopped him.
“Best remember, though; as a surgeon he may not be up to much, but we won’t get another, and a bad one’s better than none at all.”
Nairn nodded and walked away. The ship’s bell rang; Wright would be off in half a glass. He returned to his splicing, content that a potential crisis had been avoided. Nairn was almost a stranger, but there was an understanding amongst seamen, and he knew there would be no further trouble from that quarter. He dug the fid of his knife into the fresh end of rope, and began teasing the separate strands free. Within minutes he was lost in his own world, dreaming of his other life, and the wife who would be waiting for him at the close of the cruise.
He had no mind for anything else as he worked, and Guppy, the master at arms, who had been standing in the lee of the mainmast, present, but unnoticed throughout, crept silently away, more than content with the knowledge he had gained.
*****
“Giving up your command so soon, Mr King?” The first lieutenant took the younger man by the hand and shook it warmly.
“Hardly. Thought I’d remind myself how a British ship appeared.”
Caulfield beamed, clearly pleased to see him. “You did well, we made good progress.” He opened his mouth to say more, then the moment passed. “Come below, and we’ll fix you up.”
Following Caulfield down to the gunroom King was surprised by how small Pandora appeared. After a week or so in the French ship her proportions seemed almost mean, while the scantlings and frames were ridiculously frail.
“Visitor for us, gentlemen.” Caulfield opened the door; the only occupants of the gunroom were Fraiser and Soames, the purser. King exchanged greetings with both, and sat down at the well-remembered long table.
“So come on, laddie, tell us all about it,” Fraiser urged him. “What have you been about?”
In fact King had had little time, and less opportunity, for conversation since he had last seen them, and had to pause for a moment to arrange his thoughts before he began. They listened in silence as he described the scene aboard the French ship, and nodded sympathetically when he mentioned the high number of casualties.
Fraiser shook his head. “Aye, it’s a barbaric thing we do, and no mistaking.”
“We had our fair share here too, of course,” Caulfield said. “Stuart’s never worked so hard in his life.”
“An’ that’s saying little,” Soames commented dryly. There was an awkward pause, and King felt obliged to continue his story. When he had finished, and taken a deep draught from the red wine that the steward had placed in front of him, he felt the tiredness inside begin to ebb slightly.
“No doubt you’ve been busy,” Caulfield said, sipping his own wine. “An’ I’d like to take a look at your man Crowley.”
“He’s sound, for an Irishman.” King felt a twinge of embarrassment, remembering that Caulfield’s mother was Irish. “I mean, for a man found in a French ship with possible Nationalist ideals, and...”
“I know what you mean.” The first lieutenant smiled. For a moment he considered switching the conversation to Pigot; there were a number of questions that had been burning inside him for the last week, but little would be gained in the present company. Instead King asked a question that had been very much on his mind.
“What happens now?”
Fraiser shook his head. “Cannot rightly say. We won’t be st
ayin’ here long, that’s for sure, Portuguese will give us harbour space, but we can’t expect more, not with Spain nudging at their shoulder every moment. They’ll want us gone as soon as feasible and, if my guess is correct, so will Jervis.”
“There’s a convoy waiting to sail,” Caulfield agreed. “And he’s not the type to waste time when the enemy’s at sea.”
“On to Gib, then?”
“Aye. Round St Vincent, then through the strait. Not got much for us there, but the master shipwright’s square enough, and we’re likely to pick up a few more men.”
“What about your lot?” Caulfield asked him. “Need some hands no doubt?”
“I’ll take any you can spare, and marines. We’ve several hundred French soldiers on board an’ most of them are pretty fagged with pumping.”
Both men nodded. “Captain will be aware of that. He’s with the admiral now. Probably give you a fresh draft from another ship. An’ I dare say we could find a few more topmen, now we’ve sorted most of the damage aloft.”
“How are your provisions?” Soames had an eager, but ingratiating look upon his bullfrog face and King felt himself stiffen. Their victuals were reasonably good, having been intended to keep the large crew plus several hundred soldiers alive for three months. He had plenty of the staples: beef, pork and bread, but more importantly an excellent supply of wine and spirits, along with tobacco, chocolate, tea, coffee and spices.
