by Alaric Bond
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By morning they were off Cape St Vincent, with clear weather and a steady wind that came across their starboard quarter, giving both ships five knots, a creditable speed considering Aiguille was still running under a jury rig. By noon they had less than two hundred miles to go, and King was starting to regret his invitation for dinner at three. He had met with Captain Llewelyn on two occasions, and liked him less each time. Despite the surname, he too was as English as roast beef and had all of the prim, indifference of his second in command. Pandora had sent a boat across that morning. Apparently Martin had left some vital piece of equipment on board, and prevailed upon Caulfield to retrieve it for him. King had been sorely tempted to use the opportunity to invite a few of his shipmates to dine. Surely Banks would have no objection to some of the junior officers, and perhaps even Fraiser or Caulfield joining him. Eventually he decided against it; he was not certain of the etiquette involved, and a written request was always more bald and unforgiving. Instead he arranged for Manning to help him share the burden of the two stiff necks; together they might get the whole thing over as painlessly as possible.
During their brief stay at Tagus a fresh spar had been obtained to stand for the mizzen. They had rigged a form of lateen sail on this, using a spare maintop yard from Pandora, which had allowed staysails to be set and for a more balanced rig in general. Now the ship sailed far more sweetly with barely a trace of gripe.
King looked back at Pandora two cables behind them. The officers had finished their noon sights and the quarterdeck was clearing, presumably they would be issuing spirits and serving dinner before long. His eyes flowed easily over the frigate, noting the extra work that had been carried out, and the newly set foretopsail. The ship still looked slightly ungainly with her foreshortened jib boom, but that would be set to rights at Gibraltar. Passing from the bowsprit, his eyes fell upon a figure standing, very much as before, at the beakhead. The pleasant feeling that came from being in un-accustomed sunshine left him, and he found himself looking more intently. It was the same man as before, a lieutenant; the white facings of the lapels were quite distinct, and definitely not Caulfield, the build was different. There had been no talk of another lieutenant being taken on. He looked closer, there was something in the man’s stance that did strike a chord, but he could not quite place him. The deck glass was in the binnacle, he could turn and collect it in a matter of seconds, but King had no intention of letting the vision slip away as before. He was standing quite still; the more King watched him, the more certain he was that he knew the man. A sound from forward made him start. The guards were being relieved at their posts; soon a contingent of Frenchmen would be brought up to stand for a while in the midday sun. He heard the bellow of Stafford as he berated some private, but still King watched the mysterious lieutenant, and still he remained motionless.
“Surgeon reports two fresh cases of the flux, sir.” Dorsey’s voice cut into his thoughts, forcing King to turn away and answer.
“Very good. Mr Manning has my permission to extend the sick bay, should he so desire.”
Their winter excursion had brought out a good deal of heavy colds and influenza amongst the French. To these had been added a more general gastric condition that appeared to have much to do with the preserved beef they carried. Manning was more than capable of looking after the patients while the sickness ran its course. He turned his attention back to the mysterious lieutenant and with little surprise noted that he had disappeared once more.
*****
“The last time I was at Gib was with the Benevolence, back in ninety-two.” Johnston was sitting back on his form after supper, and watching while Jameson, the current mess cook, collected up the platters. “We had a master at arms with us called Simms, rum looking blighter with a broken nose.”
“An’ a scar down one cheek?” Flint interrupted.
“Aye, that’s him,” Johnston nodded. “Came from ’ampshire, as I recall.” However large the Navy might grow it remained an intimate club and there were always shared acquaintances. “Anyways, he had this bird, big black thing it were, called it Jake. Used to follow him round the ship, made the first luff’s life a proper misery it did.”
The men were relaxing after dinner. The morning’s warmth had put them in an affable frame of mind. Those who messed to either side had noticed Johnston start a story, and were now silent in the hope it was one they hadn’t heard before, or elsewhere.
“After a while we in the barky took to it, rather as a mascot; one of the lads even taught it to speak a few words. Said its name, and a lot of rude things - it had a dreadful mind, that bird. Then it started shouting out the ‘all’s well’ at the turn of the glass, and copying the bosun’s mates when they calls… which were a mite confusing,” he added as an aside. The men round the mess table nodded in silence, true or false, they liked a tale and Johnston was known for them.
“Anyways, we were in Gib for seven week all told, and by the second week cap’ started grantin’ shore leave.” He turned to the boy, Billy. “They do more often, at Gib, ’cause there’s nowhere to run, see?” The boy nodded seriously, and Johnston continued.
“Anyways, the port admiral were a bit of a tartar, and it was down to him that we were there so long. We’d been out of England for nigh on two year, and what with being only a couple of weeks from home, well we were fairly pricked.” He paused to swallow from his blackjack, enjoying the moment as much as any of them.
“He kept dogs, the port admiral, and the one we all knew was called Henry. Bloody silly name for a dog, if you ask me, an’ a bloody silly dog too. He was small, but snappy like, the kind that used to nip at your ankles when you went about. ’Course, being the port admiral’s dog, there weren’t much you could do. One of our reefers took a kick at him once, and got into all sorts of trouble.
“So, this bird must have taken a disliking to Henry, for it took to picking on him. Kept flying overhead, just missing like, and the port admiral would get right upset; bellowing at his dog and swearing worse than the bird, he did. ’Course, he ’ad no idea who it belonged to and we thought it fine.”
Men at the next mess shuffled impatiently as Johnston opened his clasp knife and cut himself a chunk of Warwickshire cheese. Now that he had his audience he was in no great rush to finish the story.
“After a bit the bird got fed up and ’ad other ideas. He started calling the dog itself. True lifelike it were, just as if it were his master. Then one day he really got the grip. We ’ad liberty an’ was walking as a group along the quay, Simms with his bird flappin’ about, and we all looking forward to a bit of a cruise, when the bloody dog appears again.”
He took another bite of cheese, pleased with the attention he was being given.
“Straight’ways, Jake’s up an’ off, callin’ ‘Henry, Henry!’ Well, we falls about, I can tell you, and the dog went fair simple. Then the bird lands and calls out again. Soon as he sees it on the ground, the dog’s off and after him. Gets about a yard away an’ the bird takes off and flies a bit more. We watch this, laughing like. Then we realises what the bird’s up to.”
The sea of blank faces was extremely gratifying, and Johnston treated himself to yet more cheese.
“You see, he’s drawing the dog along the quay, landing everso often, calling his name, and taking off again. Afore we knows it, the bird’s at the edge and there’s the daft dog haring after it, all spit and grizzle. ’Course you can guess what happens.”
Some smiled appreciatively but the boy, Billy, shook his head. “No,” he said.
Johnston sighed. “Dog tries to get the bird, bird flies up, dog falls off the quay, and that’s the end of it.”
The men were laughing now, much the happier for hearing the end of the story.
“So what came of the dog?” the boy asked.
“Drowned, far as I can remember, sure as hell we weren’t gonna save him.”
“Yes, but what about the bird?” Billy again.
&nb
sp; “Bird weren’t no help,” Johnston told him. “See, it couldn’t swim.” Johnston’s voice was completely flat, although he began to rub at his face to hide his expression.
*****
Crowley had certainly done them proud; the great cabin was spotlessly clean, and positively shone with the reflected light from a dozen good wax candles that sat in heavy, squat silver candlesticks. A great white damask tablecloth spread over the main dining table, where places were neatly laid for every guest, with silver trivets set along the centre. Fresh number one sailcloth covered much of the splintered wood Everit had been unable to repair, and even the eighteen-pounders, also concealed and bedecked by strings of coloured signal flags, had lost much of their belligerent appearance. A rich smell of cooking hung in the warm air, and King would have felt in reasonable spirits, were it not for the prospect of sharing the next few hours with Captain Llewelyn, Lieutenants Stafford and Webb and three French officers.
A tap at the door heralded the arrival of Manning, looking strangely formal in a long black borrowed coat that was slightly too wide for his shoulders. King smiled at his discomfort, and drew a little consolation from the knowledge that the surgeon’s mate was equally against the afternoon’s entertainment.
“Are our guests assembling?” King asked. Manning nodded.
“Aye, the lobsters are in the coach laying siege to the brandy.”
“Brandy, at three?”
Manning grinned. “You’re starting to sound like Mr Fraiser.”
“Aye, but they haven’t eaten yet.”
“What of Lieutenant Fonquet?” The young man who had met King on boarding the ship was one of the few senior officers left from the French crew, Segond having died on the evening following the action.
“He’s there as well, along with the two French army officers; babbling away like monkeys, they were.”
King sighed again. “I suppose we’d better join them?”
Together they walked out of the great cabin and into the coach, the small outer room where the guests were assembling. Despite the language barrier everyone seemed to be talking at once; a heavy scent of spirit filled the air and it was hard to remember that so recently a bloody battle had been fought between what now appeared to be the best of friends. He caught sight of Dobson, the seaman he had found drunk the first evening. Now smartly dressed in some sort of red uniform coat, he held a large silver tray with two half-filled decanters, and was circulating amongst the officers with all the aplomb of a London butler.
“Ah, Mr King,” Webb boomed on seeing him, “hope you won’t be filling us up with any of those made meals; can’t stand that foreign rubbish.”
King made some neutral comment and passed on as fast as he could. Fonquet was standing alone; his face, clearly flushed, carried a slightly stupid smile.
“Captain, you have joined us at last!”
King gave a reserved smile in return, then drew back suddenly worried that the man might try to kiss him. “Are your quarters to your liking, Lieutenant?” he asked hurriedly, holding his hand up to Dobson who was pressing a full glass of brandy on him.
“My quarters?” the lieutenant mused. “Ah, you mean la fosse au cables: Yes, it is fine; we are all very, very warm together, thank you.” He gave King a brief smile. “And thank you for the trust you have shown to us. It is most…” He struggled for the word, and King found himself edging away towards Manning, who was talking to Captain Llewelyn.
Crowley appeared as if by magic, and announced the meal, allowing King to return to the great cabin. They entered in one loud, long, swaying line, each gasping in surprise at Crowley’s work before walking with single-minded assurance to the wrong chair.
King had decided against a grace, not wishing to offend the French who would doubtless be of some papist persuasion and Crowley, supported by the flushed and clumsy Dobson, appeared immediately with the first course of deep green pea soup.
Pea soup, although one of the few good dishes a ship could offer, was not one of King’s favourites, and he sipped at his with caution. This was no simple mixture of dried peas and brackish water however; Crowley had clearly done something special. Twice King found small gobbets of pork, and there was a mildly herbal flavour that was slightly tart, yet very appetizing.
The wine was flowing now; Crowley had put out nine bottles of some obscure claret that meant nothing to King and all appeared to have been opened simultaneously. King sipped at his, enjoying the subtle combination of flavours while the French army officers on either side leaned back in their chairs to make sure that every drop was safely deposited. For a second he caught Manning’s eye. The surgeon’s mate appeared to be making heavy weather of Fonquet’s conversation, and pulled a face at King.
Dobson staggered in under the weight of three geese that all but made their last flight onto King’s lap. Three more were deposited in front of Captain Llewelyn and both men stood to carve when Dorsey appeared at the cabin door.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. But the bosun’s having a problem with the foretop.”
“The foretop?” King looked about the assembled company, who had been surprised into silence by Dorsey’s arrival. Apart from Fonquet, who was currently smiling benignly at nothing, there wasn’t a seaman amongst them. He replaced the carving knife and fork with every sign of reluctance. “Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me, I’m afraid matters pertaining to the ship demand my attention.”
A series of disappointed groans followed, although most were addressed to the three geese that had yet to be carved. Manning was looking more concerned, and King shrugged. “It’s the foretop,” he said, and made for the door.
“Foretop?” Fonquet mouthed the word experimentally. “Hauberks de misaine? But there is nothing that could be so very wrong there, surely?”
Manning sighed. “No, I’m certain everything will be fine.”
“But the foretop?”
“It is something we say, in England. An expression, if you like. It means that someone has been prudent enough to arrange a diversion.”
Fonquet opened his mouth to ask more, but a plateful of roast goose was placed in front of him, and the matter dropped.
*****
Gibraltar was all they could have wished for; a safe haven for rest and repair under the imposing but oddly reassuring bulk of the rock, with shore batteries, a garrison and the British flag to shelter them. King was to return to Pandora as soon as the last of the prisoners had been transferred. Before he left he took a final tour about his command. Now almost emptied Aiguille was still showing signs of her recent battle, and without her countrymen it was as if she had reached the last stage of defeat. The tricolour had been lowered, and soon she would be passed over to British dockyard hands. The prize court normally met within the week, and everyone was quite certain that the Admiralty would buy her in. She might stay a month or two to be patched up, before making for England under a scratch crew. There she would be welcomed by an Admiralty short of heavy frigates, and detailed to a crown dockyard. Within a year she would emerge again, freshly set up and with a proud new flag flying from her gaff, to be set against those who had built her with only her name (which was rarely changed) left to betray her roots.
King walked slowly to the entry port. What dunnage he had taken was all back in Pandora, and now there was nothing to keep him. Four soldiers were drawing the charges from the two carronades, and a party of waisters from Pandora were starting to add fresh paint to what repairs had been effected, tarting up the prize to get the maximum return from the court. And Crowley was there, looking strangely alone on the larboard gangway, dressed in fresh slops and carrying a small canvas ditty bag.
“Shouldn’t you have gone with the others?” King asked. He had almost said prisoners but the word sounded insulting.
“That’s a question for future debate,” Crowley snorted. “Could be I’ll hate myself for it later, but I’ll be staying awhile.”
King raised an eyebrow. “Pledged yourself to the
King, have you?”
Crowley shook his head. “For the King, no.”
It was common enough to offer prisoners the chance to volunteer; the loyalty oath would only be required should they advance beyond junior warrant rank. In a navy that counted French and Spanish amongst its people, King supposed he should not be surprised; the man had made it clear he owed allegiance to no one.
“And you needn’t be thinking it’s you I’m following. I’d join up with the devil himself, if he gave me a suitable berth.”
But King already knew him well enough to be pleased. In the few days they had served together he had come to rely on Crowley, and the idea of him being incarcerated in a Mediterranean prison was appalling. “Right, we’d better be getting on then.” They both made towards the entry port as King continued. “I’ll see you rated able, that’s if you’ve a mind to serve in Pandora.”
“That’s my intention,” Crowley said seriously.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Certainly the future seemed far brighter with Crowley around. “I wouldn’t trust you anywhere else.”
*****
The pot house was towards the top of the rock and, even at this early hour, had customers.
“Well, we’ve been across most of Gibraltar,” Bennet grumbled. “I only hopes this place fits your tales.”
Flint shrugged. He was also tired; like most sailors he had little stamina for walking and secretly was rather disappointed with the tavern. The last time he had been on the rock it had been the focal point for all shore leave. It was run, as the best always were, by Spaniards and had the finest wine, the best entertainment and the cleanest women he had ever encountered. Now though, admittedly at an hour that most civilians would hardly recognise, the place seemed decidedly seedy. At the next table two sailors were fast asleep; their hands lying palm down by their heads, while across the room another group were staring stupidly at their full glasses as if uncertain as to their actual purpose. Two guitars lay unattended at the far end of the room, and next to the bar a parrot slept in its covered cage.
