Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  A man, bareheaded and with a skin that would not have looked out of place on a tortoise, approached them. “What is your pleasure, gentlemen?” His smile was functional, and it was not the welcome the sailors expected and craved.

  “Wine: your best.” Bennet spoke. He still had his bounty money - two guineas for a landsman - in his pocket, and was determined to show his messmates that he was a man who knew how to enjoy himself.

  “Very good,” he paused, eyeing each man professionally. “Perhaps you would like some company?”

  All eyes turned to Flint, of the group the most experienced, and the one who had first proposed this highly unofficial outing.

  “We will see them,” he said. The man nodded, and clicked his short dark fingers. Three young girls, one still yawning, were soon presented to the men. Flint nodded, it was better that he had expected and soon the women were sitting at their table and drinking their wine as if they were the old friends that the sailors had so much wanted. The women laughed at one of Bennet’s jokes and the men began to feel warm inside. They might cry out for the touch of female flesh, and afterwards brag about their wild conquests ashore, but this was as much in every man’s mind as any lustful encounter: The company of women, the flash of their eyes; the fact that they recognised their sexuality, and treated them as men; this was the real pleasure of shore leave.

  *****

  Pandora had been secured to a jetty that ran from the end of the new mole. With most of her stores removed or shifted toward the stern, her bow had been raised by several strakes and the lack of jib boom, removed to repair the bowsprit, added to her vaguely alarming aspect. Everit, assisted by his own men and a team from the shipwright’s office, had rigged a platform about the damage to her bow, and was currently engaged in removing the half-timbers. Banks stood with Caulfield and Fraiser, who had just returned from the master shipwright’s office.

  “There’s no problem with timber, they’ve quite a bit laid by, and we could do the job with our own spare if called to.” Caulfield was feeling slightly disorientated, a symptom not unknown to him when first standing on solid ground after a spell at sea. “And they’re all right for spars and cordage, there’s two that would serve for the jib boom, and they could even find a fresh bowsprit if needs be.”

  Banks remained silent. He would prefer it if the bowsprit could be left alone, if only for the time that would be taken replacing it.

  “Main problem seems to be manpower. They’re very short at present. The dear knows how they’re going to deal with Aiguille.”

  With topmasts and spars down the prize was moored about three hundred yards away. Following the most basic repairs to her hull she had been washed out and buoyed. An awning was now rigged over her quarterdeck, and she was fast acquiring the look of a hulk. The prize court would be meeting at the end of the week. In theory it should take little consideration of her outward appearance, although Banks doubted that any committee that comprised of as many tradesmen as naval officers could be persuaded to see beyond her seemingly decrepit looks and pay top dollar for the ship. It was of little concern to him, although he knew from experience that his men would serve that much more willingly with money, or even the memory of it, in their pockets. Thinking of the prize court naturally led him on to the court of enquiry, due to meet the following Monday. He had written his own report and seen those submitted by his juniors and was well aware that no solid conclusion could be drawn from them.

  “We can do much of the work ourselves of course; I’ve already started the bosun on a full inventory.” Caulfield was still reporting on the ship, unaware of his captain’s lack of attention.

  “Very good, make it so,” he said, briskly. “Work tide and tide if you have to, but we need Pandora ready for sea without delay. Oh, and ask Martin to rig a piquet line forward of the jetty. No man to pass beyond without written instructions from an officer.” He had already noted a group of interested women on the quay. Unless something was done there would be liquor on board within the hour and by nightfall those of the crew who weren’t drunk would have run. Pandora’s marines might not stop all the crew from leaving, but at least they would act as a deterrent.

  Caulfield touched his hat automatically. “Three have gone abroad already, sir. Bosun sent them to collect some cordage, and they’ve not come back.”

  “Runners?”

  “No, sir. Good men, we’ll see them back by nightfall, and I’ll make sure they don’t get another chance.”

  “Very good.” For three men to wander was hardly surprising considering the pleasures that lay barely feet away from them.

  A thought occurred to Banks. “Better tell the men that shore leave will be granted to any department that finish their tasks before we are fully ready to sail.” That was hard on the carpenter’s crew, who would have the most to do, but he knew of no greater encouragement for men to work than the chance to be let out on a foreign shore afterwards. “And Mr Caulfield, you may also inform them that I will personally advance the prize money if Aiguille is condemned at a reasonable rate.”

  Caulfield grinned, suddenly aware of an unforeseen advantage in having a wealthy captain. “They’ll appreciate that, sir.”

  Money in their pockets was also a requirement of any Jack ashore; now he could do no more in the way of motivation. “I have to call on the governor at noon.” Banks took a final look at his ship. “I don’t expect to be back before four, see what can be achieved in that time.”

  Both men touched their hats, and Banks broke away, walking, uncertainly at first, along the firm wooden decking and on to the rough stone road.

  Gibraltar was as he had remembered, and he loved her for it. The warmth of the Mediterranean sun reflected from the stone, whitewashed houses, opening up the windows and bringing forth a mixture of cooking smells ranging from boiled British mutton through simple paella to even more exotic cuisine. A short haired dog appeared to walk with him a while, before darting off without warning when something else took his fancy, and an unknown lieutenant saluted him in a casual, almost friendly manner, that would certainly not be approved of in any home port. It was an hour before his appointment and there were a number of calls he should make: to his agent and banker for one. But Banks felt in no need to hurry, he was enjoying being free of the ship, if only for a short time. He turned off the main street on impulse, and began to climb one of the many narrow lanes that led into the residential side of the town. It was quieter here, and more in keeping with his frame of mind. Soon there were no other naval personnel in sight, and the few English faces he did see belonged to local workmen. He walked on until the open doorway of a coffee house beckoned, and once inside he was grateful as much for the gentle darkness as the cooler, slightly scented, air. A girl with jet-black hair that billowed over her shoulders, emphasising the vast expanse of bared chest that Banks found slightly shocking, smiled at him. His eyes adjusted to the light, adding ten years to her age.

  “Wine for you, captain?”

  Banks was wearing full dress uniform, although he suspected that all naval customers were addressed in this way.

  “Sherry, if you please.”

  “A bottle, yes?” She smiled professionally. There were many men of his acquaintance who would think nothing of downing a whole bottle of sherry before noon as an aperitif to more serious drinking, but the idea appalled him and he shook his head emphatically.

  “No, a glass, thank you.”

  He sat down at one of the wooden benches. There was no one else in the room, apart from the woman who seemed intent on revealing as much of herself to him as was possible while uncorking a bottle and filling a glass.

  “You like a room, yes?” she murmured, placing his drink in front of him and pressing her bare arm against his shoulder. Once more he shook his head. The last thing he needed was the company of women; despite any other complication the risk of gleet or pox, together with their foul cures, was cause enough to turn the woman away. The hands had a good saying for it: on
e night with Venus and six with Mercury; not for him, not on such a casual basis. “Maybe later, eh?” She regarded him with a mixture of disappointment and contempt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin. She took it without a word, and left.

  It was the beginning of February. With luck he would see Pandora repaired and at sea by the middle of the month. That was assuming the court of enquiry presented no problems. He took a sip of his drink as the consequences of a bad result followed by a worse court martial presented themselves. The sherry was pleasantly cold, and the strong flavour was enough to put his thoughts onto a safer track. Jervis had been adamant that he expected the Spanish to sail from Carthagena before then and rumours were rife of French fleets already at sea; some said a squadron was even now coming down from Toulon. This spring was bound to see a major fleet action somewhere on the Atlantic and with the Dutch making aggressive noises they would be lucky to avoid another major confrontation on the North Sea. Either, if poorly handled, could mean the end of the British Navy’s dominance and when that had gone there would be nothing to stop a full-scale invasion.

  France was certainly ready for it and was even practiced in the art. In addition she now possessed the leaders - Bonaparte, for one; so recently successful in his Italian campaign, who could carry it off.

  The drink had restored his previous feeling of well-being, and he finished the glass. The woman had gone; perhaps he had insulted her in some way. He cleared his throat and heard movement from the room behind. Certainly this was not the time to be in port; ships like Pandora were in short supply and likely to be extremely busy. He looked at his watch, still more than half an hour until he was due to meet with the governor; enough time for another sherry. The noise had stopped now, but the woman had yet to appear. Maybe it would be better to find somewhere else, somewhere a little more popular, where they would pay the right sort of attention to their customers. He stood up, dragging the bench back noisily with his knees. There was still no reaction, so he walked out of the room and into the sunlight. It took him a second or two to adjust to his surroundings; he must have walked further than he had thought; the lane was deserted, and the houses seemed far meaner than he had remembered. Gibraltar held one advantage in that it was very hard to get lost. Small in area and usually well populated, the simple act of walking downhill was normally sufficient to find the harbour. Deciding against looking for further refreshment, Banks turned and began to retrace his steps, his mind still dwelling on his ship and the possibilities ahead. He hardly noticed the three men who came up the hill towards him.

  Well-built and carrying heavy staves, they appeared decidedly unsavoury. Banks had no intention of interfering with them and made to walk past. They had other ideas and silently blocked his path, holding their staves across their waists, their faces set in grim determination. Banks had been captain of a ship for too long, there had been no such confrontations for several years and he had to restrain the instinctive reaction to bellow an order at the men. Instead he turned and was mildly surprised to find two more of the same behind him. He looked about in desperation but, as if by arrangement, the street was otherwise empty.

  His hand went to the hilt of his sword; the men in front took a pace towards him, raising their staves to shoulder height. Banks had very little space to draw his weapon, and even then, surrounded as he was, there would be no room to wield it effectively. He could reach into his pocket and bring out his purse; it was well filled with gold sovereigns that might buy him the time or space to run. Certainly he could afford the expense, but the idea of running from a fight, however high the odds, went against his instincts.

  Movement from behind alerted him, and catching the sight of a shadow moving quickly made him dodge to one side, missing a blow aimed for his head that would have certainly knocked him senseless. He ducked down, and sprang forward, drawing his blade as he did, and hitting one in the face with the hilt. These were clearly desperate men, possibly deserters from the Navy or Army; how such men could survive on a small rock was a mystery. His sword was safely in his hand now, and he hedged his way to the side of the lane, feeling the smooth stone wall of a house at his back. The men grouped in front of him were clearly about to move in.

  “British officer!” he bellowed. Then, in desperation, “Pandora!”

  The ship was easily a mile away, and he himself had given orders forbidding shore leave. The men moved towards him uncertainly, then there came a shuffle from up the road. Banks shouted again, and was rewarded by the sight of three seamen thundering down the lane, their unaccustomed shoes clattering on the hard ground. The men turned also, although they made no movement to run, clearly confident of handling themselves in a scrap, possibly even relishing the prospect.

  The first seaman launched himself onto one of the thugs, knocking the larger man to the ground where he rolled into the gutter. His mate, a far younger lad, tried the same on another, but lacked the momentum. Instead the two locked together until the lad freed himself and landed a credible punch that knocked the stave from the man’s hand. Banks saw his opportunity and waded in, bringing the hilt of his sword down on one greasy head, before righting the blade, and holding it to the throat of a sallow man with bad teeth and a runny nose, who backed away as if drawn by a string. The man dropped his stave, and fell against the opposite wall, the blade still resting against his flesh.

  The third seaman had been hit and fell to the ground, with his assailant standing over him. One of his mates turned to help, but Banks got there first, swinging his blade, and catching the attacker across the forearm. The man screamed as a jet of blood shot out to show where the fine edge had cut deep into him. The stave fell to the ground and the man held his wound with his other hand, the blood bubbling up between his grubby fingers. Another turned to run when a seaman’s fist caught him on the jaw, sending him backwards and to the ground.

  Three of the attackers were now tumbling away down the hill, with the young lad roaring behind them. Another lay cold on the road, with the fifth moaning softly as he held his damaged arm. Banks bellowed for the lad to return. He looked back and caught the eye of the first seaman and grinned.

  “Thank you, Flint. Thank you very much indeed.”

  Flint nodded, and knuckled his forehead.

  Bennet, the third seaman, was looking slightly abashed, as was Jameson, returning up the hill and panting slightly, but Flint had all the calm authority of a ship’s corporal.

  “I expect your party was detailed ashore?” Banks asked, breathing heavily.

  “That’s right, sir.” Flint readily agreed. “Bosun sent us to order cordage. We heard you shouting, and thought there could be trouble. Difficult area, this. Not one I’d care to go to without company, and unless I was on official ship’s business,” he said with emphasis. “Place is nothing but pots houses and knocking shops.”

  Banks nodded and smiled. “I shall bear that in mind for the future, Flint. I assume you have completed your tasks ashore?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” The smell of alcohol was unmistakable.

  “Then you had better repair to the ship. If anyone asks about your absence, you may refer them to me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” There was no surprise in his voice, it was natural justice, the kind the lower deck understood and appreciated. “And what would you have us do with these two?”

  Banks considered the men; well built, and clearly willing to fight, providing the odds were on their side. “Present them to the first lieutenant with my compliments. Let them be read in, make sure they get a thorough scrape. I expect to see them both at Thursday’s muster.”

  “Very good, sir.” Flint reached down to the comatose assailant and swung him up; Bennet caught hold, and together they lugged his insensate body down the street. The second man stumbled himself upright after a kick from Jameson.

  Banks watched them go, then delved into his jacket pocket. It was ten minutes to twelve; if he didn’t move himself he would be late for his appointment with the g
overnor. He replaced the watch into his pocket, brushed his uniform down as best he could, and began to follow his men down the lane.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A captain had been appointed from the port admiral’s office. His name was Andrews, and he was a heavy, comfortable man of late middle age who wore a hard horsehair wig and took snuff. Banks greeted him at the starboard entry port after representatives of the ship’s company had paid their respects.

  “I regret having to put upon you, sir,” he said as he led the way to the great cabin.

  “Not at all, Sir Richard, not at all. I have no great pressing duties; since Liverpool was condemned there’s been precious little for an old dog like me. Besides…” he grew confidential and Banks caught the hint of morning sherry, “if my time here can have you and your saucy little ship back to sea the sooner, then it will be well spent.”

  Caulfield was introduced and together they stepped into the captain’s apartment, now swept clear of all personal furniture for the occasion. The coach was laid out like a waiting room, with mess benches placed in lines. Beyond that the dining table had been taken up and laid widthways in front of the stern windows.

  “It seemed better to request a president from outside the ship,” Banks continued as they took their seats. “I have no doubts about any of my men of course...” he paused, not knowing if he had said too much, but Andrews was an experienced officer, and understood entirely.

  “But a dispassionate eye is the more reliable,” he nodded. “Of course and, the dear prevent, should we need for a court martial, you’ll have another’s testimony to refer to.”

  Banks smiled; the captain was far more in touch than he appeared. Andrews sat down heavily and proceeded to bring out the numerous reports that had been assembled from the officers. These he lay before him in two neat piles. Banks and Caulfield, seated to either side of him, tried to define his criteria for division without success.