by Alaric Bond
Davies, the captain’s secretary, seated himself at the far side of the table.
“Will your sailing master be joining us?” Andrews asked Banks rather pointedly.
“Yes, of course,” he raised his voice, “Send for Mr Fraiser, if you please.”
The call was repeated by the marine sentry, but Fraiser did not appear.
Banks shifted uneasily in his seat. This was a bad start, and he was surprised that Fraiser should let him down on such an occasion. Banks turned to Andrews and was about to apologise when the master made his entrance, obviously hurried, his face bright red, and jerking his coat into position as he came through the door. Still slightly breathless, he presented his apologies to the two captains sincerely enough, and Banks felt it would take very little effort on their part to get him to bow.
“Take a seat, man,” Andrews instructed, before picking up a sheet of paper he had brought with him, and reading in a firm stentorious voice, “Court of enquiry into the death of Lieutenant William Henry Pigot, being held on board His Majesty’s ship Pandora on this seventh day of February, 1797. Those present...” he looked pointedly at the secretary, hastily scribbling at the other end of the table, and received an acknowledgment.
“Gentlemen, I have read the testimonies submitted by the officers of Pandora, and propose to follow these up with interviews. But before I speak to any man individually I have a few general questions to ask.” He peered at his notes for a second, then continued in the same firm voice. “The first thing that concerns me is when Mr Pigot fell, and who attended to him.”
Caulfield cleared his throat. “Do you mean the surgeon, sir?”
“No, I have his report. Who actually went to his aid?”
“The nearest was a volunteer, a boy; Rose. He is acting as midshipman.”
“And the first officer?”
“That was Mr King. He was senior midshipman at the time, sir.” Caulfield said the words with care, wondering if Andrews was unusually astute; he certainly seemed to have gone straight to the point.
“So by that we can assume that Mr King and Mr Rose were the two most responsible men closest to Mr Pigot when he received the fatal shot?”
It seemed an obvious assumption, and yet no one felt inclined to agree.
Caulfield spoke: “If I might make an observation, sir.”
“Of course.”
“There were upwards of fifty men on that part of the deck during the action, any of which would have had a perfect opportunity...” He stumbled, his throat had gone very dry and he tried to clear it. “Any of which could have seen Mr Pigot fall.”
“So I understand.” Andrews nodded sagely, although Caulfield thought he caught a note of deeper significance in his voice.
“I observe that the action took place during darkness, and yet there is no report of the sight of a flash, and none of the hands will admit to knowing anything else of the incident, am I right?”
“That is correct, sir.”
Andrews sat back in his chair. “Gentlemen, I wonder if we might speak frankly for a moment?” He held up the palm of his hand to the secretary who, taking the hint, placed his pen on the table, sat back and folded his arms.
“I know very little of the late Lieutenant Pigot, our paths did not cross, and neither have any stories about him come my way. However, I do believe he has a brother?”
“Yes sir, a post captain. He has the Hermione.”
“That’s right, a frigate, currently in the West Indies, I believe. Captain Pigot has made rather a name for himself, and it is not the kind of reputation most officers seek.” Andrews was careful not to meet anyone’s eyes as he spoke, and Banks inwardly decided that despite his rather easy, self-indulgent appearance, the senior captain had a sharp mind and there was little wrong with his intuition either.
“I should also say that I do note a certain detachment in these reports.” He tapped the papers in front of him. “Some captains are favourites amongst the men, but there are very few first officers who are so fortunate. And it is against their duty to be so. However, if Mr Pigot was something of an exception in either way, I hope you would tell me.” He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew an ivory snuff box. “Unofficially, of course.”
There was silence as Andrews took his snuff, then he closed the box, and looked directly at Caulfield. “Your opinion of him, sir?”
Caulfield opened his mouth, but said nothing. It was not a situation he had prepared himself for, and he was quite at a loss.
“If I might interject?” Despite his late arrival Fraiser was more composed now, and as he began to speak his words fell with the solemn authority of a bishop.
“Mr Pigot was an unfortunate man. His manner was unnecessarily harsh, and he often spoke or acted more for his own gratification than the good of the service. In the short time he was in this ship the morale and efficiency of the people deteriorated to the extent that the junior officers were starting to report mutterings.”
Caulfield considered Fraiser. There was certainly something different about the man; he seemed charged with an inner energy; quite at odds with the slow, careful officer he was accustomed to.
“Pandora was a fresh ship sailing with a fresh crew, was she not?”
It was a good point. “Yes, sir.”
“And since the regrettable death of the first officer, how have things altered?”
“The ship has become more efficient by ten fold, sir. And the people far happier.”
Andrews smiled. “Tell me, Mr Fraiser. In your experience, is it not usual for there to be a fall in morale, and possibly general capabilities, when a ship leaves harbour on the first occasion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in the hands of competent officers, that poor state of affairs is usually corrected, as the humour of the men is gradually improved.”
“Indeed, sir.” He opened his mouth to say more, before closing it, and sitting back.
“Very good, I thank you for your comments, Mr Fraiser. Can I turn once more to you, Mr Caulfield?”
Caulfield cleared his throat again. “I… I have to agree with Mr Fraiser, sir. I observe how what I say may be regarded, but Mr Pigot was unusually vindictive in his actions.”
Andrews pursed his lips. “I see no record of excessive punishments in the log?”
“No, sir. There was little, official that is. His methods were of a more subtle nature. He had a way with the men...” Again he faltered.
“I think Mr Caulfield means Mr Pigot indulged in strange fancies,” Fraiser continued.
Andrews cleared his throat. “Did he have an unnatural liking? Certain ‘favourites’ perchance?”
“No, sir. Not in that way.”
“Then how, pray, was his behaviour strange?”
“His actions were irrational, his punishments cruel and deeply wounding. This was not an unfortunate affliction; it was one he determinedly developed. He enjoyed exercising his control, he enjoyed humiliating people.”
“You’re saying he was an evil bastard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I had guessed as much, but I do not see how that can affect the case in any way. If all the evil bastards were taken out, the British Navy would be much the smaller for it.” A ripple of awkward laughter played about the room. Andrews let it die before continuing. “Smaller, but, may I say, not better.” The silence that followed said more than the laughter that had preceded it.
“Sir Richard, we have yet to hear from you.”
Banks shuffled uneasily. This was a novel approach, asking officers to comment on their fellows and not one he totally approved of, although he did concede that Andrews was obtaining results.
“I had little time to get to know Mr Pigot of course, but I may say that we did have altercations. On the night of his death he was to discipline Mr King for reporting a sighting.”
“A sighting? Was it made in folly, or jest?”
“No, sir. He had correctly reported the French invasion
fleet. The log has it.”
“Yes, I recall. There was a heavy fog.”
For some time there had been the gentle hum of conversation from the coach, and now the noise grew suddenly louder. Andrews looked up sharply and shouted for silence in a surprisingly deep, harsh voice that also brought every man at the table to attention. The noise stopped at once and Andrews bowed slightly to Banks.
“Forgive me, Captain, I am not accustomed to being a guest in another’s ship. You were saying, about the incident in which Mr Pigot was to discipline Mr King?”
“At the time he was under the impression that Mr King’s sighting was false, and had needlessly taken Pandora from her proper course.”
“That would seem harsh,” Andrews mused. “Not normally a situation where punishment is required, although obviously we are viewing the incident with the benefit of hindsight.” He sat forward in his chair. “Mr King, his name has cropped up before?” Andrews felt for the reports, looking for King’s amongst them.
“He has recently been confirmed as lieutenant,” Caulfield said, a trifle hastily.
“Has he?” Andrews’ eyebrows rose. “So you might say that he benefited from Mr Pigot’s death?”
The fact had not occurred to any of them before. Andrews continued. “And wasn’t he the junior officer who attended to Mr Pigot; the one who would have been closest to him when he fell?”
“Yes,” Banks confirmed in a dry voice. “That was King.”
“And he was to be punished that night?” Andrews added in an undertone.
Caulfield felt the strength ebb from his body. He wanted to act, to say something of real significance. To proclaim Pigot for the animal he had been, and yet so far he had said little to help his friend, while Banks appeared determined to lead the young man to court martial and execution.
“Mr King would seem to be a principle in this matter.” Andrews’ manner had changed and was now very brisk and horribly businesslike. “In fact I am surprised that you gentlemen have not questioned him the sooner. May I suggest that we return to open court, and call him as a witness without delay?”
*****
King appeared wearing his old midshipman’s jacket with the white collar patches removed. There had been little time to commission a new uniform from a tailor in Gibraltar, and Caulfield’s build was far heavier, and totally excluded him as a lender. The gunroom servants had spent some time with a flat iron and brush trying to tempt what remaining nap the cloth held into order, but the result was not impressive, and as he stood in front of the group of officers he felt dowdy and unkempt.
“Please, take a seat, Mr King.” A chair was brought by one of the sentries. King sat down and heard the unmistakable whisper of good luck. He turned back and saw that the marine was Collins, one of the cockpit servants. Rather than encourage, the incident made him feel more flustered than ever.
“I understand that you have recently been made lieutenant?” Andrews was looking at him not unkindly.
“Yes, sir. Admiral Jervis was kind enough to grant my commission.”
“Then let me add my congratulations.”
King mumbled his thanks. Andrews’ eyes fell to the table for a second or two, and when he looked up again they held a very different light.
“Mr King, you were stationed on the main deck during the action in which Mr Pigot died?” Andrews’ voice was also far firmer, and King felt his pulse begin to race.
“Yes, sir.”
“And on seeing him fall you went to his aid. Did he say anything to you?”
“No, sir. No, Mr Pigot appeared to be dead, sir. His head had been hit...” The image of Stuart’s grisly specimen came suddenly to his mind. The head would still be on board, if any of them wanted to see it. The thought stayed with him, making him falter. He opened his mouth and closed it again, its job undone. Andrews raised an eyebrow.
“Mr King, have you been in action previously?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“I was in Vigilant.”
“Indeed?” Andrews raised one eyebrow. “A gallant action. What part did you take?”
“I was acting lieutenant, sir, in charge of the explosion vessel.”
“Very credible, Mr King. Clearly, then, you are used to the confusion of battle and, can I say, the debris it can produce.”
Banks leant forward. “Mr King was recently prize master of the Aiguille frigate, sir. We fought her until she struck; he took charge of the vessel. She had over four hundred soldiers in addition to her crew; a great many were casualties.”
Andrews nodded. “Thank you, Sir Richard. Again, I may say you appear a very capable young man, and clearly not one afraid to take control when the situation demands it. So tell me why, sir, why do you blanch when the subject of the death of Lieutenant Pigot is brought up?”
King hesitated. How much had already been said? Should he mention the head that Stuart still kept in spirits?
“The man was no friend to you, no friend to anyone aboard this ship as far as I can tell. Yet when I speak of him you stammer like a child.”
There was nothing he could say. Andrews reached forward and collected the small, distorted ball that sat on the table.
“Do you own a pistol that would shoot a ball of this size?”
Caulfield stirred awkwardly in his seat.
King looked at the ball. “Yes, sir.”
Andrews nodded. “And does your pistol have a rifled barrel?”
“Yes sir.”
Andrews dropped the ball onto the tabletop; it fell with a resounding report that echoed about the great cabin.
“And were you carrying that pistol on the night of the action?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you not place it in your waistband, knowing you were to be in action, and hoping for a chance to see your greatest enemy dead?”
“No, sir.”
“And when your ship did indeed go into action, did you not find the ideal opportunity to do your work, confident that no man could be certain that Mr Pigot had died at your hands?”
“No, sir.” His voice had risen in pitch until it was very nearly a scream.
“Confident that, even if you were observed in your wickedness, Mr Pigot was held in such low esteem that your actions would go unreported?
“No, sir.”
Andrews sat back, sighed and continued in a softer tone. “Or, perhaps, did you only intend to threaten Mr Pigot. Maybe show him you had the pistol? Plead with him to extend a little mercy to you and your shipmates? Perhaps he had gone to strike you and the piece had gone off? That would not be murder and the court would be understanding. Is that what happened?”
Caulfield opened his eyes, which had been closed for some time, to see King obviously confused. The boy went to speak and for several seconds the room hung in expectation.
“I say again, you may have had just cause, and a shipboard accident is easily understood, easily explained and by some may not be regarded as a crime at all. Tell me, laddie, is that what happened?”
King shook his head. “No, sir.” The room exhaled as one. “No, I did not kill Mr Pigot. I was not carrying my pistol during the action. As far as I know it had been cleared away with the rest of the cockpit items.” He sensed the eyes upon him and felt very small, very vulnerable. “I’m sorry, sir, but it was not me.”
Andrews smiled unexpectedly. “No, son. I don’t believe it was. And I, for one, am very glad.”
The tension in the room eased, and the air itself seemed suddenly lighter. The noise of a loud and generous sneeze came from next door, forcing Caulfield to bite his tongue to control the hysterical laughter that he felt was very close. Fraiser was talking now and he steeled himself to listen.
“If I may say a word, sir. I have information that might be of interest to this court.”
Andrews bowed his head. “Then speak away, man. Do you wish for this to be in open court?”
“No, sir. I feel this should be bet
ween ourselves for the time being.”
Again Davies gratefully laid down his pen.
“Just before we convened I was alerted to an important matter by Mr Lewis, one of the master’s mates. He had a man in his division who wanted to come forward and admit to the shooting of Mr Pigot.”
The silence was complete, even the noises of the nearby port seemed to hang suspended.
“I sent for him, of course, sir, and desired that he should await the court in the captain’s coach. I had to ask Mr Lewis a few further questions as you might understand, and then I came straight here. It was when I arrived that I noticed a group of men and a boy awaiting outside in the coach. There were eight, and all of the same mess, sir.”
Andrews snorted. “You think that the actual murderer is one of the mess, and his fellows are standing by him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I say that is not unusual behaviour on behalf of the lower deck. Somewhat sentimental, maybe, but loyal and speaks well of them and the ship. We will have to interview each, of course, but it should be little trouble to determine the culprit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will start by seeing them as a body.” Andrews inclined his head towards Banks. “With your permission, sir?”
“Call the men in from the coach.”
The marine repeated the order, stamping the butt of his musket onto the deck. The door opened and Flint’s face appeared. He strode in confidently, with the rest of his mess in tow. The last was Billy, who swept the room with his wide, brown, doe eyes, totally void of any possible murderous intent. Wright blended in with the rest and no one paid him any particular attention. They stood in a row facing the officers, as Collins, the marine, clumped his musket again.
“Get back, you lot, and wait your turn.”
“What is it, Sentry?”
“There’s more out here, sir, but we can’t rightly take them all at once.”
Andrews stood up, and tried to look over the heads of the men in front of him.
