Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  “Is anything amiss, sir?” he asked. One of the bodies moved.

  “Piss off, Flint.” It was Manning, the surgeon’s mate. Normally quite a civil fellow, yet his voice sounded taught and urgent.

  “Very good, sir,” he said, almost automatically. He watched for a second or two more before turning around and heading back for his berth.

  He returned to find hammocks now lay hung from every other hook in the deckhead. Lawlor was still regaling them with exploits as Flint silently slung his own and pressed the biscuit mattress into it.

  “I’ve not known anyone like you. Not so passionate, nor so caring,” Lawlor droned on. “All the girls said the same; I made a real hit. Some even used to ask for me, special like.”

  Flint climbed into his bed and turned to one side. They would be on duty for sure in less than four hours; until then he was not going to waste a second of sleep worrying about the habits of officers. Lawlor was coming to the end of his tale, his voice growing low and deep; soon he too would be dozing.

  “And you know the nicest thing one of them said?” he asked, to no response. “Sam, you’re so good at this, we should pay you. We should pay you, now weren’t that sweet?”

  Calver had been quite right; within the hour the call went out for men to shorten sail, and Flint and his mess rolled out of their hammocks, still rosy with sleep, and trudged up to the howling storm that now appeared at its worst.

  “Double reef in the fore tops’ls,” Calver muttered, disgusted. “If we was in Liverpool now, we’d be safely snugged,” he said, as he made for the weather shrouds.

  “If we was in Liverpool now, I’d find myself a boardin’ house,” Flint grumbled as he followed him.

  *****

  The next morning dawned clear and fine, with memories of the storm all but forgotten by Pandora’s men, apart from one unlucky member of the afterguard who had slipped while hauling on a brace, and now lay in the sickbay with a rupture the size of an apple protruding from his groin. Banks had joined Caulfield on the quarterdeck as the sun rose and was there to hear the cry that the first of Jervis’s ships had been sighted.

  “It’s the Fox, Lieutenant Gibson, sir,” Dorsey reported, when they had closed enough to exchange signals.

  “Ask him of the fleet,” Banks said. They waited for several minutes for the reply. Fox was a cutter and a small one at that. She would not carry a crew large enough to have a specialist signals department. Eventually the answer came, and Banks altered course by two points to intercept.

  By noon Pandora was approaching the Mediterranean fleet as they cruised lazily under topsails alone, roughly twenty-five miles off Cape St Vincent. Dorsey was casually reading off the ships as they responded to Pandora’s number and private signal.

  “That’s the Excellent, Captain Collingwood. Then Diadem, Captain Towry. Culloden and Colossus appear damaged, sir. Culloden’s setting down her fore t’gallant, and her jib boom’s all ahoo. I can see a fresh spar being moved on Colossus, though she seems straight enough, must have sprung a yard.” Banks guessed that they had come to grief in the storm of last night, not an uncommon occurrence when ships sailed as a fleet, but regrettable all the same.

  “Barfleur, sir Vice Admiral Waldergrave,” Fraiser commented. “She was in the Channel fleet, Admiral Jervis must have received reinforcements.” The master was right, Banks counted five more line of battle ships than they had encountered at Tagus.

  “That about makes up for those Mann took when he made a run for it,” Caulfield spoke to Fraiser under his breath, not wishing to cast aspersions on a flag officer, although the entire Royal Navy had been incensed by the admiral’s actions.

  “Byng was shot for less,” Fraiser muttered.

  “Flag’s signalling for us,” Dorsey continued. “Take station two cables to leeward of me, and receive boat.”

  “Very good, Mr Fraiser, if you please.” Fraiser gave the orders that would bypass Niger, the first repeating frigate, and set Pandora next to Victory and under the eye of Jervis. Banks supposed that the admiral merely wanted his mail from Gibraltar, of which Pandora carried several sacks. Still it was galling to have to stay in such close station to the flagship.

  “Flag’s signalling to the rest of the fleet to send to us for mail,” Dorsey continued, echoing his thoughts. That would mean upwards of twenty ships’ boats would be bumping alongside; the mail would have to be sorted, and sealed before they arrived.

  “On station, sir,” Caulfield reported and, albeit that they were cruising the Atlantic, Pandora had now officially become part of the Mediterranean fleet.

  “Very well, begin the salute, master gunner. And pass the word for the midshipmen to assemble aft.”

  Here he was in command of one of the newest frigates in the fleet, and they were staying tied to the flagship’s apron strings while his midshipmen sorted out the niceties of postal distribution, and all the while an enemy fleet lay somewhere over the horizon. The first dull report of the salute rolled out, and Banks decided that the life of a naval officer was not all excitement.

  *****

  That evening King had the first watch, so Manning carried out the vigil alone. The previous night had brought no mysterious visitors, and as the bell rang six times, marking the third hour that Manning had been sitting in the lee of the knee, he wondered if he was wasting his time. Several men and one warrant officer had come up from the berth deck and passed by, but none, to his knowledge, had noticed him as he sat in the shadows. The last sentry had given the cry of “all’s well”, and Manning was just starting to steel himself for the final hour’s wait when movement from the area about the galley attracted his attention.

  He craned forward as much as he could and saw the well-remembered silhouette of an officer striding confidently towards him, his boots clumping eerily on the deck. Manning drew back for fear the apparition might spot him, controlling his breathing to a shallow sigh. The figure was opposite him now, and Manning had time to note the stature, which was well built, with just the hint of a paunch. It was Pigot to a fault; for the first time the surgeon’s mate began to doubt the wisdom of his solitary watch. The man was peering over Sammy, watching him, as if with interest, while he slept. One of the animals stirred, but made no noise, then a sound from behind made them all start.

  A second figure was coming, an ordinary hand; the sound of horny feet as they clambered up the companionway and stepped lightly on the deck was unmistakable. Instantly the mystery figure ducked down, and hid in the lee of the manger as Timothy, a ship’s boy, made his way forward to the heads.

  Manning stayed silent as the boy approached. From his position he could see the apparition more plainly as it squatted in wait for the lad. The timing was perfect; Timothy had all but passed the spot when the figure reared up, emitting a low but menacing growl.

  “Get back to your berth, boy!”

  The lad froze, aghast, as the spectre moved towards him.

  “Get back I say!”

  The second telling was sufficient to turn the boy and send him scurrying back down the companionway, desperate for the safety of sleeping men. Manning heard a small scream as he disappeared, followed by a good deal of commotion from below. The figure watched, then turned to make for the roundhouses. From that route he could escape by passing through and climbing up and over the forecastle; in a second he would be gone. Manning struggled to his feet, determined to catch him.

  Sitting in an awkward position had sent his left leg to sleep, and as he staggered after the man he fell clumsily against a samson post. The apparition had almost disappeared into the darkness, and would soon be gone. In a desperate effort, Manning sprung after him, launching himself full length at the man and catching the heel of his boot as he fell headlong on the deck. A thump from forward told how the figure had fallen also, but Manning was still struggling to his own feet as it sprung up and headed off once more.

  The hens were awake now as Manning clumsily chased the man, who dodged round the bitts
and foremast. There was also something of a commotion from the berth deck below, but that could not be helped; the only thing to do was finish this here and now. Then they were at the bowsprit, and the figure was passing through to the larboard roundhouse. Again Manning sprang at him, but this time with more effect as, grasping the man round the waist, he pulled him to the deck, pinning him there.

  Light flickered about as a marine arrived with a shaded lanthorn. “What’s going on here?” the voice of Tanner, one of the ship’s corporals, demanded.

  “Hold him,” Manning shouted, as the figure wriggled to be free.

  “All right, all right, he ain’t going nowhere.” Tanner had stepped over Manning and reached down for the body that now seemed remarkably lifeless. The marine holding the glim moved in also, and stood over the figure. With a roar it rose up suddenly; there was a crash as the marine dropped the light, and for a second a slight scuffling sound, then several bleary-eyed seamen arrived from their sleep, filling the deck with their questions and complaints.

  “Shine a light, shine a light, there damn you!” Tanner’s voice boomed out amid the confusion and a few seconds later he was rewarded by the arrival of two more marines with lanthorns. Manning clambered to his feet, dazed by the sudden action. He looked about; everyone was speaking at once; and next to Tanner was a man dressed in a lieutenant’s uniform. A man dressed in a lieutenant’s uniform, but it wasn’t Pigot, and it wasn’t a lieutenant.

  “What the devil do you think you’re about, Cobb?” Manning asked.

  The boy stared back at him defiantly. “’Tain’t none of your business, I can go as I please. Besides, you’re only surgeon’s mate out of courtesy, whereas I am a senior petty officer.”

  The men shuffled uneasily, apart from the fact that he was a boy, and they had caught him causing mischief, there was little any of them could say. For all his faults, Cobb was indeed the highest-ranking officer present.

  “You nearly woke the entire ship, and those you did were scared half to death.” Croxley spoke with the authority of a father, although Cobb, it seemed, had been away from home for too long to take notice.

  “You call me Mr Cobb, Croxley,” he said. “And if the people are that frightened, maybe they should have chosen another calling.”

  “Belike you should have an’ all.” Croxley was not one to take the lip of the young lightly. Cobb pulled himself up to his full height.

  “I will remind you one more time that you are talking to a superior officer,” he said.

  “Maybe so, but you ain’t a lieutenant, which is how you’re dressed. No doubt your divisional officer would care to know why you’re about in that rig, or should we take this straight to the captain?”

  Cobb’s expression fell slightly. “It were a jape,” he said, sticking his chin up a fraction. “There were not harm in it, and none done.”

  “I will be the judge of that.” All heads turned to see Banks standing behind them. He was dressed in duck trousers and an open shirt, and had clearly been asleep barely minutes ago. Croxley and Manning drew back, glad that it would not be them who would face him. “Mr Cobb, you will attend me in my cabin. Mr Croxley, Mr Manning, I would be grateful if you would also be present.”

  *****

  An hour later the watch had changed and King and Manning were returning from their brief visit to the sick bay stores. The surgeon always kept the key about his neck, but it had been little trouble to remove it from Stuart, whose sleep was sound and unbreakable. On deck a heavy fog had fallen, and they were unnoticed by Fraiser, the officer of the watch. Manning was holding a heavy parcel in his arms and they went together in silence to the lee rail of the quarterdeck. The interview with Banks had been brief and decisive; Croxley and Manning had given their accounts and were then asked to leave, while Banks dealt with the youngster. This he did with exemplary speed; not for Mr Cobb the short humiliation of a beating or seizing, Bank’s methods were different to Pigot’s, although every bit as harsh. The lad had been sent back to the cockpit to collect his belongings, before being taken forward, allotted a mess and shown where to sling his hammock. Pandora now rated one less midshipman, and one more able seaman, and pity on him for those he had upset so far during the commission. Banks had intended punishing the other midshipmen, on the understanding that one does not rifle through a dead officer’s belongings and set about scaring half the crew on a solitary impulse, but on consideration he decided against it. Cobb’s punishment was public enough; no one could be in any doubt how that sort of tomfoolery would be dealt with in Pandora, and the captain was quietly confident that he had heard the last of the incident.

  Resting the parcel on the lee rail, Manning paused. About him ships of the Mediterranean fleet were firing minute guns to warn of their presence in the fog, while in the distance similar sounds could just be heard from another, larger fleet not so many miles away. He shivered involuntarily and quickly released the parcel into the murky waters. It fell with a brief splash and then was no more. As if in final salute, one of Pandora’s swivels was fired, answered by a series of faint echoes from the enemy just over the horizon. The two turned back from the rail and made for the main companionway. They kept their thoughts to themselves, although both were of a common mind; this was an end to it: tomorrow would be a new beginning, and one that may well find them at grips with the Spanish in a major fleet action. A few days from now could see them triumphant, in a Spanish gaol, or lying at the bottom of the ocean, but whatever the outcome Pandora was now a different ship: Lieutenant Pigot had finally departed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The morning of the 13th brought bright sunshine, a slight shift of wind, and important news. At first light Fox signalled the arrival of a newcomer, and by the end of the morning watch, as the hands were being sent down for breakfast, Minerve was making her number, with the flag of Commodore Nelson flying from her masthead.

  “One of the Navy’s bright young things,” Fraiser commented dryly to King as the sleek frigate drew closer to Victory. “Suckling’s kin. Bit of a live wire in the Leewards; stirred up all sorts of trouble, but the Admiralty seems to like him almost as much as the men, though he’s pulled a few duds in his time.”

  King nodded, there were few who had not heard of Nelson; post captain at twenty and now due for his flag before he was forty. Until then he was a commodore first class, with all the power and prestige of an admiral. “I’d heard he was blinded, wasn’t there a shore action?”

  “Aye, but only in one eye, and that’s just messed about a bit. The other works fine, and the hands would respect him the same if it were in the middle of his head.”

  King gave the master a quizzical look.

  “You see he goes with the men, none of your sending the lads in and watching from afar. It’s a rare attribute in a senior officer, and the people appreciate it.”

  A boat had put out from Minerve and was making for Victory. Through the deck glass Fraiser could make out Nelson, along with several civilians and a couple of army officers.

  A few feet away Banks was studying the boat through his own glass. He had also heard a lot about the commodore; his own time at the Leeward Isles station had not been made easier by the resentment stirred up by the young Captain Nelson and his officious manner when enforcing the local navigation laws. Nelson had quit the station some years before Banks arrived so they had not met, although the story was that he spent most of his latter time in his ship, ostracised and in fear of arrest. It hardly seemed the action of up and at ’em fighter. Still, Nelson had had right on his side and to make a stand when all were against him was a rare and useful ability in any officer; Banks decided he would wait until he met the man himself before passing judgement. Jervis had entrusted Nelson to the final evacuation of Elba, the last remaining base in the Mediterranean, before the British abandoned that inland sea. The extra men in the boat must be consular staff from there, or one of the other former holdings. Presumably Nelson had also called at Gibraltar and may be br
inging up to date news of the Spanish; the entire fleet knew them to be close, but few, if any, could rightly guess their measure.

  The squeal of pipes drifted over to Pandora as the men of Victory paid their respects to the commodore once he was safely through the entry port. A hush of anticlimax now greeted them as they all watched Victory for some sign of action. The hands returned from breakfast and the daily work continued, except all the officers stood waiting on the quarterdeck, passing the time by pacing, or talking in small groups, with each man keeping more than half an eye on the flagship.

  They were rewarded some two hours later, when Nelson and his retinue quit the ship amid further screams of pipes and the clump of muskets. Almost immediately signals began to break out on the flagship, and Banks discovered that, besides the fact that the enemy was reported some seventeen leagues away, and that all ships should begin their preparations for action, he was invited to dine that afternoon.

  *****

  “Welcome aboard, Sir Richard,” Calder said in a voice quite void of enthusiasm. “Grey here will show you to the admiral’s quarters, I have to await the commodore.”

  Banks wondered slightly at the temerity of a commodore to be late for an admiral’s invitation as he followed Grey, second captain of Victory, towards the great cabin. Little had changed since he had last been on board; she still shone with unashamed swank, yet there was also the unmistakable air of sleek efficiency about her people that said this was not just another bull ship.

  “The commodore has brought Sir Gilbert Elliot with him,” Grey told him as they walked along the spotless deck. “He was viceroy of Corsica, you know?”

  “Yes, I had heard, I expect you’ll have the honour of his company on board.”

  “No, I fear Sir John would not approve.” Grey smiled. “Of course there’s likely to be a battle on the morrow, and any number of excuses can be brought up, but the idea of a viceroy’s party crowding our stern would not appeal to the admiral.”