For a moment nobody moved, then Frey began to put his paints and paper away and, as always, the routine of the ship reasserted itself. The watch was called, and Frey prepared to go on deck.
‘Thank you, Moncrieff,’ Frey said as the marine officer bent and retrieved half the water-colour sketch, ‘I mean for your support.’
‘I can’t take the measure of the man,’ Moncrieff said, puzzled and staring at the closed door of the wardroom, ‘what does he hope to gain by such conduct?’
Frey shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You kept your temper very well, Mr Frey,’ put in the Reverend Simpson, ‘under somewhat extreme provocation.’ The chaplain’s thin, soft fingers had reached out for one of the sketches. ‘These are really very good . . . but not worth fighting over.’
‘I collect Mr Metcalfe’s distempered spirit may be something to beware of, gentlemen. Well, we are expected for dinner . . .’
Frey cooled off during his watch, his anger subsiding to mere annoyance. He regretted being unable to dine with Drinkwater but could not have sat at the same table as Metcalfe that afternoon. Nor could he, at the end of his watch, return to the wardroom where Metcalfe, being a creature of predictable habit, would be drinking a glass of wine. At such times, the man was at his most truculent and critical, and habitually found some small matter to complain of, a gun in one’s battery untidily lashed, a rusty round-shot in the garlands, or a seaman upon whom some misdemeanour could be pinned but in which his divisional officer was implicated. It was remarkable, Frey reflected, how in so short a time Metcalfe has impressed his generally unpleasant character upon the ship.
Resolved not to return to the wardroom, Frey decided instead to visit Midshipman Belchambers in the gunroom on the pretext of giving him some instruction. Immediately upon descending to the gloom of the orlop he realized his mistake. The surprised and furtive looks of men about him, the quick evasive slinking away and the whispered warning of a commissioned presence seemed to Frey’s overwrought nerves to echo into the dark recesses of the ship with a sinister significance. Off-duty marines in their berth just forward of the midshipmen’s den stopped polishing boots and bayonets. The midshipmen themselves wore expressions of guilt and Frey was just in time to see a book snapped shut, a pencil hurriedly concealed and a stack of promissory notes swept out of sight. He caught Mr Midshipman Porter’s eye.
‘What are you running a book on, Mr Porter?’
‘Er, a book, sir? Er, nothing, sir . . .’
Frey looked about him. The collusion of the midshipmen argued against anything serious being wrong. He had not disturbed a mutinous assembly and would be best advised to turn a blind eye to the matter.
‘Mr Belchambers?’ he said, affecting a disinterested tone, ‘Is he here?’
‘First Lieutenant sent for him, sir.’
‘Ah . . .’ Frey cast a final look round the dark hole. The stale air was thick with the stink of crowded humanity, stores, bilge-water, rust, rot and rat-droppings. He retreated to the ladder.
‘Pass word for Sergeant Hudson, will you,’ he called mildly to the marine sentry at the companionway. Frey dawdled in the berth deck, wandering forward. Hudson caught up with him as he stood surveying the surviving pigs in the extempore manger just forward of the breakwater set across the ship to stop sea sloshing aft from the plugged hawse-holes.
‘Sir, Mr Frey, sir?’ The marine sergeant puffed up, buttoning his tunic and jerking his head. Men in the adjacent messes, alerted to something unusual by Frey’s presence so far forward, made themselves scarce.
‘Hudson, what the devil’s going on below?’ Frey pretended interest in the pigs and spoke in a low but insistent voice.
‘Below, sir? Nothing, sir . . .’
‘Don’t take me for a fool, Hudson. Something is, or has been going on. When the officers were dining with the captain, I suspect.’
‘Ah, well, er, yes, sir . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, sir, weren’t nothing much, sir, only a bit o’ fun, like.’
‘Gaming, you mean?’
Hudson shrugged. ‘Well, a few side bets, sir, you know how it is.’
‘On what? Baiting? A fight, a wrestle?’
‘Bit of wrestling, sir. Nothing to worry about, sir. If it were I’d be down on it like a cauldron o’ coal.’
Frey looked hard at the man. ‘If I get wind of an assembly, Hudson, I’ll have your hide. We want no combinations aboard here.’
Hudson shook his head and Frey noticed the man had no neck, for his whole body swung, adding emphasis to his indignant refutation of the suggestion. ‘No fear o’ that, sir, not while Josiah Hudson is sergeant aboard this here man-o’-war.’
‘I hope you’re right, Hudson.’
‘O’ course I’m right, sir. ’Tis against regulations in the strictest sense but, well, why don’t you place a bet, sir? Won’t do no harm and I’ll do it for you. You won’t be the only officer . . .’ Hudson paused, aware he was being indiscreet.
‘Really? Who else?’ Frey disguised his curiosity.
‘Oh, I don’t know that, sir, but one or two o’ the young gennelmen seems to have enough money to be acting as agents.’
The information robbed Frey of the initiative. He turned aft. At the wardroom door he met Mr Belchambers in search of him.
‘I believe you were looking for me, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, but it don’t matter now. Carry on.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Belchambers turned for the companionway when intuition caused Frey to call him back.
‘What did the First Lieutenant want you for?’
Belchambers stammered uncertainly, his eyes on the wardroom door and the sentry posted there. ‘Oh, er, er, a small . . . er, private matter, sir.’
‘A private matter between you and the First Lieutenant, Mr Belchambers?’ Frey said archly. ‘You should be careful your private affairs are not capable of misconstruction . . .’
Belchambers blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I, er, I . . .’
‘Did he win?’
‘Sir . . . ?’
‘Did the First Lieutenant win? I assume you had been summoned to tell him whether he had won or lost the bet you had placed for him.’
Belchambers swallowed unhappily. ‘Sir, I was unwilling . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Frey, his voice suddenly sympathetic, ‘be a good fellow and just let Mr Porter know I am aware of the situation and I’ve promised a thrashing to anyone I find running a book.’ Belchambers caught the twinkle in Frey’s eye. He knew Mr Frey, he was a certainty in a shifting world. Mr Belchambers was learning that ships changed as their companies changed and though he respected Captain Drinkwater, the captain was too remote to know the miseries and petty tyrannies that midshipmen endured.
Whilst Captain Drinkwater was unaware of Belchambers’ misery and knew nothing of the improper conduct of his first lieutenant as discovered by Mr Frey, he was troubled by the evident bad blood prevailing among his officers. There was little he could do about it, and at heart he was disinclined to make too much of it. They were bound on a specific mission, their cruise was circumscribed by the Admiralty’s special instructions and with the Royal Navy pre-eminent in the North Atlantic he privately considered it most unlikely they would see action. Not that he was complacent, it was merely that in weighing up their chances of meeting an enemy, he thought the thing unlikely. Anyway, if he was wrong, Patrician was a heavy ship with a weight of metal superior to most enemy cruisers. Only a line-of-battle ship would out-gun her and she had the speed to escape should she encounter one.
Nevertheless he knew that grievances, once they had taken root, inevitably blossomed into some unpleasantness or other. He would have to wait and see what the disaffection between Mr Metcalfe and his fellow officers produced. For himself, the company of Vansittart proved a welcome diversion. The younger man was pleasant enough, and well-informed; close to Government circles he gossiped readily, though Dr
inkwater formed the opinion that his own connections with Lord Dungarth proved something of a passport to his confidences. Vansittart knew when to hold his tongue; his present indiscretions were harmless enough.
Mr Frey found his discovery of the secret wrestling match preoccupied his thoughts during the middle watch the following night. Metcalfe’s involvement was foolish, the more so since he had implicated Belchambers, who was otherwise an honest lad. It was clear there was nothing he himself could do, though Metcalfe’s unwise behaviour would, he felt sure, some time or another cause the first lieutenant to regret the impropriety of his conduct. Metcalfe was not easy-going enough to embroil himself with the dubious affairs of the lower deck. He had already had two men flogged for minor misdemeanours, and while Captain Drinkwater had been compelled to support his subordinate he had passed minimum sentences upon the men concerned.
It was, Frey consoled himself, none of his business, but with that peculiar importance events assume in the small hours of the night, he felt a strong compulsion to probe further into the matter. In the end he waited for Belchambers to make his report at six bells. As the bells struck and the lookouts and sentries called ‘All’s well’ from forecastle, quarter and gun deck, the midshipman of the watch came aft, found Frey in the darkness and touched the brim of his hat.
‘All’s well, sir, and six bells struck.’
‘Very well. Tell me,’ he added quickly before Belchambers turned away, ‘this business of gaming in the cable tier. Are all the midshipmen involved?’
‘Well, more or less, sir,’ Belchambers replied unhappily.
‘That ain’t exactly your kettle o’ fish, is it, Mr Belchambers?’
‘Not strictly speaking, sir, no . . .’
Frey waited in vain for any further amplification. ‘Is it Porter or the First Lieutenant?’
‘First Lieutenant’s pretty keen, sir,’ Belchambers began, as though glad of the chance to speak of the matter, then halted, trying to study Frey’s expression in the gloom, failing and adding hurriedly, ‘though Porter’s the devil if he’s crossed, sir, and . . .’ He trailed off miserably.
‘Have there been many of these bouts?’
‘Three, sir, since we left Plymouth. There were several before we commissioned properly . . . dockyard entertainments they called them. I think one or two of the hands took the idea . . .’
‘Are they always the same men who wrestle?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Who was it yesterday?’
‘Newlyn and Thurston, sir.’ The names meant nothing to Frey; neither man was in his division.
‘And there are no other officers present?’
‘Not present, no, sir.’
‘Then other officers place bets?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who are they, Mr Belchambers?’ Frey’s voice hardened in its expression and he wondered he had heard nothing of it in the wardroom.
‘Mr Wyatt, sir.’
‘Interesting,’ remarked Frey almost casually. ‘Now, there’s something I want you to do for me, Mr Belchambers . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Be a good fellow and let me know when there is next to be a bout, even if I’m on watch, d’you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was a note of relief in Belchambers’ voice, as though he felt happier for Frey’s discovery and offer of alliance. Mr Belchambers trusted Frey.
‘And don’t say a word to a soul, d’you hear me?’
‘No, sir, of course not.’
The morning after he had his officers to dinner, Captain Drinkwater invited the midshipmen to breakfast. They seemed a sound enough group of young men. The two master’s mates, Davies and Johnson, were a little older, midshipmen waiting for promotion, and not likely to get it, Drinkwater thought, with Patrician bound on her run back and forth across the Atlantic and a spell tendering to the Western Squadron at the end of it.
After breakfast he sobered them just as they had begun to unwind with the news that he would inspect their journals within the week. Belchambers, used to Drinkwater’s methods, brightened perceptibly. He was clearly the only member of the gunroom who had been keeping his journal up to date. The boy’s expression puzzled Drinkwater, and it was not until after they had all gone with their formal and insincere expressions of gratitude that he realized Belchambers had been subdued throughout the meal. He had always been a quiet, sensitive fellow – Drinkwater recalled him fainting at the awful spectre of a deserter being hanged at Patrician’s fore-yardarm – but he was usually of a cheerful disposition. Had some of the wardroom malaise spilled over into the gunroom?
Drinkwater took his cloak and hat from the hook beside the door and went on deck. Moncrieff was ordering his marines up and the men were falling in for inspection. A basket full of empty green bottles clinked and the frigate rolled and pitched, her grey canvas spread to the topgallant yards as, braced hard up against the starboard catharpings, they drove to the westward with clouds of spray sweeping over her bluff bow.
Drinkwater recalled his order to Moncrieff and watched Sergeant Hudson checking his men while Corporal Bailey issued cartridge and ball for the practice shoot. Metcalfe stood by watching, having directed a pair of grinning topmen to run a flag-halliard up to the lee main topsail yardarm where they rove it through the studding sail boom and brought the end back on deck. The boom was run out, a pair of hitches thrown over the neck of an empty bottle from the basket, and a moment later it twinkled green and provocative at the extremity of the thin spar.
‘Very well, Sergeant, you may drill your men. One at a time at the target. It’s accuracy we want, not speed of fire, so take your time, my lads. Carry on.’
Moncrieff, having inspected his men in the belief that ineffective pipeclay and polish inhibited the true martial qualities, retreated to the mizen mast, where a knot of curious officers had assembled, forming round Vansittart who was professing himself something of a wildfowler. Frey, Gordon, Wyatt and Metcalfe watched as Hudson gave some inaudible instructions to his men, told them off in order and formed them into a rough line.
Then, one by one, they stepped up to the hammock nettings, rested their muskets on hammocks or against the iron cranes that supported the nets, took their aim and fired upwards.
Far above them the bottle danced impudently. A slight slackness in the halliard, the working of the ship and the whipping of the spar made it an extremely lively target. Of the thirty-seven privates in Moncrieff’s detachment, not one succeeded in hitting the mark, though several struck the studding sail boom and one severed the down-haul of the halliard.
Each shot was keenly watched. Men on deck ceased their tasks, the midshipmen off duty emerged to stare. Every miss was met with a chorus of moans, punctuated by outraged shouts from Wyatt or Metcalfe when splinters flew from the boom. There were five misfires, which Moncrieff disallowed, nodding permission to Corporal Bailey to issue fresh cartridges. He turned to Metcalfe.
‘D’your men have to stand and gawp, Mr Metcalfe? Have they nothing better to do?’
‘They’ve nothing better to watch, Mr Moncrieff,’ Metcalfe chortled facetiously. The marine officer turned away angrily. The first of the five marines given a second chance squinted along the barrel of his Tower musket and took aim with painstaking slowness. The watchers waited, almost holding their breath in anticipation, their good-natured mockery suspended.
‘There’s no need to worry about breaking this one, Moncrieff,’ Metcalfe called, spoiling his aim, ‘we’ve a whole basket of ’em!’
The frustrated marine glared insubordinately at the first lieutenant’s wisecrack. At the end of the five shots, the bottle still swung unmolested. Constrained by the presence of the captain and first lieutenant, the marines shuffled disconsolately off and fell into rank and file.
‘You’d better let ’em try again, Mr Moncrieff,’ Drinkwater called.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Moncrieff had coloured at his men’s failure and Drinkwater heard Metcal
fe make some comment to which Moncrieff returned a furious look.
‘If you can do any better . . .’ Drinkwater heard Moncrieff snarl.
As the marines reloaded, Metcalfe went below. Drinkwater had dismissed him from his mind, feeling sorrier for Moncrieff who had detached himself from the officers about Vansittart and occupied a miserable no man’s land between his colleagues and his men.
‘I might ask you gentlemen to try your hands in a moment,’ Drinkwater called in a gesture of support for Moncrieff. The marine officer threw him a grateful glance. ‘We could tighten the halliard,’ he offered.
Moncrieff shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be the same ‚sir.’
‘Perhaps not, but . . .’
‘Thank you, no, sir. It wouldn’t be the same.’
‘Very well.’
The first marine stepped forward, raised his musket and fired. The snap of the lock and spurt of powder-smoke at the gun’s breech transmitted itself to a short, yellow-tipped cough from the muzzle. They stared upwards at the dangling bottle. It spun from the passing wind of the ball, but it remained infuriatingly intact.
‘Next!’ commanded Moncrieff, superseding Hudson in his anxiety to obtain a hit.
Drinkwater was looking up at the third or fourth shot when Metcalfe reappeared on deck. It was only when these failed and he said in a loud and truculent voice, ‘Haven’t you succeeded yet?’ that Drinkwater saw he was carrying a musket, presumably from the arms rack outside the wardroom.
‘With your permission, sir?’ he addressed Drinkwater, his expression arch and vaguely offensive.
‘Do you ask Moncrieff, Mr Metcalfe.’
‘Well, Moncrieff, will you let a fellow have a pot-shot?’
Moncrieff visibly bit off a retort. He had himself been contemplating a shot, but resisted the impulse, for to have missed would have been more irritating and, in any case, the object of the exercise was to train the men. Their shooting had been damned close for Tower muskets with a three-quarter-inch bore and balls whose casting was often more a matter of luck than precision. Let Metcalfe have a shot and damn him. He would be devilish lucky to hit the damned bottle and if he made a fool of himself, then so much the better! He nodded.
The Flying Squadron Page 5
