by Alaric Bond
“Better turn in, Matt,” he said. “We're under short sail, but that don't mean you won't get a call if this weather grows worse.”
“It ain't the weather that worries me,” Jameson all but whispered. “I reckons if we do get the shout it will be for all hands, and we won't be shortening sail.”
“How’s that?” Mitchell asked in a loud voice.
Jameson turned back to the mess and shrugged. “Well, it's probably nothing,” he said, only a little louder, “but I thinks I caught sight of somthin' earlier on.” Even Mitchell was quiet, as the men waited for him to continue. “It were an hour or so back – during the thunder.”
“Man-of-war?” Flint asked. “Merchant?”
“Mermaid?” Mitchell added.
“Frigate,” Jameson answered cautiously. “An' to the north. But it were only in the flash of lightning, and I couldn't be sure.”
“Lookouts stayed mum,” Hind commented, after a pause.
“And it sounds like you did an' all,” Mitchell added in his customary roar.
“I told Draude,” Jameson continued. “And he said to forget it. Both mastheads were well awake, an' it was their job to make a report, not ours.”
The seamen nodded; that was the way of things: it didn't do to speak out of turn, and no one ever dobbed on a shipmate. If a strange sail were about then the lookouts would sight it soon enough.
“Besides, it don't mean much,” Hind said, after further consideration. “Not just one ship. Not when the likelihood is she'll be British.” There was a general murmur of agreement, and the tension lessened while Jameson picked up his remaining counters.
“Not going to hand over the rest?” Mitchell asked, and Jameson shook his head. The man was well into his cups; even if he won, there was little chance of being paid out.
“We'll play again tomorrow,” he promised.
Mitchell began to grumble but Flint stood up with Jameson, and no one tried to stop them as they made for where their hammocks were already slung.
“That man will end up on the punishment deck,” Jameson said softly. “Or he'll put someone else there.”
“Never mind him,” Flint urged. “Tell me again of your sightin'.”
Jameson shrugged. “Weren't much more'n a glance, and even that I couldn't be sure of. Besides, as Hind says, she were probably British.”
“Well whether she is or not, if another ship's out there we're both likely to have a bad night,” Flint grumbled as he arranged the biscuit mattress in his hammock.
Jameson was already settled and had pulled the blanket up to his chin. “If they are French,” he asked, “will there be an action in this storm?”
“Only if they catches us,” Flint grunted. “An' even if then, probably not. Best thing both captains can do is keep a keen watch on the other an' see who sinks first.”
“So there's nothing to worry about,” Jameson said quietly.
For years Flint had been the younger man's principal teacher, guide and counsellor and even now there were times when he looked to him for reassurance.
“Nay, Matt,” Flint said firmly as he climbed into his own hammock. “Tain't nothing. Get some sleep an' let the officers do what they're paid for.”
Jameson settled further into the folds of his blanket. Flint was right, he usually was, but still that brief image stayed with him and deep down he knew that he was not mistaken. “Only I thinks there might have been more'n one,” he said finally, and almost to himself.
* * *
In the great cabin they were gambling far more openly. Banks and his current partner, the governor's lady, had won the third rubber and now the other three players sat back from the green baize-covered table while Sir Terrance Hatcher dutifully counted up the score, before passing a small pile of copper coins across to his wife.
“There, my dear.” he said, greatly condescending. “You may as well have your dress allowance now as later.”
Lady Hatcher, who was in her early thirties, probably less than half her husband's age, gave a raucous hoot of laughter as she clawed up the money. “Were it your generosity that I relied upon, my sweet, I would most like spend my days entirely naked!”
Banks and his wife smiled politely, each not meeting the other's eyes, although it was clear that, rather than being discomforted by the comment, the older man seemed to positively enjoy it.
“Well, that might brighten up a somewhat dismal voyage,” he said daringly and his heavy cheeks reddened. Then, turning to Banks, he added: “Sure, I never knew it could be such a mistake to marry a woman with money!”
“The mistake was yours to think you would ever touch a penny!” Lady Hatcher countered swiftly as she, in turn, singled out Sarah, Banks' wife. “Never did see a man so dished as when Terrance discovered my fortune to be secure. Why, the trustees to my family's estate attend court and sit in both houses; try as he might he could not get so much as a sniff, and that's a situation I have no thought of changing!”
The captain kept his smile, and his eyes away from Sarah. Certainly these were not the easiest of guests. The woman– and Banks found the term 'lady' did not come readily to mind–was of a totally different social level to her husband. Large in frame, and with a figure that was fast filling out, she retained fragments of what must once have been stunning beauty. But now her skin was inclined to a mottled bloom come evening, and both her yellowed hair and bright, yet stunted, fingernails gave a fair warning of the coarseness that could be expected. Banks had originally assumed some financial arrangement had been behind the union, and was surprised when, quite early into the voyage, Lady Hatcher revealed her status as an heiress. With an equal lack of tact the news of her husband's own dire financial state quickly followed.
Such a situation was unusual at a time when it was customary for all of a woman's assets to be transferred to her husband upon marriage, and Banks had wondered at the foresight Lady Hatcher's advisers had shown in protecting her interests. However he soon came to realise that any business or legal ingenuity was totally down to the woman herself. Loud and brash she may be, but a shrewd brain worked behind those highly accentuated eyes, and its purpose was totally self-interest. On several occasions she had tried to tempt Banks into betraying a confidence and once even his own marriage. It was an experience that had taught him well; he now felt he knew the woman for what she was, and kept a careful guard up at all times. Such a thing was difficult, as they were sharing the same quarters, but whenever possible Banks avoided speaking with her for any great length, and never when the two of them were alone.
Of course he and Sarah had discussed the matter in some detail over many nights, whispering in their own tiny sleeping cabin not ten feet from where the subject of their conservation lay. They had come to the conclusion that Sir Terrance was prepared to stand a modicum of coarseness in return for what he considered to be an attractive partner, while in turn he gave her far more than could ever have been achieved with money alone. As an elderly man, and of a type that many would assume to be a natural bachelor, the governor was hardly every woman's dream spouse. However, by marrying him she had secured herself a title, and would, inevitably be considered part of the aristocracy, if not now, then by the time her husband's tenancy of St Helena came to an end. And before then she seemed set to enjoy life, eating and drinking to excess, while making eyes and advances to any man she chose. Sir Terrance appeared as tolerant of her behaviour as he was the hypothetical short lead she obliged him to wear. Banks and his own wife eventually decided it must be an arrangement that suited both parties equally, even if they also agreed there was no question of love being in any way involved.
The governor had Banks' crystal decanter in his hand, and was offering to fill their glasses with the captain's brandy. Sarah placed a hand across the lip of hers. “No, thank you, Sir Terrance, I have enjoyed quite enough for one evening and must be abed.” Both men rose as she went to stand, and Banks reached out to steady her. He had noticed Sarah tiring easily of late, and her
usually rosy face now looked quite washed out.
“I will join you directly,” Banks said, collecting his own glass that was in danger of being refilled.
“And I am also for an early bed,” the governor agreed. The couple's personal servants arrived, and Sir Terrance allowed his, a smug, precocious little man that Banks had disliked at first sight, to guide him gently across the heaving deck.
“Even if he cannot claim the same excuse as you two love birds!” The governor's wife chuckled, before addressing herself more directly at Sarah, “Really, my dear, you should take more care – I don't think the walls in this boat are any thicker than paper. We hear every movement the two of you make.”
“I – I really must retire,” Banks said, flustered, and placing his glass down on the table. “If this storm continues it is likely I shall be called in the night.”
“You think the ship is in danger?” The governor looked back as the captain and his lady followed him out of the great cabin.
Banks shook his head. “I doubt it, Sir Terrance. It is a drawn out affair, but Scylla has endured far worse. With luck we should find clearer skies in the morning.”
Lady Hatcher watched them depart, then dismissed her own maid, leaving all the space and splendour of the great cabin to herself alone. She sat back in one of the captain's dining chairs and sipped at her full glass, highly content. These might not be the most palatial of quarters, but they were by far the grandest the ship had to offer and now, indisputably, they belonged to her alone to enjoy. That was all she required, to be as near to the top, to mastery and total dominance, as possible. However large or small the pond, she must be the biggest fish. Or if not the fish itself, at least to have control of it.
That was partly the reason she had agreed so readily to marry what was effectively a eunuch, and endure a term on St Helena as the governor's lady. As the major refuelling and replenishment point in the South Atlantic, the island had an importance far in excess of its physical size, and was a vital link in the foreign trade that seemed the only thing keeping the country solvent. Any ship travelling to or from the Far East was bound to call there and with Britain's very future relying on the riches available it would be strange if she could not see to it that some were diverted in the right direction. Terrance was a pleasant enough companion, and on occasions could actually be quite good company, although he gave no satisfaction. But then neither did he object if such were sought elsewhere while she, in turn, was prepared to ignore his apparent liking for that damned prissy manservant who always seemed to be around.
A noise startled her; it was a door opening and she swiftly returned to full consciousness. One of the captain's stewards had entered, clearly thinking the room now empty. He was young, well built and had that wonderfully worldly look that Lady Hatcher found so tantalising in all sailors. She placed her glass down and set herself in readiness; the man's name was John – that had been learned several days ago when he had first caught her eye, and she whispered it softly now as he approached.
Chapter Two
Stiles was still damp from his time at the masthead and in no hurry to climb into a hammock. He had already eaten a lump of cheese, saved from his evening meal, and was now considering a slice of double shotted plum duff as he squatted on the berth deck beneath the lines of sleeping bodies. The fruit in the title was in fact raisins, but there could be no doubting the rich and heavy pudding; immensely satisfying after a spell exposed so far up and in the very teeth of a gale. He bit into the sticky lump of suet and flour; if it had been sweetened the pudding would have been known as a spotted dog, but Stiles preferred an old fashioned duff; the batter's slightly sour taste emphasised the flavour in the fruit and didn't leave him feeling as if he had been stuffed full with molasses. He ripped into the pudding now, chewing gamely with his mismatched mixture of teeth and gums and sucking out every last element of sugar from the raisins. Not for the first time Stiles was silently grateful that Scylla had a decent cook. Unlike most of his type, Grimley bore a full set of matching limbs, and owed his position entirely to culinary skill rather than injury. The making of duff, and other puddings, usually fell to a nominated hand in each mess, but this particular example was created by the man himself. Grimley could usually be persuaded with half a prick of tobacco; others considered it too high a price, but Stiles subscribed without hesitation. The seaman's diet, though not lacking in bulk, was inclined to the mundane and a notable pudding, such as this, could be eked out and enjoyed over a considerable period. Grimley took particular pride in his craft, and enjoyed access to the best flour available. Besides, he always soaked the fruit in water or, when he could squirrel the heel taps from a steward, the captain's wine. In fact all the food Grimley served was far superior to any Stiles had tasted in fourteen years at sea, and yet the man himself was a cantankerous old sod with a mouth as foul as any dockyard matey.
Stiles was taking his second bite of the pudding when Draude, a fellow topman, slumped down next to him. As well as being younger, Draude was far fitter than Stiles. Currently he was rated captain of the foretop, but it was an open secret that a vacant position as boatwain's mate would soon be filled.
“Late supper?” Draude asked, after watching the depredation of Stiles' pudding for a moment or two.
“Happen,” Stiles replied, taking his last proper bite. There were several dozen sleeping men within ten feet of them, but neither made any attempt to lower their voices. If the noise and motion of the storm hadn't woken them, a couple yarning wouldn't make much difference. Stiles considered the last chunk for a moment, before flipping it across to Draude, who caught and deposited it swiftly into his own mouth. There was no comment or acknowledgement from either party: Draude and Stiles might not always be the best of friends, but they did share the same watch, and such considerations were always remembered.
“You were maintop last trick,” Draude said when he had finished the mouthful. Stiles, who was teasing a small lump of fruit from between his back teeth, nodded absentmindedly. “Notice anything?” Draude asked.
The other seaman stopped and stared at his companion. “If I 'ad, we'd 'ave all known about it,” he said, in a voice slightly tinged with resentment. Draude nodded, and gave a pout.
“Only I were at the fore tops'l yard. It's been showin' signs of weakness and Bos'un detailed Jameson an' me to take a check. Truth is, I reckons we'll be lucky if it sees us back to Pompey, but it's 'olding well enough for now.”
Stiles nodded, even though he could not remember seeing either seaman at the mast or on the yard.
“We sorted it quick enough, and weren't lookin' to stay long, but while he was there young Matt Jameson thinks he saw a Frenchie.”
Now Draude had Stiles' complete attention. “A Frenchie, you say?”
“It were in the last of the lightning, and some ways off, so he couldn't be sure. Might even 'ave been two.”
“Two?” Stiles was now worried. “An' French you say?”
Draude nodded. “He weren't so certain of the number, but however many, I can't see them being British – not out here, and without us knowing 'bout it.”
“They don't tell us everything,” Stiles said, and Draude acknowledged the understatement. “What were it anyway?”
“One looked to be another frigate; the other 'e couldn't say, and weren't even definite about the first, so I figured it best to keep mum.”
“An' he thinks it were a Frenchie?”
“No, that were me talking, an' jus' a feelin'.” Draude scratched at his armpit as he mused. “We were sent south in a bit of a hurry see, and the barky's well due for a refit. If they 'ad another frigate going the same way, surely they'd 'ave sent that?”
Stiles shifted uncomfortably. His one hour trick at the main masthead had come at the end of the watch; before that he was aloft and quite active for three hours. The lookout perch at the main was the highest in the ship and, in a drawn out storm such as they were experiencing, would describe a circle many feet in diamet
er, as the ship was tossed about amid the seas. In such conditions it would have been relatively easy to miss one small sighting, especially as any experienced seaman would make himself relatively comfortable even on such a tenuous perch. It might not be possible to actually sleep, but there was no doubting the movement could be vaguely hypnotic, and minds had been known to wander.
“Collins, at the fore, didn't say nuffin',” Stiles said, after considering the matter further.
“Collins didn't see it,” Draude agreed. “An' there ain't no blame being laid here. I shimmed up an' gave the direction, but Collins couldn't make a thing, an' I didn't see nowt neither. That's the thing about lightning, you don't know when it's comin', and then the whole thing's over in a flash.”
“Then it were probably Jameson's imagination,” Stiles said without humour. His eyes were staring sightlessly at the spirketing opposite, and it was clear the matter had been taken very much to heart.
He was well aware that of late he had been inclined to miss things – only the previous week, when on cook's duty, he misread the lead tag and presented another mess's meat ration, and there were times when he needed to look especially carefully to pick out bargemen in the hard tack. The fact that he had failed to notice two men on a mast barely thirty feet away was hardly reassuring, and yes, he may well have missed an entire ship in such conditions. “I didn't see it,” he added finally, and with more than a trace of defiance.
“An' neither did I.” Draude agreed, pressing the man gently with his fist. “As I say, there ain't no blame; the lad weren't even certain. Besides, the old Syllabub can handle any Frenchman up to twice her size.” He paused, and brought his hand down as he thought. “But if there is a bunch of 'em out there, perhaps we ought to be a mite careful.”
