The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  “It wasn't the greatest marriage but then, how many are? I'm sure you have had bad periods with the captain.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but the woman was firmly in train.

  “All men are like hounds,” Lady Hatcher said firmly, then paused, as if the statement had surprised her as much as it had the captain's wife. “I mean, there might be minor differences.” She waved her glass in explanation. “Spots not exactly in the same place, and some may be fatter. Terrance was quite fat,” she whispered as an aside. “But a dog is a dog and, when all is said and done, they all behave the same.” Her analogy had clearly sapped a good deal of energy and Sarah thought Lady Hatcher would be quiet for a moment, but the tirade was relentless.

  “And even with Terrance, and his funny little ways, – he was no different, not really. But then peers of the realm are only flesh and blood, except I don't need to tell you that, my dear – I am sure that you are only too well aware.” She laughed for a moment then stopped abruptly and drank deep from her glass, only apparently surfacing to draw breath.

  “And there were younger and more handsome men available – well available to one in a position such as mine,” she went on to explain, while treating Sarah to a condescending look. “Some may even have proved more pleasing company but few, few had such position, or potential.”

  Sarah supposed that the governorship of St Helena was indeed important, and was about to say so when the flow was released once more.

  “You see St Helena is a pivotal place, and in such a primary position,” Lady Hatcher assured her seriously, before looking down and acknowledging the need to dab at the front of her gown with the handkerchief that actually belonged to Sarah. “Our Eastern trade depends on it. Scrimp on the supervision and all shall surely suffer.” Once more the handkerchief was needed. “Yet the trade that passes through it is worth millions. Millions!” She paused yet again and a far away look appeared in her eye – the thought had clearly affected the woman greatly. Then she blew her nose.

  “But such responsibility is never dependant on the skills of one man,” Sarah said, grabbing the opportunity. “And I am certain another will be found to fill Sir Terrance’s place – professionally that is. You must not worry: the country shall not suffer.”

  “I couldn't give a fig for the country,” Lady Hatcher told her briskly in a voice that might just as easily have come from a Privy Garden fen. “Or some pox ridden island in the midst of nowhere, come to that.”

  “No, of course not,” Sarah agreed, hurriedly.

  “And as for the work, any damned fool could do it, that's why they have aides, isn't it?” Another gulp of her drink and some of the woman's composure was restored. “But what of the position? The influence? The opportunity?”

  Sarah supposed she did not know, and was starting to doubt the actual cause of Lady Hatcher's grief when she heard sounds of her husband's approach through the double coach doors. She looked up, and flashed a warning but it was too late: Banks had already entered.

  The woman focused on him slowly and a strange tension seemed to take her over. Banks tried to appear agreeable, but the look was not reflected on the face of the governor's widow.

  “Yes, Captain?” she asked coldly. “May I be of service to you?”

  He inclined his head slightly. “I wish only to express my condolences, m'lady,” he said. “I was most sorry to hear of...”

  “Sorry be damned! Sir Terrance was killed whilst under your protection and I will not listen to any such hypocrisy.” She drew breath. “This ship had no business in engaging the French. Had you given more attention to the safety of your charges my husband would be alive now, and I will make sure the relevant authorities are aware of the fact. Now if there is nothing else I can assist you with, I would prefer a little privacy at this difficult time. Good day to you, sir.”

  Chapter Five

  “To be absolutely precise, sir, we shall enter the southern hemisphere at approximately four o’clock tomorrow morning.” Fraiser paused and his expression relaxed slightly. “But I don't expect the exact time is of great importance.”

  “Indeed not, master,” Banks agreed.

  The storm, along with the last sighting of the French, was almost two weeks before, and Scylla, her crew, and more importantly, the remainder of her passengers, were now settled somewhat. Damage to the ship had also been attended to, as far as was possible without dockyard facilities. The fished fore topmast yard had been replaced with a main yard that Evans, the carpenter, had trimmed to fit. Banks had reconciled what some might regard as the wasting of a larger spar quite easily; the fore topsail was heavily used, and however tightly any reinforcement could be bound, or 'fished', some degree of movement was inevitable. Using the larger yard gave much needed strength in a vital place and, as Scylla was fortunate in carrying two such spars, a further was still available should the need arise.

  After the hardships of the storm, the crew were also back to their normal routine, with all but the idlers getting one full watch off out of every two along with the occasional make and mend holidays to break up the monotony. Their food had also improved: the galley fire now burned hot and long enough to provide for more than the chosen few. Once more they were enjoying two pounds of preserved beef or a pound of pork four times a week together with biscuit, cheese, oatmeal, dried fruit and peas, all washed down with half a pint of spirit daily. It was the diet they knew and infinitely superior to any the majority might expect on shore. The brief action – firing their guns in anger for the first time in over a year and, ironically, receiving enemy shot in return – had also left a positive impression. They had been reminded that, rather than being mere sailors, they were proper man-of-war's seamen: prime stuff and the pride of England. Most of Scylla's people had seen action before, either in her, or other ships, but now everyone was considered proven and could even be considered seasoned: baptised by the smoke and fire of true action, and undoubtedly eager to repeat the process at the earliest opportunity.

  The governor's personal entourage had also come to terms with their master's death, as well as the fact that the best some could look forward to was an immediate return trip to England. Most were philosophical enough to take such an outcome well, with only a few showing more than a degree of bitterness or disappointment. But any resentment was dwarfed by that exhibited by Lady Hatcher.

  From the outset it was made clear that she blamed the captain personally for the loss of her husband, and there had been stony silences at the dining table together with rapid departures from the quarterdeck whenever he had the temerity to show his face until, by unspoken agreement, her meals began to be taken in solitary splendour in the great cabin after the usual dining hour. It also became common for her late husband's servant to enquire of Thompson, the captain's steward, exactly when Sir Richard might be free of the deck, to allow her to take the air in private: an arrangement that Banks was happy to co-operate with whenever possible.

  Nothing more had been said of her accusations and he felt he had disguised the fact that they continued to concern him. He had however noted that others, his officers and specifically Sarah, were not quite so blasé. Lady Hatcher clearly attracted influence as easily as she did money, and however sound Banks' reputation, mud was inclined to stick. Normally such accusations might also have been supported by the crew. The average British sailor was known for his sentimental tendencies and, when asked to choose between a blousy yet arguably attractive widow against the man who had the power to see any of their backs stripped to the bone at a grating, some undercurrent of support could be expected. But, in that respect at least, Banks, and his officers were fortunate and felt they could count upon the men's support. Lady Hatcher might be of common stock, but the adoption of a title had wiped away any loyalty she may have expected from the lower deck. Her behaviour with the cabin stewards and anyone else unfortunate enough to enter her web had also not gone unreported and, however mawkish the crew might appear at times, few could feel an
y great sympathy for her. To them, a supposed lady who indulged in so many of their own vices was more a subject of derision than pity.

  “Was there anything else, Captain?”

  Banks realised his mind had wandered, and he must have been staring aimlessly while the sailing master waited.

  “No, Mr Fraiser. Thank you: that will be all.”

  The elderly warrant officer made as if to return below, then stopped at the mouth of the quarterdeck ladder.

  “If it is of any assistance I would say the weather will hold, sir,” he said. “At least until the end of the afternoon.”

  Banks was momentarily taken aback. “In what way will that help, Mr Fraiser?”

  The sailing master lowered his head slightly. “I had assumed you were planning celebrations: for the passing of the line, sir. And I guessed that was why you sent for me.”

  The man was quite right: Banks had completely forgotten, so lost was he in his own thoughts. He glanced up at the sky and felt the wind on his freshly shaven cheek; the morning had certainly dawned bright and clear and, although the sun was hardly over the rim of the horizon, it was already hot.

  “Why yes, master, that was exactly what I had in mind.” It wasn't the first time the older man had effectively read his thoughts. “So you would say that we should go ahead with the ceremony?”

  Fraiser took a step nearer his captain, and his face relaxed into what might generously be called a smile. “You'll excuse me, sir, but as a Christian man I can have little truck with such superstitions.”

  Banks said nothing. His own faith was far less defined than Fraiser's although, in a largely God-fearing world, it was usually better not to admit as much.

  “But I accept that to some they are important, and if it has to be done, today would be as good as any.”

  Most of Scylla's people were seasoned hands, yet a good few would not have travelled south before and the ritual of crossing the line was so fixed in naval tradition that Banks knew he would have to make some concession. But to stop the ship, as was customary, and waste what would be the whole afternoon as well as both dog watches in tomfoolery went totally against the grain. And it wasn't as if the whole performance was nothing more than harmless fun; all knew that the various escapades were often used as a means for righting wrongs or getting even. Men frequently suffered minor injuries under the banner of horseplay, and there were tales aplenty of ceremonies aboard other ships that had ended in maimings and worse.

  “If you are considering inviting royalty aboard, sir, I'm sure the men would appreciate some notice.”

  Once more the master was right, much of the morning would also be lost to the absurd preparations; Banks felt plagued with bad luck – this voyage was turning out to be one of the worst he could remember.

  “Could we not simply hold a tournament of King Arthur?” he asked hopefully.

  Fraiser eyed him cautiously. Such a game, which required little preparation and hardly any risk, would indeed be a far easier alternative, but unlikely to satisfy men keen on one of their few official jollies. “Do you think the people would accept that, sir?”

  “I could combine it with an extra ration of beer,” Banks persisted. “And call a make and mend for the following afternoon?”

  “It may serve, sir, but I feel they would not take to it,” Fraiser said softly. “No man chose to be sent south; all would far rather be in England at present and some might even say they had a right to be so. But as they are here, they will expect their traditions to be respected.”

  Banks knew Fraiser was correct, and even the presence of a hostile squadron somewhere to the north would not be excuse enough to cancel the event. He would have to abandon the day, give it over to folly and foolishness, just to appease a group of men who found pleasure in such banality. It was annoying, but a morose crew was that much worse and, despite the recent action, he had noticed certain signs of discontent which it would be prudent not to encourage. Yet again Banks was grateful to Fraiser for his guidance: the sailing master might not always be the most cheerful of company, but there was much wisdom stored in that wizened old face.

  “Very well, Mr Fraiser; I shall speak to the first lieutenant, and the men can elect a King, or whatever else they wish. You have been south before, I trust?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Fraiser assured him. “And yourself, sir?”

  “Indeed, master: more times than I care to remember.” Fraiser turned for the quarterdeck ladder once more, and it was only then that Banks remembered that it was Sarah's first deep sea voyage.

  * * *

  “I'll have you know I've crossed the line more times than most aboard this ship,” Kate replied truculently as she shook out a freshly washed bandage and started to roll it expertly between her fingers. “And went through all that pollywog malarkey when I was but a child.”

  “Then you will have no reason to be involved,” Manning said softly, and with some relief. His wife was very much stronger now, but he still wished to avoid stressing her unnecessarily. “It will just be a few japes in the afternoon – you may watch if you wish, though much of it can be a little coarse.”

  “A little coarse?” She snorted. “I should say; my father was forced to break up such ceremonies in the past, and that was in a merchant ship with far less crew. And they did not have the access to alcohol that your Royal Navy finds so essential. It may have escaped notice, Robert, but we do not have the happiest of people aboard at present.”

  “The men are disappointed,” he replied. “Nothing more; there is no harm in them. We have both been aboard a ship where there was mutiny and I cannot say the feeling is the same.”

  “Oh the men respect their officers right enough, and much has improved since the action. But they were all but promised a run ashore on two previous occasions, and even dropped anchor at Spithead, only to be left swinging for the best part of a month, before sailing south.”

  “So, perhaps a little frivolity will ease the mood,” he chanced. “Cheer them up somewhat.” He glanced at his wife surreptitiously; if anyone could do with being cheered up it was her.

  “Scylla is currently tinderbox dry,” Kate continued firmly, her attention still ostensibly set on the bandages. “A bit of light heartiness is fine, but things can so easily go the other way. In fact it might equally provide the necessary spark to set her ablaze.”

  * * *

  “It will just be a few japes in the afternoon.” On the berth deck Flint was unknowingly repeating the surgeon's words. “And I reckons that as a topman, and one who can handle himself, you'll be getting off light. It's the lads what 'as to watch theirselves: them and any women what might be about.”

  “Who are they choosing as King Neptune?” Jameson asked, even though there only seemed to be one possible candidate.

  “That would be Mitchell,” Dixon, the oldest member of the mess, replied. “Though I don't believe he were chosen,” he continued. “I think he chose himself.”

  “He's got the build for it,” Flint conceded. “And the muzzle.”

  Certainly there was little doubting that the holder's massive frame, which was almost entirely bone and muscle, made him the ideal candidate to play a king of the ocean, and the man even sported the only beard aboard Scylla. Facial hair of any sort was not officially approved of but Mitchell's station, in the darker regions of the ship, kept such minor infringements far from official notice, while his temper, which was as legendary as his strength, was enough to dissuade most from taking the matter further.

  “That fribble from the governor's party is going to be queen,” Dixon continued. “Can't say I cares for him much m'self, but there's a few of that persuasion who do and, you got to admit, he comes up well enough in a frock.”

  “Have they chosen a Davy Jones?” Flint asked.

  “Hind,” Dixon told them. “He may be a painter but working so much with turpentine means he's got the cleanest hands of all, even if he don't always smell so good. There are no end of volunteers for bears.
Captain was asked for a sail to be slung over the side, but that weren't allowed apparently. The ship ain't stoppin' neither.”

  “There's a good chance the French are still over the horizon,” Flint reminded them. “An' this will be no more than a bit of fun.”

  “Aye, but you can't work up much excitement,” Dixon grumbled. “Not in a couple of hours and with us still under sail.”

  “Any real women takin' part?” Flint asked: Dixon shook his head.

  “None can get near the lady's maid and the only one that might have been sporting enough is Mrs Manning. But she's already a shellback several times over: anyways, she's been a cross old cat for most of this voyage, an' her husband would never agree.”

  “Can't say as I blame him,” Jameson commented dryly.

  “Nor I,” Flint agreed. “Things are liable to get out of hand.”

  “We had a prime doxie one time,” Dixon told them, sparking suddenly into life and apparently shedding several years. “In 'eighty-nine, when we was headin' for New South Wales in a transport. We'd got the wench suitably drenched, an' was starting on the shaving when her dress just started comin' adrift in our 'ands. The drab was almost fully unrigged before her flash man stepped in. It were a pity,” he added sadly. “She was more'n willing.”

  “When do we start?” Jameson, who was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, asked.

  “Four bells in the afternoon watch,” Flint told him. “An' all has to be shipshape again by 'Up Spirits'.”

  “So, there won't be much time for the trials,” Dixon mused then, fixing his gaze on Jameson, winked broadly. “Nor the punishments.”

  * * *

  King had been delegated to supervise arrangements, and stood with Cahill, a passed midshipman who had shipped as a master's mate. Cahill had the watch and both men stood at the break of the quarterdeck. Forward, a well-used royal had been rigged from the edge of the barge to the starboard gangway netting and brim filled with seawater, which was regularly slopping down onto the gundeck below. King supposed he should order the mess to be swabbed, but there would doubtless be more to clear up later. An empty gun carriage, padded out with unrolled hammocks, was in a position of prominence on the forecastle to seat Neptune himself, and two further mess benches had been placed to either side, presumably for his cortège. Next to one stood a wooden kid, which was filled with what looked like sweepings from the manger. The muck had been mixed with a little water, and now had the consistency of stiff porridge, if not the smell. A line of twelve marines, crisp in full uniform, stamped past, blocking his view.