The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  Banks was surprised; to feed so many must be expensive both in money and material. Presumably fully provisioned store ships made regular journeys just to maintain the population, and that would be in addition to any victualling requirements from merchant vessels travelling to or from the Far East.

  “The Company supplies us with salt meat at well under prime cost,” the lieutenant governor continued. “It is basically sold at a loss, but far more can be made if we eke out our indigenous stock for what is a more profitable market.”

  “There is a ready demand from the Indiamen,” Mrs Robson explained. “Fresh fruit and green stuff is always welcomed, but they seem especially keen for meat.”

  “Three months sailing time from Bengal,” her husband agreed. “Many of the passengers are crying out for it when they reach us, and willing to pay the eleven ha'pence a pound we charge.”

  “We also have ways of making sure no one undercuts us, or wantonly wastes fresh,” Mrs Robson continued with evident satisfaction. “No citizen is permitted to butcher even their own oxen without permission from the governor's office.”

  Banks chewed on his ham meditatively. As both a member of the aristocracy and a King's Officer, trade was almost an anathema to him, and he tended to look down on those who indulged in such practice. But it was clear that the East India Company were masters at the craft, and employed some highly talented people. Their empire, already vast and steadily growing, was evidently built on something other than physical force.

  “So, what of today's meeting?” Robson said with an unexpected change of tack. “You will no doubt be unfamiliar with our ways, Sir Richard; if there is anything I can clarify now, it might be the better – that is if you are not adverse to discussing business over a meal?”

  Banks nodded as he swallowed; John Company officials might be experts at commerce, but as he had already noticed, they were equally keen to avoid wasting time, and apparently not against cutting a few corners. “By all means, Colonel.”

  “You will be worrying about the state of your ship,” Robson continued. “I cannot make promises for the dockyard superintendent, but he is a man who has worked miracles in the past and I can see no reason why he should not do so again.”

  “That is good to hear,” Banks commented. “I am also blessed with a talented carpenter, and he is well supported.”

  “Well, it has been daylight for a number of hours, and no report has come through of your Frenchman, so I think we can discount an enemy attack at least for the rest of the day. Is there anything else that concerns you?”

  Banks was silent for a moment. There were so many ways in which that question could be answered. Booker's words about Lady Hatcher's intentions were still with him, and he was equally concerned about how the Admiralty would view his actions. The enemy frigate might not be in sight, but she was likely to be found in the area and, until his own ship was once more in a fit state to meet her, that thought would remain at the forefront of his mind. “I think we should make every effort to inform London of Sir Terrance’s death,” he said, finally deciding to temporise, and choose a safe option. “Your offices will also need to be aware, so that a replacement may be arranged. And doubtless there will be relatives and associates who ought to know.”

  Robson nodded emphatically. “Yes, that is a good thought, and one we must indeed act upon. A Company vessel arrived not three days back – one from our packet service – you may have seen her at the anchorage. She is a tidy craft, and fast; she left England after Scylla; her captain boasts about always making the journey in under nine weeks. I doubt that she will be with us long; five days at the most, and then be off once more.”

  “What does she carry?” Banks asked.

  “Oh, a mixed and light cargo; this time it will be a consignment of coffee, as well as some samples of orchel; it is a lichen we have found growing hereabouts.” Robson helped himself to a further slice of toasted bread. “The Board of Directors consider the dye it produces to have potential value.”

  Banks nodded, and followed the lieutenant governor's example. The last time he had eaten soft tack was more than two months earlier, and even biscuit had been denied him for over a fortnight.

  “There are one or two Company men who were intending to travel home in her as well,” Robson continued. “Although I expect your news, and the lack of a replacement governor, may have changed a few minds. Whatever, she can carry despatches; the sooner news of Hatcher's demise is received, the sooner it may be acted upon.”

  “Francis, really!” his wife complained. “Do we have to talk of death at the breakfast table?”

  The lieutenant governor bowed his head slightly. “Forgive me, my dear, I was forgetting.” Then, turning back to Banks: “But a camel is nothing more than a horse designed by a committee, as I am very fond of saying. It is far better to talk here, than about a board table, perchance much can be settled, without the need for debate or argument”

  “Oh, I am more than agreeable,” Banks said then, greatly daring: “I wonder if Lady Hatcher might be persuaded to return in the packet also?”

  Robson snorted. “It may make matters more simple if she did,” he said, half to himself. “At least on the face of it. But, even if she were persuaded, I truly wonder if it be the best option. Booker tells me she intends to make trouble, in which case it is probably better that she does so here, and during our own enquiry. I fear that involving Leadenhall Street can do little to improve your own interests, Captain,” he said sadly.

  “She is rumoured to be influential,” Banks conceded.

  “Influential?” Robson laughed. “You are putting it far too mildly, sir: why did you not know it were down to her intervention that Terrance Hatcher was appointed to the governorship in the first place?”

  Banks didn't, and the façade of optimism that had appeared since his good reception began to crumble.

  “No, we are dealing with a very difficult customer in Lady H,” Robson reflected sadly. “Knows all the right people, and you can be certain most owe her a favour or two. If she is after your hide, chances are she'll have it, and that of any who stand with you.”

  Banks found the mouthful of toast was beginning to set in his mouth, and only swallowed it with a good deal of effort.

  “So, do you have any further concerns?” Robson asked.

  Banks almost laughed out loud – considering the fix he was in with Lady Hatcher, all else seemed to dwindle into insignificance. His father, responsible for much of his advancement in the Navy, had effectively disowned him on arranging his command of Scylla. He had fared well enough during Warren's action off Ireland, but since then the commission had not been spectacular and Hatcher's death, along with the mess his widow was cooking up, would hardly serve as a recommendation for further employment. But, he reminded himself, Robson was asking a sensible question, and one that deserved an answer. “Nothing immediate, Colonel; beyond provisions of course. We are eleven weeks out from England; water is low, and powder. And we are particularly short of biscuit, or could take flour if you have none to hand.”

  “Both biscuit and flour are available, as is powder, and Governor Brooke made special provisions for watering ships at the anchorage. But might it not be better to delay victualling until you have spoken with the dockyard superintendent, and can decide upon your repairs?”

  That made perfect sense, even though it was spoken by a landsman, and Banks' opinion of the East India Company rose even further.

  “In that case there is nothing more I need.”

  “Capital.” The lieutenant governor sat back in his chair and smiled as if he had just pulled off some truly remarkable feat. “We can sort out the minor details at today's meeting; half an hour should suffice for that, if there be no other business. And I must thank you, Captain. In truth I would judge that most of what was to have been said is already covered.”

  * * *

  King told himself he had breakfasted well and was satisfied, whereas he had eaten very little
and felt anything but. He had fled to the garden as soon as was politely possible, and stood there now, gazing intently at the formal beds of manicured roses and exquisite specimen plants, although actually seeing very little. But then he had other things on his mind, and they were not the expected worries of the third in command of a wounded warship.

  Manning was wrong: Booker's daughter was not outstandingly attractive. She had nice eyes to be sure and pleasant, light brown hair; worn long, in the casual manner, and ending in a slight curl just below her shoulders. Her figure was disappointing however; slim and almost boyish in shape, it lacked the curves that most deep sea sailors come to regard as essential. Neither was she deferential, or in any way reserved: both traits King automatically expected when first meeting a woman, and was disconcerted when they were so obviously absent. But she had made an impression nevertheless, and reached him in a way he had not thought likely, or even possible, once his marriage vows were taken.

  The breakfast table had been loaded more heavily than any he had seen before, and included food not tasted in years, but at every opportunity King found himself staring stupidly at the woman who had been introduced all too briefly and thereafter seemed determined to ignore him. To be fair she had other things on her mind; her mother's absence was both unexplained and apparently permanent, and many of the wifely duties of hostess and landlady were on her shoulders. She, – and King was still cursing himself for having missed her name – had arranged everything from the breakfast, to their rooms and, for all he knew, was probably involved in organising the dinner that evening. And, as she snapped out instructions to the many servants who readily responded without question, she was evidently good at her work. But there was something more about her, something he could not quantify yet seemed as important as the shape of her face or the sound of her voice. No matter how hard he might try to deny it, his recurring thought was that the two of them would have a definite empathy, if only time and circumstance would permit them to discover it.

  He began to pace up and down the short stone patio, automatically turning at each end, as on the deck of a ship, instead of following the path that continued about the garden, and would have provided a far more pleasant walk. Of course, as a married man he should have no such feelings. He and Juliana had met back in 'ninety seven, when he was briefly held as a prisoner of the Batavian Republic. She had been widowed a few years earlier, after her husband chose to fight against the invading French, and King could see more clearly now that, as a British officer continuing the same struggle, his position must have held a special attraction for her. They had grown close in what had been an artificial situation, but the one he engineered later, when he arranged for the smuggler's lugger to whisk her to England, now seemed destined to force them apart once more.

  Or would do, if he allowed it. On leaving Spithead he had decided his marriage was well worth the saving. That was something he could still do, if only his mind was put to it, even if an essential ingredient turned out to be his own presence. One course was to retire from the Navy; something he had done in the past when a lack of both prospects and money forced him to serve with the East India Company. It was not a time he enjoyed, and did not wish to repeat, but still he considered the option. A spell on land, with Juliana, and living as a normal married couple, might be the answer; he could find a place at the Leadenhall Street headquarters: that, or one of their regional offices. His experience at sea would also serve him well in the Preventive Service. Alternatively he could even stay with the RN and try out as a regulating officer or the Sea Fencibles, should he so choose.

  But then, of course, there was the not so small matter of the captain's report. It remained distinctly possible that he would face court martial on returning home and, even if the result went entirely in his favour and he was exonerated from all responsibility for endangering his ship, a future position with a captain other than Sir Richard was unlikely. But still he felt in his bones that living in England would be a solution. A place where they could re-spark the flame first ignited in that small house off the Texel, and a degree of marital harmony regained. And then there was the woman he had met, all too briefly, at breakfast.

  It was odd, but two hours earlier he had been unaware of her existence, yet already she was an important element in his life, and even seemed destined to change it. For all he knew she was spoken for, or may even be wed, although the ringless hands that he had been quick to note made such a prospect unlikely. And as a woman of position she might not take to a rather shabby junior lieutenant, especially one who was already married. But King felt fully entitled to brush aside any such possibilities. Based on an assumption that was almost completely fuelled by current dissatisfaction, he had already made up his mind that his future would be closely linked with hers. And it was an indication of his adolescent resolve that little importance was placed on the fact that the object of his attention was someone he had only just met, and whose name he was yet to learn.

  * * *

  Caulfield stared at the bleak outlook and shivered. He had already inspected the nearby coast with the deck glass: Jamestown, the only settlement of any size on the island, appeared totally dwarfed by the two bleak mountains that sat to either side, and was not an unimpressive sight. There was a church, and several military fortifications; apart from that, just a mixture of rather shabby houses and those appeared to be lacking proper tiled roofs. Even without setting a foot on shore he could predict the sort of place it would be, and it did not appeal.

  Around him the watch on deck had been stood down and were waiting, more or less patiently, for eight bells and their first spirit ration of the day. He knew that they, as well as many of the officers, were craving shore leave but could not share their feelings. When a midshipman, or even as junior lieutenant, he would have been just as excited, but time and many disappointments had taught him that, whatever the veneer of exoticism it might have assumed, one pot house remained very much as another. He supposed there might be interesting travel further inland, but that usually involved horses, and Caulfield did not enjoy riding. In the past he had known officers who sketched or painted, while others botanised, and there had been one master's mate whose entire purpose in life was collecting exotic insects, to the dismay of those that shared his berth. But Caulfield had no such interest; his hobby lay in music, and specifically his 'cello: apart from replacing strings, and the occasional bow re-hair, there were few things he ever required, and the shore held little attraction for him. No, St Helena was basically a rock, and a small one at that. But then in all his years as a professional seaman there had been few ports that had offered him anything other than shelter or temporary rest. This was just another stop: a break in the routine of travel, but hardly an improvement.

  “Shore boat pulling for us.” The forecastle lookout's call lacked urgency and was almost conversational although to some extent it did lift Caulfield out of his melancholy. He took a turn or two across the deck, then paused to watch the small cutter press its way through what was actually quite a heavy sea. The sternsheets appeared crowded: probably indicating officers aboard, even if all had abandoned their hats and were wearing watch coats or cloaks. Caulfield looked about with an element of guilt but all was in order and, with the exception of one of the fore topsail braces that was currently being replaced, he had nothing to explain or reproach himself for.

  The boat drew near, and one aboard replied, “Scylla!” to the forecastle lookout's challenge. The captain was returning, and Caulfield also thought he could see King amongst the group at the stern, which meant that some sort of activity might be expected. They were heading for the frigate's larboard side, so no official compliments or reception was required, but Caulfield straightened his stock and smoothed down his uniform as he made his way to the entry port to meet them.

  The captain came off first, and shook his premier’s hand almost as soon as he was on deck.

  “All well here, I trust, Michael,” he said.

  “Inde
ed, sir.” Caulfield's mouth opened to enquire of the shore before closing, with its job undone; there were some questions that a lieutenant could not ask of his captain, especially in full view of the watch on deck.

  “You did not feel inclined to lower topmasts?” Banks asked, looking about him. “We are well protected by the shore, don't you know?”

  “With the French in the area I reasoned we should remain ready to sail,” Caulfield replied.

  “That was probably wise.” Banks eyed him carefully. “Though it must have made for an uncomfortable night in this swell.”

  King was on deck now, along with an unknown civilian dressed in a dark brown watch coat. “This is Mr Brady, the Jamestown dockyard superintendent,” Banks explained, and Caulfield shook the new man's hard hand. “I'd be obliged if you would send for Mr Evans; we are to inspect the damage to our hull.”

  Caulfield glanced at the duty midshipman, who sped off in search of the carpenter.

  “In the meanwhile you had better prepare for going ashore, Mr Caulfield,” Banks told him. “And take enough for several days,” he added. “Mr King will enlighten you further, but there is an official dinner this evening, and afterwards you will be travelling across the island, so bring appropriate clothing.” The captain stopped, as if suddenly unsure of a point. “I assume you can ride a horse, Michael?”

  * * *

  Timmons watched them. From his vantage point on the forecastle he saw the captain lead Scylla's carpenter and some official from the shore down into the bowels of the ship, while King and the first lieutenant stood yarning on the half deck. The ship was in need of repair, as any fool could tell, and it needed even less intelligence to deduce that, whatever method they chose, she would have to be lightened. That might mean pumping her dry of fresh water, and even unloading some of their stores, but there was also a far more predictable side effect; the main bulk of the crew would be taken ashore.