by Alaric Bond
"I’m grateful, Michael, really I am. But there is little I can do – the captain will not listen to rumours and tattletale, the more so when it be second hand."
"I had thought you would say as much, but you won’t think the worse of me for speaking?"
"No of course not, but there is little I can do, not without some actual evidence."
Crowley nodded, then stood up suddenly as the sound of someone approaching came to them both.
"Very good, sir, would you be requiring anything else?" He took King’s bowl and spoon, as Fraiser entered the gunroom.
"No, thank you, Crowley," King replied gruffly. "You may see to Mr Fraiser."
* * * * *
Just how much planning had gone into the choice of guests at the captain’s party was impossible to say, but they were a young collection, with Marine Lieutenant Newman the oldest at twenty nine. Banks was there to meet them at the entrance to the great cabin as they filed in and collected a glass of Madeira from Dupont. Kate turned to smile at Manning, who was feeling decidedly uncomfortable in a jacket he had borrowed from Conroy, one of the master’s mates. Cobb, a senior midshipman, looked no easier, although the smell of good food from the pantry and the sight of Rose, several years his junior, in a positive state of terror did much to bolster him. The last was Caulfield, who arrived just after Lewis, the other master’s mate. Banks beamed at the company with genuine pleasure. This was so much nicer than the twice weekly dinner with a couple of officers, and the presence of a comely young woman, and the young Miss Black certainly filled that role, brightened up the proceedings no end.
"We will dispense with formalities," he said. "Please sit where you will, and be comfortable."
The group moved as a whole toward the table, each member carefully avoiding the temptation to make for the foot and, despite what the captain had said, each avoiding his chair at the head without question. Manning found himself seated next to Kate who in turn, and much to Banks’ delight, was at the captain’s left hand. Directly opposite, on the captain’s right, Newman took his seat, with Lewis next to him. Caulfield was at the foot, with the two midshipmen to either side, well within striking distance, should the need arise. There was a brief silence while the captain muttered a simple grace, then everyone seemed to start talking at once as Dupont led a line of marine servants carrying pea and ham soup.
"Are you not drinking?" Kate asked Newman, in her customary straightforward manner. The marine officer smiled back, and raised his glass of cordial to the girl.
"Yes, but not of the demon spirit," he said affably.
"Are you temperate, sir?" she enquired further, jumping slightly as Caulfield began to choke on his soup.
"That is a description rarely applied to Alex," he said, amidst light laughter from the others. Newman beamed back at her as Caulfield continued. "I have been with Mr Newman on several runs ashore, and can testify that he needs no liquor to enjoy hi’self." The laughter was more genuine now, as slowly the differences in rank and status dissolved, and the party began.
"So you are a midwife?" Banks remarked, enjoying yet again the deep fascination to be found in the green of her eyes.
"Yes, a Mother Midnight for nigh on two years," she agreed. "I’ve helped give birth to countless children, yet never had one for myself."
Banks cleared his throat silently, dismissing the thoughts that had flooded, unbidden, into his mind. "So how did we find you in a ship on the ocean?"
"Miles away from the nearest pregnant woman, do you mean?" There was more laughter around the table although Banks claimed her gaze with his own. "My father is a brilliant seaman, but of no use whatsoever when it comes to simple matters, such as feeding himself, and his people. After my mother died I accompanied him as a mixture of purser, cook, seamstress, nurse and companion. I have no other family, and travelling the world seemed a likely enough pursuit."
Indeed, she was by no means the first and only seafaring female Banks had met, and certainly did not have the monopoly of spunk and directness; qualities that he particularly valued in the opposite sex. But few combined such attributes with beauty and charm and by the time the soup had been removed, and they were hacking their way through roasted chickens, chickens that really were hens and had been left far too long before slaughter, the captain was totally smitten.
Lewis had asked Manning a question about his forthcoming examination, which he was struggling to answer whilst still keeping track of the conversation to his right. He was due to call on his betters at Surgeons’ Hall to have his position confirmed, and truly this had been at the forefront of his mind although he now found the exact details hard to recall, as Kate and the captain were falling deeper into a tête-à-tête that was definitely excluding all others. Rose sneezed suddenly, blushed red, and there was general laughter, but as soon as the commotion had died down, the two were back to each other, and Manning found himself playing with his food, while he hopelessly searched for any entree or witty rejoinder.
"Wine with you, sir!" Newman’s booming voice broke into his mood that was in danger of becoming morose. Manning glanced up to see the good-hearted marine smile at him over a glass of lemon cordial. He nodded in response and raised his glass, although when he drank he was careful just to sip. It was possible that Newman had noticed his dejection, together with the cause, and had taken pity on him. The situation was becoming more dangerous by the minute; if Newman had noticed then others might as well. Kate would certainly not be impressed by what she would take to be nothing more than an adolescent tantrum; Manning had long ago learnt that no human emotion is so misunderstood as jealously.
Spurred into action, he turned to Rose on his left and hurled himself into conversation. The midshipman froze, his fork hardly up to his mouth, as the surgeon’s mate began a tirade of observations and questions, many of which he seemed capable and eager to answer himself. Fortunately Cobb, who had not been quite as careful with the wine as he might, was soon lured into response, and in no time their little corner was alive with laughter and comment to the extent that Caulfield, more used to dining in the respectful silence of the gunroom, was quite disconcerted. He glanced up, and caught the eye of Newman, who appeared to be considering his fellow guests with the dispassionate view of an outsider. The two men exchanged a friendly smile, and returned to their food.
Plates were removed and smoothly replaced by empty dishes. Banks tore himself away from the girl to look around expectantly.
"Dupont was talking of Spotted Dog, or maybe a Drowned Baby," he said, almost absent-mindedly. Newman cleared his throat and the captain realised his faux pas and hurriedly explained the naval terms for the various types of boiled puddings to Kate.
"All appear sound to me," she grinned. "Drowned, boiled or raw, I mind not!"
The laughter that followed died as a massive lump of carbohydrate was placed in front of the captain, who began to solemnly cut it into sections.
Manning struggled with his dessert. He was growing hot, and the heavy pudding, combined with Conroy’s jacket which seemed to be getting tighter by the moment, made him feel self-conscious and foolish. He turned to Kate, but her attention was elsewhere. Newman flashed him a glance, but he knew himself unable to make conversation. There was a lump in his throat; he set his spoon down, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. The room was unbearably hot, the tightness of his collar increased, and his face grew red and swollen.
"Goodness, there’s no air in here!" Newman said suddenly, turning to the captain. "With your permission, sir?"
Banks broke away from the girl and nodded at a marine servant, who opened several panes in the stern gallery. The cold afternoon wind swept in, and Manning looked his thanks at Newman. Suddenly a hand touched his; it was Kate’s.
"Not eating, Robert?" she asked, her head slightly angled and her lips so deliciously close.
"A pause," he said, hesitantly, feeling the strength slowly return to him.
"Summoning the energy for a final attack, eh?" The ca
ptain was smiling at him now, and he was able to meet his eyes and nod in return.
"Splendid fare, sir; I thank you."
"Indeed," Newman was quick to back him. "Finest we have eaten for many a while."
Kate’s hand had remained on his, openly; on the table for all to see. And it returned often while they drank a single glass of port, and the party finally dissolved. Then, as they were saying their thanks and goodbyes to people with whom they shared the same cramped space each hour of every day, it slipped quite naturally under his arm, and stayed so as they left the cabin together.
* * * * *
The ship had altered course at noon, and was now beginning to start the steady jolting motion that signalled her entry to the Channel proper. Reassured by the men’s message, Banks had not ordered a diversion to Falmouth, and her stem was set for Portsmouth; their home port. Within a matter of days the delights of an English shore would be within the reach of them all. There would be fresh food, fresh water, an end to the constant motion and, for many, the chance to sleep more than four hours at one time. Maybe there would be wives on board: the touch of female flesh, dancing to the fiddle and a tot of 'Sailor’s Joy'. All this was so close at hand as Pandora punched her way towards Spithead, and the might of the Channel Fleet that lay at anchor there.
But it was a fleet that had done the unthinkable; a fleet that had made unheard of demands, and risen up in rebellion against the Admiralty, and even Parliament when they were ignored. Even now the warships lay under the control of a small group of junior officers and men, men who were willing to risk the noose to see their requests met. And with every moment Pandora sailed closer, closer to the red flags of rebellion, and the danger they proclaimed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY raised the island at four in the afternoon, St Catherine’s Point just becoming visible from the deck as Fraiser ordered Pandora two points to starboard, to bring them to the western approach to Spithead and Portsmouth. For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening small groups of both officers and men found reason to take themselves on deck to gaze at their home country. All but a few had been on British soil less than six months before although, in that brief period, their ship had seen independent action three times, and actually participated in the greatest fleet battle of the war so far. They had stories to tell, many on shore to tell them to, and even a glimpse of Wight’s grey chalk cliffs was enough to awaken dormant feelings of homesickness and longing in the stoutest hearts.
Evening gave way to night, the convoy was behaving itself and, as Caulfield took over the middle watch, lights from the south east coast of the island told him they were making slow but steady progress.
"We’ll catch the start of the tide before dawn," Fraiser informed him. "I’ll be back when King relieves you at four."
Caulfield nodded, and settled down to the next four hours of peace. Surely there would be little demanded of him, apart from the occasional night signal from a passing ship, or shore base. The watch below should be sound asleep in their hammocks, while the watch on deck huddled in the lee of the gangways, muttering and yarning to each other. He could relax and enjoy the late spring night, with nothing but the promise of England and home in the morning to concern anyone.
Fraiser came on as promised and with King as the officer of the watch, Caulfield knew he would be leaving the running of the ship in capable hands. He made his way from the quarterdeck and was about to descend to the gunroom when the voice of the captain stopped him.
"Too early for breakfast, Michael?" Banks appeared from his quarters in shirtsleeves and without a hat. Caulfield paused, he was suddenly ravenously hungry, and the captain served devilled kidneys and the most excellent coffee.
"That would be most welcome, sir," he said, and wished the fresh marine sentry a good morning as he followed Banks through to the great cabin.
* * * * *
By the time they had rounded the foreland off Bembridge and were preparing to enter the Solent proper the first faint wisps of dawn had begun to appear. Caulfield had shortened sail during his watch, but the incoming tide now held them firmly in its grip, and it seemed likely they would arrive at the anchorage sooner than expected.
"We could heave to, or wear about?" King suggested, but Fraiser shook his head; true dawn was not far away; there seemed little point in disdaining such favourable conditions. Besides the watch on deck were restless; both officers had detected the tell tale signs of minor arguments and grumpy retorts. To have Pandora delay on the very threshold of a homecoming would not be popular, and it might also mean complicated, and probably misunderstood, communications with the convoy.
To larboard, in the shelter of St Helen’s Bay, a sizeable fleet was at rest. The riding lights stood out plainly, but the darker hues of the hulls could also be seen.
"Channel Fleet?" King asked.
"Aye, like as not," Fraiser replied. "They’ll be awaiting a favourable wind."
King stared at the assembled shipping; Crowley’s warning was still with him, and he knew that the men might well have mutiny on their minds, but now he could reassure himself that there was little to fear. This was their home, after all; Britain’s principle naval base was less than an hour away; nothing so very wrong could occur there. And with the protection of the Channel Fleet so close, there was little reason why they should not continue at this leisurely pace. Surely no trouble could come from them arriving slightly earlier than they had intended.
* * * * *
"I’m leaving Pandora," Banks said when they had finished their meal. "I wanted you to be the first to know."
"Leaving?" Caulfield wiped his mouth with a napkin and considered the captain. "Why?"
Banks pursed his lips. "Well, I think it time. This has been a lucky ship, and obviously I will miss her and everyone aboard, but…"
"You are staying with the Navy, though?"
"Lord, yes." Banks waved the crumbs from the table. "This is the only life I could tolerate. I simply feel that a larger ship and a touch more responsibility might be beneficial."
Privately Caulfield recoiled at the captain’s confidence; something that, to his mind, was bordering on the arrogant. Banks could not have been in contact with anyone on shore since Tagus, and even then it was likely that letters or news would be some months old. And yet he was planning a career move, deciding to abandon a well set up and successful ship and all because he fancied a different one. Despite the steady increase in supply, few officers could simply name their vessel and station. Banks was either deluded, mad, or had access to interest and influence of the very highest order. But whatever the backing, his behaviour was nothing more than that of a spoilt child.
"And you are certain of a command?" Caulfield could not help but ask.
Banks nodded. "I might have to wait a spell, but something will come up. I have prior assurances; if this commission is judged successful, and I think we deserve as much, it should be a matter of course."
Caulfield sipped at his coffee, which was not quite as good as others he had enjoyed in the captain’s quarters; somehow the very atmosphere felt tainted. It would be fine if the commission be allowed to continue, but what if it were decided that Pandora required extensive repairs? She might easily be paid off. He was her first lieutenant, and the ship had been successful in action but, even for him, the prospect of re-employment was by no means guaranteed. A period on shore, maybe six months, maybe far longer, might be just around the corner. And the other officers, men he had served with, men he respected, could find themselves permanently on half pay. The image of Fraiser and the problems of the previous week came to him suddenly. The sailing master was currently on the quarterdeck; a few feet above their heads he was taking Pandora in to anchor. Depending on the captain’s report, it was quite possible that it would be the last time he conned a British ship of war.
"Well, I am sorry to hear of it," Caulfield said somewhat feebly.
Banks nodded. "Then we are both of one mind. Were Pan
dora to be laid off I would hope that you and some of the others might follow me to my next command. However, I think it more likely that another will take my place, and the commission continue."
There was some solace in that, as well as a sizeable compliment, and a man who could pick and choose his next vessel would certainly have some say in his previous command’s future. It was also flattering to be considered worthy enough to become a follower; were he to pin his colours to Banks, he would advance at a similar rate. He might yet die a post captain, and could even achieve his flag.
"Let’s say no more for now; I have people to meet on shore, and there are the repairs to consider. But I wished you to be aware of my thoughts. As I said, I feel Pandora to be a lucky ship, and we have created something good in her people, have we not?" he smiled. "It would be a shame were it to go awry at this late stage."
* * * * *
"Don’t want no breakfast: ’s too early." The man pushed the spoon away and turned his head in disgust. Manning stirred the bowl of burgoo and offered it again. Looking after Captain Black was not his favourite task; that he was Kate’s father made it slightly easier, although the fact remained that he was truculent, objectionable and ungrateful; he could certainly detect little family resemblance.
"Come, father," she intervened. "You’re going ashore today, an’ we have some travelling to do. Eat your breakfast; you’ll be the stronger for it."
"This ain’t my ship," Black informed them. "My ship’s the Katharine Ruth, an’ this ain’t her."
"Your ship is in convoy," Manning told him, soothingly. "You’ll see her once more when we anchor, and that will be any time now."
"Anchor? I’ll say when we anchor!" Black roared, and Manning took the opportunity of slipping a full spoon of the oatmeal gruel into his mouth. The man coughed and choked agreeably, and Manning loaded afresh.
"He didn’t used to be like this," Kate whispered. "It’s the injury; he’s not himself."
