by Alaric Bond
The eggs arrived. King switched his attention from Fraiser's note to tackle one with a spoon and, if he tapped the shell more firmly than the task warranted, it had nothing to do with his thoughts. Julia was a wonderful woman, and he had honestly believed they could have been happy together: it was surely a pity she did not agree. But the cure for regret was readily available, and, despite the hour and his unusually clear head, King had the sudden urge to forgo his tea and call for something stronger.
Several of the officers present were new arrivals and would hardly turn a hair were King to call for a rummer of gin. He looked about for a steward then noticed Donaldson, the bloated and ruddy captain of marines who was already halfway through a bottle of hock, his usual accompaniment to a bloody breakfast pork chop. In a hard drinking age, the wine was by no means extraordinary: Donaldson would finish that bottle as well as another of claret and be tapping the brandy long before supper. But one look at the marine's heavy, reddened jowls as they slurped at the smudged glass was enough to quell all desire, and King reached for his cup of sweetened, milk-less tea instead.
“Fraiser seems to have settled well enough,” Caulfield boomed from the end of the table. King forced himself to concentrate on his words before more thoughts of Julia could lead him further astray.
“Indeed,” he agreed, then, struggling for something to say, added: “Though it is to be expected; the island is a beautiful place, and he is in good care.”
“Care that is every bit as beautiful as good,” Caulfield agreed, catching King's train of thought in a manner the younger man had not intended. “I fancy there are worse ways and poorer company in which to see out a life than in the charge of the enchanting Miss Booker.”
King glanced sidelong at the first lieutenant who, despite their difference in status, was also a friend. At the time he had harboured suspicions that Caulfield was equally struck by Julia, yet now the man could speak easily and without a hint of regret. He turned his attention back to the eggs. It was strange how easily other people survived deep emotion, while he took even the most trivial of matters to heart, dwelling on them until they became totally out of proportion. Strange and more than a little annoying: he was quite certain such a defect in character, and he could view it in no other way, made life that much harder to live.
King finished the first of the eggs, which had been hard boiled, and found the second, a brown, to be hardly cooked and barely edible. He wondered for a moment how whoever was in charge of cooking the things could be so inept in their duties and almost made to complain, when the memory of those stains came back to haunt him. King was well aware that he was hardly the epitome of efficiency at that moment, and with Prometheus still in the early days of her commission, there was much slightly amiss. Perhaps the correct boiling of eggs might not be so very important.
Movement ahead caught his attention and he looked up to see Davison, the second lieutenant, seat himself opposite. The two exchanged the briefest of good mornings. They had only been living in close proximity a matter of days, yet already it was clear they would never become friends.
“Brought us a fresh hand, did you not?” Davison asked, with more than a hint of condescension as he reached for the teapot. “And an experienced man, by all accounts – how did you chance upon such a prize?” The habitually smug expression grew suddenly wicked as he added: “Been frequenting the nanny houses, have you?” in a softer tone.
King did not elaborate. Davison was actually ten months younger, but had sat his board and obtained appointment as a lieutenant a whole year ahead of him. Consequently the bright, assured and annoyingly handsome cull was rated second lieutenant to his third, despite the fact that King had served with both Captain Banks and the first lieutenant throughout several previous commissions.
“Would that be an able seaman?” Caulfield asked, overhearing.
“Indeed, sir,” Davison confirmed in a louder voice. “Fellow by the name of Ross: he has been allocated to my division. I've yet to speak with the boatswain but fancy we might rate him able.”
“Excellent,” Caulfield mumbled through a mouth now filled with soft tack.
“Of course we have yet to see how he performs,” Davison continued. “But I'd chance we may have landed ourselves a regular fo'c'sle man, and the Dear knows we've few enough to speak of.”
King wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. The volunteer from the previous evening had asked for his history to be kept secret and, in his slightly fuddled state, King had agreed. But now, in the company of fellow officers, he wondered if it had been the right decision.
There were a number of reasons why a man might be broken at court martial: by their very nature, such tribunals varied greatly. And often those assembled on foreign stations were made up from a small selection of available officers, many of whom may have known the defendant well. Such knowledge meant they could be lenient and indulging, or the exact opposite, and the mere fact that Ross had been treated harshly did not automatically imply guilt. He might simply have found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or become the victim of a senior officer's spite. But once stripped of his rank and having little understanding of life ashore, even an experienced man may be left with no alternative other than to ship as an ordinary hand.
Then again, Ross might equally turn out to be a bad apple: someone keen to fill a seaman's mind with twisted truths and resentment. Since the Quota Act of '95, and the vast number of educated criminals consequently sent to serve afloat, the general level of understanding had risen considerably forward of the mast. An average seaman was now not quite so gullible or naïve, while the lower deck remained just as notorious as a place where rumour and tattle-tale could multiply faster than any bed bug. To introduce Ross, who was both bright and potentially brim filled with resentment, into such a fertile environment might prove other than the bonus it appeared.
But on reflection, King thought not; there had been something about the man that struck him at the time, and did so again even as he considered the subject. Broken he might have been, but Ross retained an air of competence and respectability that would have been drummed into him throughout his progress from cockpit to wardroom. Every officer lives with the eternal fear of mutiny and, however low he may have fallen or unjust his treatment, King sensed that Ross was not one to cause trouble.
“Did you say his name was Ross?” Donaldson broke in from the other side of the table. “Knew a Ross when I were stationed in India.” King's body went cold, but he looked across with an expression of apparent interest. The red faced marine was well into his fifties: old to be no more than a captain, and at sea. But despite the rheumy eyes and a constant need for alcohol, Donaldson had travelled extensively. For all King knew, he might well be acquainted with Ross, in which case the little charade was to be guessed relatively early in play.
“Factor in Bombay,” the older man continued, before reaching for his glass once more. “Though he also kept the finest set of polo ponies east of the Hooghly.”
“A trained hand is welcome, Tom.” Caulfield said, ignoring the marine. “Would that you could find us more; we still need three score at least if Prometheus is to sail with any confidence in ten days' time.”
“I was speakin' with Cook of the Tonnant.” It was the slightly hesitant voice of Lewis, a former master's mate who had recently passed his board and was their fifth lieutenant. King had served with Lewis in three previous ships, the first being an antiquated sixty-four, where Lewis was rated an ordinary hand. King was the first to notice his potential and had taken quiet satisfaction in watching the man's progress ever since. “He says they're still a hundred short,” Lewis continued. “And in danger of groundin' on their own beef bones.”
The remark drew sympathetic mutterings from all at the table. Tonnant, a fine, eighty-gun ship – Toulon built from Adriatic oak – had been captured during Nelson's action at Aboukir Bay some years ago, and now boasted Edward Pellew as her captain. He was a man almost universally respected an
d even loved by his men, yet his ship lay at anchor not five cables from Prometheus, and with about as much chance of putting to sea as a Cheapside punt. Britain might only have been at war a matter of weeks, but all present understood the damage that had been done months, and possibly years before.
“It would have been better were the Navy maintained to the same degree as the army,” Caulfield spoke quietly but to a series of knowing grunts from those at the table. During the uneasy peace, most of Britain's fighting sail had been stood down. Working ships with seasoned crews were paid off, freeing their people to take more lucrative berths in traders and East Indiamen. Consequently, when conflict resumed and warships became needed again, precious few were available to man them. In March, a hot press had scooped up every available Jack, be they willing or otherwise, along with any landsman who gave the slightest indication of being trainable. The short term effect had been sound enough; ships so recently laid up in ordinary were able to sail in record time, and the seas Britain relied upon for both trade and protection were soon within her control once more. But barely three months later there were few seamen of any type to be found, save those already on the other side of the world and aboard merchants. Industries, such as fishing and coastal transport had almost ceased to exist, while any returning John Company fleet was set upon by the pressing tenders, seizing men who had been asea for years and turning them over to serve in the Royal Navy. All would settle in time but foresight, and a less parsimonious government, would have kept more warships in service and avoided such confusion.
“We should have news of Benson afore long,” King said, breaking the silence that was a rare commodity during wardroom mealtimes. Benson, the fourth lieutenant, had taken a party of trusted hands inland on a mission that fell somewhere between a recruiting drive and kidnapping, and was due back with his haul the following day.
“Aye, with luck he could bring us a dozen or so,” the first lieutenant agreed. “But they are likely to be weavers or other poor wretches made seedy by the factories. Trained hands is what we need; more like that Tom brought us last night.”
The murmur of agreement spread about the table, and King's eyes fell. Caulfield's words had embarrassed him in a strange way. However sure he might feel of Ross, the man had yet to prove himself, and he only hoped the first lieutenant’s confidence was well placed.
* * *
When a ship is at anchor, lieutenants do not take charge of a watch; that responsibility passes to senior warrant officers. And so it was that Gabriel Cartwright, master's mate and a man with over thirty years' sea-going experience, had been left in control of one of his Majesty's line-of-battleships while her people were at breakfast. Such a duty was probably the closest Cartwright would ever come to command although he was not altogether sorry. Since joining his first ship as a third class volunteer, he considered he had done all right for himself. From being the lowest of the low – what some of the cruder members of the lower deck referred to as a powder monkey – he had risen to senior warrant rank and, in truth, was only one step away from being a commissioned officer. But sitting a board had never been one of Gabriel Cartwright's ambitions. There would be too much book learning: as it was, he struggled with many aspects of navigation. And the prospect of compiling journals, keeping the necessary logs, and conforming to officer etiquette filled him with disgust as much as trepidation. Even if he were fortunate enough to fool a bunch of post captains into granting him a commission, then trick another into taking him aboard his ship, there would be far too much responsibility for his liking. And it would come with little in the way of recompense.
Cartwright earned over three pounds a lunar month, which was less than half that paid to a lieutenant. But much of the difference would be eaten up with expensive mess bills, and Cartwright could live quite simply in the cockpit. And, as the senior master's mate, he was also in charge of the midshipmen, which gave him more than enough power and prestige, should he crave such a thing. Besides, sea-going berths for lieutenants were relatively rare, whereas an experienced warrant officer was always in demand. If he kept his current rank he would be likely to find employment for the rest of his life. He was quite content with his station, and reasonably happy to die in it, although perhaps not in the very near future.
But even with such a lack of ambition, it was still good to walk along what Cartwright told himself was the weather side of the quarterdeck – the breeze being too light and fickle to be certain. To stand at the break, hands stiffly clasped behind his back, and look down on the deck beneath. To consider those ship's boats not in use, which were stacked neatly on skids before him, then raise his eyes slowly, taking in all of the mighty foremast that, even with topmasts set down, towered way above until it quite hurt his neck to look. And to assure himself that, in theory at least, the third rate line-of-battleship on which he stood, her and every one of the mighty cannon she carried, was currently under his sole command.
The hail from the forecastle lookout rudely interrupted Cartwright's private fancies. A shore boat was heading for them and the 'Aye Aye' bellowed in response told him there would be an officer aboard. Cartwright glanced down to the larboard entry port where all but the most senior would be expected to enter. He was still not unduly worried. The likelihood was his visitor simply carried a message from the port admiral, or maybe it was one of the dockyard supervisors with ideas above his station. But even if the boat contained the Admiral of the Fleet travelling incognito, Cartwright would not be unduly moved. It was one of the benefits of his rank; in difficult situations there was likely to be someone more experienced to take control, and they were usually no more than a summons away.
But it might not be a bad idea to meet whoever was coming, he decided, as the boat hooked on to Prometheus' mainchains. Cartwright eased himself down the quarterdeck ladder; he was by no means stiff, old or rheumatic, but of late had not been inclined to rush some things that had been more easy when a lad. Mr Midshipman Steven, one of the young gentlemen under Cartwright's care, was already at the entry port and talking to an unknown midshipman who had presumably been one of the occupants of the boat. The two lads stiffened slightly and shed their boyish grins as Cartwright approached.
“Mr Dickson here is from the receiving ship, Mr Cartwright,” Steven said. “They've hands for us.”
“Not so many, I fear,” the second midshipman added. “Prometheus has only been allotted three, but all are seamen, mind.”
“Three ain't going to do us much good,” Cartwright grumbled, although it was clear that any ill feeling was not directed at the boy.
“They took a bundle out of a transport with a homebound convoy,” the visitor told him. “And from the same ship, so Mr Robson said we should divide them ’twixt every vessel at anchor.”
“Otherwise they'd have all gone to Tonnant I suppose.” Cartwright snorted, glancing across to where their more illustrious neighbour lay a few cables off.
“She's even worse off for hands,” the lad agreed. “But Mr Robson said this weren't a happy bunch, and wanted them split as much as possible.”
“Very well,” Cartwright sighed. “Send 'em up an' let's take a look.”
When they did, the three seamen did not appear so very remarkable. All were well dressed, clean, and appeared healthy; one even carried a ditty bag and, to look at them, few would have guessed they were being brought aboard Prometheus against their will.
“Welcome, lads.” Cartwright was well aware that little would be gained from antagonising pressed men further. “We're glad to have you aboard, and sorry for the necessity.”
On closer inspection it was clear that two of the newcomers had faces like thunder, although they regarded the master's mate in apparent acceptance, but the third was still too angry to make eye contact. Cartwright ignored them, and took the proffered paper from the regulating midshipman. He signed against the three names and handed the receipt back. The new hands would come round – he knew that from many years' experience. And every ma
n present was equally aware it was not down to Cartwright that they had been dragged from a cushy berth to serve in a man-o'-war. Or that such a diabolical act had occurred just when England had hove into sight, and their wages were almost in their pockets.
“Very good, Mr Dickson,” Cartwright muttered in the manner in which he had been addressing young midshipmen for what seemed like an eternity. “We shall take them from here. Thank you for your efforts, and kindly remember us again in the future.”
The lad touched his hat, flashed a grin at Steven, then disappeared backwards through the entry port, leaving the warrant officers looking at their new recruits.
“We're for the Channel Fleet,” Cartwright told them, not unkindly. “So there'll be a better chance of a home port than aboard most ships. And the captain's a good officer who has taken more than his share of prize money in the past.”
The news had little impact. It was common knowledge that a home port did not necessarily mean shore leave, rather the opposite: such a privilege being far more likely to be granted where there was less chance of desertion.
“What say we gets you below and you can meet up with the pusser?” Cartwright continued lightly, his gaze inevitably shifting to the third, who was still glaring at the distant horizon. “Then we'll settle you in a mess and sort out any kit you may be a-missing.”
The first two seemed compliant enough. Most seamen would be pressed at least once in their careers and considered it a pitfall of their chosen path: an occupational hazard, to be offset by prize money and the certainty of enough drink to see them partially anaesthetised for at least some of the day. But the third had still to accept his fate, and Cartwright knew he would give trouble even before the man made his move.
