by Alaric Bond
King swallowed; he sympathised entirely with the captain's predicament, but that did not ease his situation any. As the officer who had discovered the stowaway, it had fallen upon him to represent her, and he would far rather have been given a different task.
“Well, there is no more to be said now; if chance presents to transfer the wench to an Indiaman, we must take it,” the captain continued. “But I will not delay the convoy any, and neither shall I request a diversion to the Tagus.” He turned to King. “You have found her accommodation?”
“She has been sleeping in the sick berth,” the lieutenant replied. “But I had assumed would eventually lodge with Mr and Mrs Roberts.”
“The two of them have space hardly bigger than the chart room,” Caulfield muttered. “And I wouldn't trust that badger Roberts to share with anything female, even with his witch of a wife in the offing.”
“No indeed,” Banks agreed. “Both gun room and orlop would be equally unsuitable, and we have no schoolmaster or chaplain to take her under their wing. It will have to be the wardroom.”
The two lieutenants regarded their captain with more than a hint of incredulity. Although supposedly manned by gentlemen, the senior officers' accommodation could be a very basic environment and hardly suitable for the introduction of a solitary young woman.
“Would that be entirely appropriate, sir?” Caulfield questioned.
“Is anywhere in a ship of war?” Banks replied. “I could oust Roberts from his cabin and let her share with Mrs Roberts alone, but fear such temptation would not be good for the people's morale, and there would undoubtedly be a problem with the heads. No, the wardroom it will have to be. The chaplain's quarters are currently being used for storage, I believe; have them cleared, and she may be suited there.”
King and Caulfield exchanged glances. In the past they had shared smaller spaces with several women; it had not been ideal, though manageable. But Prometheus carried a larger staff of officers, so the ratio of men to a single female would be higher.
“Perchance her presence might improve the language and behaviour of some of the newer officers,” Banks continued, warming to the idea, and seemingly oblivious to any problem he may have introduced. “And, who knows, could even prove a cure for Captain Donaldson's incessant flatulence.”
* * *
As the commission rolled on, a reasonable level of routine and order became established in most departments. The carpenter's was perhaps the first, luck having provided Roberts with a team of trained men who needed little instruction and were already cooperating in a way more common at the end of a voyage. Stevenson, their sailmaker, was almost as well served, as was the ship's cook; a man named Stone. In the latter's case, this was more than fortunate. Stone was an experienced seaman of advanced years who had lost a leg at the Battle of Copenhagen, although this was his first experience of feeding several hundred bodies, three times a day. But though he might know precious little about catering, Stone was an expert when it came to organising men, and the high proportion of landsmen aboard Prometheus provided a rich vein of experience for him to recruit from. Other areas were not quite so well served however, with the afterguard, gunners and topmen showing the main deficiencies. They were faults that would take time to rectify and caused more than a degree of worry amongst the lieutenants.
But summer had now become firmly established and, as Prometheus headed ever further south, she was warmed by a sun that seemed to grow in strength by the day. With the wind constant and in the north-east, this was indeed perfect sailing weather, even if few of her officers, be they commissioned, warrant or petty, had any mind to enjoy the conditions. From breakfast at eight bells of the morning watch, to down hammocks, twelve hours later, the ship was in a near constant state of exercise, with topmen almost continually aloft, while the rumble of gun trucks and shouts from the quarter gunners seemed to echo throughout every waking hour.
And the regular drills had other, positive, side effects: Prometheus' officers were also finding their feet. The majority had served aboard other ships in their current rank and needed only to adjust to the peculiarities of their present vessel. But for Lieutenant Lewis, until recently a master's mate and once a common seaman, it was his first experience of wardroom life, and the change was more difficult to embrace.
Small matters, such as having a marine as a personal servant, and dining at a different hour, with formal toasts, superior food, and a seemingly endless supply of alcohol, were relatively easy to adjust to. It was the authority his new found status attracted that he found more disconcerting. Even as a senior warrant officer, he had remained on familiar terms with the men. He was of their stock, after all, had lived their lives, and knew all their requests and excuses as well as the reasons behind them. But now he was officially a quarterdeck officer there could be no such intimacy.
Men he had known well, and even messed with in previous ships, would only exchange a formal knuckled salute in return for an amiable smile, while anything from a specific order to a polite request was treated with the ultimate respect, and responded to instantly. Lewis supposed he would find such attention to be usual in time, and remembered providing as much to commissioned officers in the past. But still the distance between his old life and the new was disconcerting, and not completely welcomed.
Meanwhile, on the lower deck, Ross was making adjustments that were almost exactly diametric. The incongruity of carrying out duties only ever ordered in the past took some while to accustom to. And having to look after himself when, even as a humble volunteer he had a hammock man and shared the services of a steward, was also a new experience. Then there were other, greater adjustments: for all his time at sea, Ross had been in small ships and considered officers' accommodation to be cramped. But the worst encountered was nothing compared to what an ordinary hand had to endure. And further than simply lacking personal space, he found he must learn the subtleties of what was, and was not, acceptable to men who lived in such close proximity to each other. How dirty bodies, incessant snoring or any other unsociable habit was soon jointly identified and corrected, while confidences and simple friendships became valued and respected every bit as much as those encountered in more gentlemanly circles.
But still progress had been made; each week one man from each mess was voted cook, a thankless duty that involved drawing the daily allowance of raw food from the holders and ensuring correct amounts were given. It was something Ross had done with an impeccable fairness that drew silent approval from his fellows, and he had been selected more than once. And other skills, from tying simple hitches with one hand and in the dark, to mending clothes and chewing, rather than smoking, tobacco were coming to him gradually. His informal education also had fringe benefits; new found knowledge was developing alongside scantly remembered muscles that ached at night but proved far more solid the next day. And hands, previously soft and without character, now became efficient tools, if mildly ingrained with the honourable stain of hard work. He felt his waist reduce and upper arms broaden; a four hour shift aboard a hammock gave far better sleep than any time previously spent in a cot, and the fellowship found in his lower deck mess was undoubtedly superior to any wardroom atmosphere previously known.
His fall from grace had been a disaster, and nothing could stop Ross yearning for the feel of a quarterdeck under his boot. But life on the lower deck was not the hell he had imagined. And in time, he felt, may even become acceptable.
King was also adjusting to the world of a large ship of war, while starting to positively benefit from his reformed ways. His abstinence from alcohol had heralded a dramatic improvement in both performance and attitude, while the private knowledge that he was no longer abusing his body gave a satisfaction that was in danger of making him smug.
Life in a third rate's wardroom was very different from the frigate gun rooms he had been more recently accustomed to. The amount of space was still hard to comprehend, and seemed to make getting to know the intake of fresh faces a more
lengthy business. A few he became familiar with straight away: others took far longer and Marine Captain Donaldson was one of the latter.
The older man's loud voice and dominating ways seemed to saturate even such a large living area. And in the brief pause following Donaldson retiring, and before the deep, stentorian snores began, he found he was not alone in drawing a sigh of relief. On the other hand, Second Lieutenant Davison, undoubtedly his superior, yet almost a year younger, and as fresh faced as many of their midshipmen, took acclimatising to in a totally different way.
But the hardest of all to accommodate was not one of King's fellow officers. In fact the person in question was entitled to no rank whatsoever, and yet dominated his thoughts when really there were far more healthy matters to consider.
Despite any reservations they may have held, the girl settled remarkably well in the wardroom. Judy, as she came to be known, was apparently used to unusual living conditions at the Shillingford house, so close proximity to the opposite gender was no novelty to her. And in time, as Prometheus and the rest of the convoy headed steadily south, all the senior officers became accustomed to having an additional female servant, for she was determined to earn her passage in some way, attending to them.
The other stewards accepted the help readily enough; none more so than Potterton who, despite his deferential appearance, was a true firebrand when it came to running an efficient pantry. He quickly noticed a fellow spirit: the girl had an obvious talent for dealing with food in any form and with her help the quality of Prometheus' catering rose further. Meanwhile other members of the wardroom staff, already far happier now they were working for a professional, took her under their collective wing. Most were many years her senior and treated the naïve Judy with a mixture of paternal care and professional appreciation, while simultaneously maintaining a wary eye for any common sailor who attempted too close an association.
And, as most officers mentioned at some point, she did clean up remarkably well. To eyes starved of female company, Judy looked particularly fetching in a crisp white steward’s shirt and round jacket above her plain dark half dress sewn from slop cloth the purser had provided. While there had been no temptation, King's enforced celibacy had been relatively simple to maintain, but with the distraction of her wandering about his living space at all times, his thoughts had become harder to keep on the task in hand. In the past, any desires that proved too persistent could be saved for the evening and then drowned in a surplus of alcohol but, with strong drink forgone, and a pretty face and figure constantly in attendance, King was finding a clear focus harder to achieve, although he was helped in no small way by an unlikely source; the other officers had also noted her charms.
All treated Judy differently, as would befit their various personalities, from the polite, almost sisterly affection exhibited by Marine Lieutenants Swift and James, through Benson's more equal and gentle teasing, to the overt leering of Marine Captain Donaldson. Even Caulfield, the balding and prematurely middle-aged first lieutenant, who most automatically assumed to be immune from feminine appeal was not unmoved.
But Caulfield and King had served together for far too long for there to be any subterfuge; the younger man could easily detect subtle differences in attitude when the first lieutenant was attended by Judy, rather than a regular wardroom steward. And King found such discoveries strangely reassuring: however wrong it might be to be interested in the young girl, he was evidently not the only man guilty.
* * *
“This is something you have to see,” Thompson told Butler and Jameson as the afternoon watch was dismissed.
“What you found then, Thombo?” Jameson asked. He and Butler had spent almost the entire afternoon aloft in continuous drill and the prospect of the second spirit ration of the day, supper, and then rest was far more attractive. Besides, in a ship that had been at sea a fair while there could hardly be anything new to discover.
Thompson said nothing in reply, but merely beckoned them to follow as he made his way along the upper deck towards the forecastle.
Jemmy Ducks, the elderly man detailed to caring for Prometheus' prodigious stock of poultry, was clearing out pens: a job that seemed to take up most of his waking hours. He looked round at the trio as they approached, and Jameson noticed the subtle change of expression on the oddly angelic face.
“What cheer, Jemmy?” Thompson asked, while flashing a look of shared mischief to his two messmates.
The old man stayed silent, but stopped work, and rested back easily on his haunches as he regarded his visitors.
“Been a busy day has it?” Thompson persisted. “Jameson an' Butler here have been aloft, and I was at gunnery practice. But how's the life of an idler: keepin' track of them hens, are you?”
“I been clearing the coops,” Ducks replied solidly. “I keeps them clean for the officers' birds.”
“I'm sure you do,” Thompson agreed. “And it's a fine job you make of it.”
Butler and Jameson exchanged glances; both would have preferred to be somewhere else and found little sport in teasing such a one as Jemmy. But Thompson, it seemed, was determined to show them more.
“You do good work, Jemmy. And it's only fair you gets some recognition,” the seaman told him. “So I brought you a present.”
Two clenched fists were offered up and slowly opened in front of the elderly face. In one palm was a small silver coin, while the other held a tattered note.
“Now here we are, Jemmy,” Thompson continued. “Either is yours to keep – there's a fine English pound, or a shiny, silver groat – which will you have?”
Ducks raised his gaze from the money to the seaman standing over him, and then back to what was on offer.
“You can take one,” Thompson prompted. “But not both. Come on, you old cuff – Harrison says you've done it 'undreds of times afore.”
The rheumy eyes were now set on the money and there was an awkward pause. Then, faster than could be seen, the groat was snatched from Thompson's grip, and pressed deep into the man's pocket.
“Seems he does that every time!” Thompson said in triumph as he turned to grin at his companions. “Always the groat, never the pound.”
“And what would you have done if he'd taken it?” Jameson asked.
“Get it back off him,” Thompson told them simply. “I can't afford to go tossing money away.”
“But you let him keep the groat,” Butler pointed out.
“A groat's neither here nor there,” Thompson replied loftily. “An' it were worth it just to see 'im bobbed.”
The old man had turned back to his work and, as the three walked away, began knocking soiled straw out of the coop once more.
“Half the larboard watch has tried it,” Thompson continued in hushed wonder. “An' he's never once taken the pound.”
“I am surprised,” Butler commented, although his tone said otherwise.
“Aye,” Jameson agreed. “He's a chub, and no mistakin'.”
* * *
And so the convoy sailed relentlessly south, with Admiral Ford urging maximum speed at all times; a policy that prevented any physical communication between ships, and forced some of the smaller, unofficial, members to fall by the wayside. Once free of both the constraints and protection of the Royal Navy warships, these independent vessels could set their own pace, although many undoubtedly fell victim to the line of faint shadows that constantly haunted the pack.
This was the flotilla of enemy privateers that kept steady pace to the north of the main body, and on the very edge of the horizon: predators stalking the herd, waiting for one, possibly not so fit, to present themselves as prey.
On the night when, by Brehaut's unspoken estimation, they had been taken far too close to the rocks off Ushant and were about to enter Biscay's uncertain seas, Ford authorised a force of smaller warships to deal with the followers. What followed appeared to be a splendid fight, and one that resulted in two of the privateers so afire that the night sky was lit spectac
ularly, even dazzling those on deck in the darkened convoy several miles off. The escorts returned, bloodied but victorious, the next morning but it took little more than four days before the number of stalkers was as before.
And then, when the storms of Biscay appeared, one threat was swapped for another and no consideration could be given to enemy activity. Prometheus was not alone in discovering many items previously considered secured to be less so. She lost small pieces of equipment; both the galley stove chimney and one of the stern lanterns were washed away, never to be seen again, and the pinnace that sat on the spar deck amidships was cleanly stove in by a fiddle block falling from the foremast. Simply remaining in contact with what had become a widely spread jumble of ships became an impossible task, and there was no question of keeping anything like their prescribed station. And after such a time on shore, even seasoned members of the crew were liable to exhibit what soon became known as 'symptoms of pregnancy', and it wasn't until the far, north-west corner of Spain was rounded, and the convoy finally began sailing more peacefully down the coast of Portugal, that order was finally restored.
Their sinister followers failed to re-appear, clearly having a set hunting ground that did not extend so far south, but that did not mean there was no longer any danger from pirates. Each day brought them nearer to the Barbary Coast, a particularly evil stretch of land to the north of Africa that was infested with all sizes and types of warship. Some, the larger ones, were known to prowl quite deep into the Atlantic, and made a rich living from ships similar to those Prometheus protected.
As a stately two decker, tackling smaller enemies was not strictly in her remit; far better to leave such matters to lighter escorts: the brigs, sloops and frigates that were faster and so much more manoeuvrable. But, as all the officers were aware, should Prometheus fall in with a corsair as an enemy, it would be a difficult action to carry off well. A handy little gun boat might run rings around the ponderous battleship and, if a merchant fell victim while supposedly under her protection, they would be held up to ridicule by all.
