by Alaric Bond
“This was a privateer,” Ross spoke softly, but with his usual authority. “And only recently out of harbour so you have nothing to fear.”
“Aye, there'll be no bodies rising up in the night and strangling you in yer 'ammock,” Harrison chuckled, running his hands up Thompson's back and grasping him playfully by the throat.
“Oh, I ain't afeared o' nothing,” Thompson lied, as he struggled free of his mate's embrace. “It's just not a very nice habit, that's all.”
* * *
Judy examined the jar that Carroll had passed to her earlier that morning. She had already been able to use some of the powder, but there was still a good deal of it left. Davie had said it would do no harm, but she was not convinced. And neither was she certain the stuff would go unnoticed. Slipping some into one of the ship's coppers would be no problem; Stone had boasted about cooking up a spicy lobscouse for the marines that day, and such slop could hide any amount of strange flavouring. But the officers' food was different, and commissioned men's palates were likely to be more sensitive than those of marines. She had tried some on the captain's devilled kidneys without him apparently noticing, but then neither had he been seen since. There was even a rumour that Sir Richard had taken to his cot, although that might just be tattle-tale. She opened the lid, and sniffed at the white powder within; it looked quite innocuous – similar to sugar although, when a finger was cautiously dipped in, it tasted anything but. Still, there were plenty of kidneys left over from the ration bullocks which Potterton had allocated for tomorrow's wardroom's breakfast. And she had promised Davie the stuff would all be used as soon as possible.
Chapter Twelve
“As officer in command, I shall be taking the captain's quarters,” Davison announced when they had finished their inspection of the privateer. There were a number of items he had found fault with, none of which were King's sole responsibility, although the young man had made each sound like a personal affront. But it was the last statement, made on the half deck when they were as close to being alone as was possible, that really raised King's ire.
“Indeed?” he asked sharply. “It was my understanding that we were to share the great cabin. Space must be found for the master's mates and midshipmen, and there are several families with young children aboard, as well as single women who require private accommodation.”
“Female civilians can berth together; they are not our responsibility and middies will take the cockpit: it is what they are used to, after all,” Davison replied. “Likewise the master's mates. Claim a cabin in the gun room for yourself, by all means. I trust the screaming babies will not take too much of your sleep.”
King went to speak but Davison had already turned on his heel and was gone.
“Am I to put your dunnage in the great cabin, sir?”
It was Keats, his servant: the man was approaching under a pile of luggage that included King's watchcoat, sword and spare clothing.
“No,” King told him. “My quarters appear to be in the gun room.”
* * *
Caulfield stood by the binnacle of Prometheus. It was four bells in the afternoon watch, the passengers who had been persuaded to leave were already embarked in the prize, while all prisoners, apart from Carroll, who had given his parole, were secured in their newly made pens below. And every man in both ships had been fed – in itself a major undertaking, and one that took a good deal longer in the frigate, whose stove had proved a mystery to the cook's mate sent to master it. The British amongst them were still slightly groggy from the effects of their mid-day spirit ration, but there were several hours of daylight left, and no sense in delaying longer.
“Very well, Mr Brehaut,” the first lieutenant said, with more formality than was usual. “You have a course; kindly make sail. Mr Lewis, you may signal the prize to that effect.”
The bunting broke out on the larboard main halyards and was brought down just as Prometheus' topsails were released; an action copied by those aboard the frigate as near simultaneously as could be managed: Davison was clearly intending to impress. The wind, strong in the north-west, began to fill the canvas and, as forecourses and jibs were added, both vessels eased into motion, with the battleship taking station to windward of her charge. Caulfield felt the deck heel only slightly beneath his feet, and listened with satisfaction to the creaking of spars, rigging and hull as Prometheus took life. This was not his favoured position; he was used to being second-in-command and had to admit, preferred to be so. There had been a time when the role of captain appealed, but that was some while ago, and he knew himself too old now. But Banks was lying in his bunk with a temperature hot enough to fry an egg and, as no one better equipped to carry out the task was on hand, Caulfield felt he might cope – at least on a temporary basis.
And it really should be for the briefest of periods; a day's good sailing would see the journey time cut significantly and, by then, he should have grown more used to being ultimately responsible for two ships and nearly a thousand lives. But still it was not a duty the first lieutenant enjoyed, and he could only wish it over as soon as possible.
* * *
As it turned out, all went agreeably enough for the first few hours: it wasn't until the following morning that Caulfield's troubles began. They had spent a peaceful night: the traverse board consistently showing speeds of over six knots, and he was looking forward to having logged a considerable portion of their journey by the noon observations. And after a shaky start, the prisoners were also behaving themselves. At first their officers, especially the privateer captain, caused a measure of trouble, but this was swiftly calmed, and by an unexpected ally.
None, apart from Carroll, would agree to give their parole, so Caulfield was left with no alternative other than to incarcerate them with their men. This was not popular, but with space at a premium, he had no option. Fortunately the Irish prize master came to his aid: he had no idea what words of persuasion Carroll used, but the nett result was a peaceful ship. It was all he required, and the first lieutenant felt grudgingly grateful for the man's intervention.
More men had presented with the mystery illness but, for the moment at least, they could manage, while the captain's condition seemed to be progressing steadily. His fever remained high, but there were signs of waking and Banks' servant was sure of improvement.
Consequently, when he settled down to breakfast in a wardroom finally cleared of passengers and children, Caulfield was feeling mildly optimistic: a mood that was heightened by the smell of devilled kidneys and what might be mutton chops that came from the officers' pantry. He reached for the wardroom copy of a newspaper. It was over two months old and had already been well thumbed, but there was only Captain Donaldson and his subaltern at the table, and the first lieutenant preferred to read the thing for the umpteenth time than make small talk.
But before he had even been able to order his breakfast, the first signs that matters were not to continue well made themselves known. Donaldson had dined slightly earlier, and was sitting at ease, enjoying the last of his customary early morning bottle of white wine, when an odd change began to overtake him. Caulfield watched over his newspaper as the man's almost constant flush suddenly lightened, before reverting to an even darker puce. Then his half-filled glass dropped to the table and he lifted both hands to his head, while letting out a guttural moan.
“Whatever is the matter, man?” Caulfield demanded as Marine Lieutenant James rose to attend his superior.
“Damnedest pain in the head,” Donaldson slurred, still pressing at his temples. “Can't see straight, and my mouth's gone as dry as a drab's kiss.”
“You'd better see him to his quarters,” Caulfield said to James. “And pass the word for Mr Manning.”
Until that moment there had been no more instances of fever amongst the officers, and Caulfield had even come to hope they might be in some way immune. But if anyone was to succumb, he would have guessed it to be the old soak. The first lieutenant watched as, in the arms of Jame
s and one of the wardroom stewards, Donaldson allowed himself to be eased upright and, still moaning pitifully, dragged backwards the short distance to his cabin.
“Would you care for breakfast, sir?” Judy, the girl steward, asked from close by and Caulfield looked up in surprise. He had grown accustomed to having the woman about, and there could be no doubting she made herself useful. But still the sight of a pretty face was enough to disconcert him, even on the best of mornings.
“What's that?” he asked sharply, while tearing his glance away from those finely shaped breasts that had surely been presented far too near to his face.
“I was offering you breakfast, sir,” she answered. As one well versed at both table service, and the irascibility of gentlemen before breakfast, Judy always appeared self possessed although, on that particular occasion, Caulfield noticed her lip was trembling slightly.
“What is available, Kinnison?” he enquired, a little more gently.
“We have mutton loin or kidneys,” she replied. “An' there is some tommy soaked in cow's milk that has toasted up nice.”
A roar came from Donaldson's cabin, followed by the sound of someone retching. Judy seemed to wince, while the first lieutenant tried to ignore the chest that was still being held tantalisingly close to his face.
“Did you say kidneys?” he asked vaguely: Caulfield was an officer of the old school and had always been particularly partial to offal.
“Yes, sir. Devilled, and served with fried onions,” she confirmed, although her attention appeared to be elsewhere and there was now a definite flush to her cheeks. “Or there's fresh loin chops from the gun room pig what died last Tuesday.”
“What did Mr Donaldson have?”
“He took the kidneys,” Judy answered instantly, adding: “but the pork looks nice, an' 'er death were natural,” with half a smile.
“Oh, very well, bring me that,” the first lieutenant sighed, before holding up the paper to read, and tearing the thing neatly down the middle.
* * *
In the captured frigate, King was also enjoying breakfast. What was actually a substantial gun room now felt quite small when compared to the massive proportions of Prometheus, and the space they did have seemed a good deal more crowded. He sat at the head of a table that was filled with at least three generations of passengers, with the youngest making themselves known by crawling about the deck, and occasionally encountering his feet. The food was good, though. A few of the wives seemed to have formed some sort of catering committee and, using discovered cabin stores and a good deal of ingenuity, had taken it upon themselves to organise meals for all of their number, as well those officers berthing in the gun room. Consequently he had eaten his fill of scrambled duck eggs, served with particularly dry sausages which were not in the least unpleasant, and a form of flat bread that tasted as if it had been freshly baked. There were also jugs of chocolate, not usually King's favourite of morning drinks, but very acceptable. The drink was far thicker and stronger than any he had tasted before and left him with an effect not unlike that felt after taking too much coffee. He had just finished his second cup when Hughes, Davison's steward, pressed his way through the crowd of chattering civilians to speak with him.
“Captain's compliments, sir and he'd like to see you in his quarters.” Hughes might have been speaking directly to King, but the servant's attention was elsewhere and the man appeared fascinated by the still heavily laden table.
King suppressed a grin; he supposed that, as the officer in charge of a prize, Davison might conceivably be referred to as a Captain, but it was stretching matters slightly.
“Very well, my compliments and I shall join him presently,” he replied, returning to the remains of his meal.
“He did say it were urgent, sir,” Hughes whispered, conspiratorially. King raised his eyes and considered the servant, who had the grace to look abashed, before returning to his breakfast.
* * *
But whatever his aspirations, the second lieutenant was still senior to him and not more than five minutes later King found himself standing in front of a seated Davison. The younger man was also dining, but alone, and at a table that was all but bare. He waved his hands dismissively at his near empty plate.
“I should have saved some for you, King,” he said, with a complete absence of regret. “But Hughes said he could find little in the way of cabin stores, and we do have several days' sailing ahead of us.”
“I have already eaten, thank you,” King replied stiffly.
Davison eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then indicated the chair opposite.
“Cartwright has the watch at present,” he continued as King seated himself. “And does a fair job. I think he can be trusted.”
King thought so as well: the master's mate had more seagoing experience than the two of them put together, and was undoubtedly competent enough to stand a watch.
“And we can allow Adams and Steven to do likewise.”
Now that was another matter entirely. Both midshipmen were in their teens and ideal as supporting officers. Either would also have the sense to call him or Davison should an emergency occur, but at sea the time to summon a superior is a luxury that cannot be guaranteed. Far too often action must be taken immediately, and King doubted they had the combined experience to handle every crisis.
“They should not be needed,” he said, temporising. “If each of us take a trick, that will mean none work more than one out of three.” King could tell from the blank look that his words were not being accepted by Davison, but continued despite this. “Counting dog watches, we will always get at least six hours off duty, and usually eight.”
“As captain, I shall not be standing a watch,” the younger man told him bluntly. “But, as I have already stated, with Adams and Steven's help, we shall not be stretched.”
King shook his head. “But that is not right,” he found himself saying. “Sir Richard placed you in command of the prize crew: that hardly constitutes being a captain.”
“Do you not regard me as your superior officer?” Davison asked with feigned concern. “I would be happy to present my commission, if that is required. You will find it significantly trumps your own as far as the date is concerned.”
King shook his head. “I do not doubt your seniority,” he said. “But am certain Captain Banks did not mean for you to behave thus.”
“Whether he did, or whether he did not is hardly your concern,” Davison continued. “But we shall say no more about it for now. You may relieve Cartwright at eight bells and, obviously, send for me if the need arises. And please remember that it would be more fitting if I am addressed as sir by all my officers. Now,” he added with a look of great condescension, “will you take tea? Hughes says there is little else, I'm afraid.”
King rose stiffly. “Thank you, but I have a pot of rather fine chocolate awaiting me below,” he replied. “Sir.”
* * *
Manning's concern was growing steadily. Not only had two officers now fallen victim to the mystery ailment, but more of the lower ranks were being presented to him with every hour that passed. And it had not escaped his notice that a high proportion of them seemed to be marines.
He told himself that such a situation was understandable: when men sleep, mess and work together, illness is bound to spread more readily. And if this made the general caring for the prisoners more difficult, that was hardly his concern. But Manning had just reported to Lieutenant Caulfield that, of Prometheus' force of seventy or so marines, more than twenty five were currently considered unfit for duty. This was a high proportion and, even though his own responsibilities extended no further than the health and welfare of the men, Manning could not help but be concerned.
Apparently measures were being taken; all marines had been relieved of servant and steward duties and put to work watch and watch about to keep the prisoners exercised and fed. They still had slightly less than the minimum it took to guard such a number, however, and there was no gua
rantee that the current rate of attrition would cease. The first lieutenant had supplemented them with ship's corporals and boatswain's mates – men used to enforcing discipline, and not afraid to do so. But since then more seamen had started appearing amongst the surgeon's patients, and Manning was concerned that mixing regular hands with those already infected would escalate the epidemic further.
He collected yet another volume from his personal library that included works by Blane, Trotter and Gillespie, and rifled through its well thumbed pages. The symptoms were reasonably defined but none exactly fitted those of a recognised ailment, and he began to wade once more through chapters that he now knew almost by heart with feelings of increasing desperation. At the back of his mind lurked the spectre of Gibraltar Fever; a highly infectious condition known to haunt the citadel and renowned for being both quick and deadly. But Prometheus had yet to even sight the rock and the Indiaman had also been outward bound.
On making enquiries he had discovered the Duke of Cambridge to have left Blackwall barely three weeks before, so should not have been carrying anything more exotic than traditional shipborne ailments. There were lascars amongst her crew, however, and they would have been transferred directly from a homebound ship before entering British waters. It was a common practice amongst Company vessels wanting to avoid government regulations on shipping foreign hands, but one that might prove disastrous on this occasion. The native seamen, now heading back to their home without touching British soil, could easily be carrying all manner of diseases, and he would have laid the blame firmly at their door, had they not appeared to be apparently immune to the malady themselves.
It was all so terribly confusing, and yet Manning sensed there was a simple solution, if only he were given time to think of it. He wished he might speak again with the Company physician who had transferred to the prize. Chances were high that he was also experiencing similar cases by now, and they may do better by comparing notes. He might request a boat – something the first lieutenant was bound to allow, although that in itself would increase the chance of spreading the disease still further.
