by Alaric Bond
“That was never going to happen, Judy,” King told her, and she had the grace to nod in agreement.
“No, I do see that now, but it seemed so right at the time. Davie and I were to sail to the Tagus, and he would stay with me forever.”
“Well he doesn't wish to be with you now,” King pointed out.
“That he doesn't,” she agreed, and her expression hardened.
“But did you not realise?” King asked, when they had been quiet for a moment. “When men started to become ill?”
“Not at first,” she replied in little more than a whisper. “But as soon as I did, I stopped. And I wanted to tell you at least, but Davie wouldn't hear of it.”
King sighed in disbelief; Judy, though no intellectual, was hardly stupid. In matters of the heart though, he had seldom met anyone quite so gullible.
The wounded prisoners were due to be transferred to the shore hospital that afternoon, leaving those aboard Prometheus with a shambles for what once had constituted their captain's finest room. All hammocks and make-shift bunks would be cleared out, and the whole place brought back to something like its previous splendour. But as soon as that happened there would be little left for the girl to do and then yes, King supposed, it would be back to the original question of what would become of her.
“You deserve to be put straight ashore and into the care of the magistrates,” he said bluntly. “They will be best suited to judge the magnitude of your crime.”
She winced slightly, and he felt mildly guilty. Her actions might disgust him, but it was an emotion heightened by personal disappointment, and he had not meant the statement to sound quite so harsh.
But the fact remained, a civilian court would take a far more dispassionate view than any Navy tribunal, and was best set to judge if the girl's crime were truly life threatening. If so, Judy might hang; otherwise he guessed seven years in the colonies would be more likely while, were she able to contact her former employers and if they proved to be as influential as they sounded, she may even walk free. Such was the way of the world.
The man, Carroll, was far more straightforward, and with a fate that was easy to predict. Provided the privateer papers were in order, he would be treated as a prisoner of war and could expect to be either exchanged, or live out the rest of the war in captivity. That he had contravened his parole made no difference to any official penalty; such arrangements were purely the prerogative of gentlemen. By effectively breaking his word of honour he had denied himself inclusion into polite society but, from the little he knew of him, King did not feel such banishment would be a major concern. And to confirm himself as the bounder he undoubtedly was, Carroll had dropped any affection he had assumed for the girl. King supposed him to be one of the unemotional types, the kind who barged through life with his personal welfare the only concern. He had encountered a good few like him in the past and despised such single-mindedness, even if it also left him feeling faintly envious.
Judy was still imploring him with those deep, pitiful eyes and King felt his heart soften. What she had just told him was quite significant, he supposed; a sleeping draught was a very different matter to poison, and should certainly be mentioned to the captain. And being as naïve as she was, he could quite see how an eloquent cove like Carroll might lead her astray: any fast talking man, if it came to it. Further more, Sir Richard Banks had grown more understanding since becoming a father. With luck she might simply be set ashore at Gibraltar, told to make her own way to Lisbon, if that was what she wanted, and nothing more would be said of the matter. And she was of the type that would survive, he assured himself, and may even prosper. But as to what would finally become of her, he did not know. And neither, he told himself firmly, did he care.
* * *
At the same time as King and Judy were speaking, Caulfield happened to be with Carroll on the orlop. The improvised cells were more crowded than even Prometheus' great cabin, with the officers pressed up to one end to make some form of division between them and their men. Carroll was squashed into a corner next to his captain and did not appear particularly pleased to see the first lieutenant.
“I understand you broke your parole,” Caulfield said, coming straight to the point. “That was hardly the act of a gentleman.”
The Irishman leant back against the spirketting and gave a short laugh. “I have not behaved like a gentleman in years,” he said. “That is assuming such a thing was ever in my nature.”
The British officer bristled visibly; Carroll was clearly a rogue of the first order, and it was doubtless a waste of time even speaking with the fellow. But still he felt an innate compulsion to point out exactly how badly the man had behaved. It was as if he must be told, and Caulfield had been appointed to do so.
“Should such a thing become known in society, you would be ostracised,” he said with restrained relish. “There would be no chance of your ever serving as an officer again, or standing in a position of responsibility, and all forms of social intercourse would effectively be at an end.”
“And that would bother me greatly,” the Irishman replied. His once proud uniform was now tattered and he stared listlessly up at the slick officer who stood over him. “My, you English are a race in yourselves,” he said, his head set back against the woodwork. “Behave as if the world was simply provided for you alone to rule, and naturally expect all to follow in your wake.”
“There is nothing wrong in assuming a man will honour his word,” Caulfield said, with only the slightest hint of doubt.
“If there not?” Carroll asked. “Well there you have the better of me; I lived for many years under the rule of English gentlemen, so know them for what they are, and would prefer to put my trust elsewhere.”
“Do you think the French will treat you better?”
“The French have no use for the pitch-cap, or the triangle, or any of the other diabolical devices you have used to torture my countrymen.”
The first lieutenant snorted; this was a foolish exercise, the man was clearly not worth troubling with and, despite the two burly marines that stood not two paces away, he was starting to feel just the slightest unease.
“So you would rather Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité?” Caulfield scoffed. “And that is why you sit to one end of the cells; so that you may mingle with your brothers?”
“I was in Ireland during 'ninety-eight,” Carroll replied solemnly. “And can tell you much about the way the English behaved; there was little freedom, equality or brotherhood in their actions. And a total lack of honour.”
“The fact remains, you deceived us,” Caulfield persisted. “And should at least show some shame.”
“Do you show shame?” the French captain interrupted. “Did you not fool us into thinking this ship was an Indiaman?”
“Aye,” Carroll agreed, collecting the thread. “With flags and all, or so I hears. You even used children and women to fuel your deceit; was that the act of gentlemen?”
“We did not fire whilst flying Company colours,” Caulfield protested. “Everything was done strictly under the rules of war – this is a king's ship: we take notice of such things.”
At this the captain laughed and turned away but Carroll, it seemed, was keen to continue.
“And that is important, is it?” he asked. “You are happy to involve yourself in a war, but only for as long as you can give such an obscenity rules that are then governed by something you call honour?”
“It would be no use explaining to an Irishman,” Caulfield sighed. “What possible interest could you have in such matters? How could you know of integrity, or trust? Or loyalty, if it came to it? Why, you betrayed an innocent woman,” the first lieutenant added with a scornful laugh. “I suppose you are proud of that as well?”
“I have nothing to be ashamed of, if that is what you are asking,” Carroll replied. “Every promise I made to young Judy would have been met in full. Which is more that can be said of the sailor man who brought her aboard this ship in the f
irst place. And, unless I am very much mistaken, he was an Englishman.”
* * *
Actually Commander Stewart turned out to be an old shipmate, and one not encountered since he and Banks had shared a midshipmen's berth nearly fifteen years before. The Captain had been driven through the winding streets of town, and finally deposited at The Mount, a large, new and somewhat imposing building that constituted the senior naval officer's residence. He recognised the long face and lantern jaw as soon as he was shown into a welcomingly cool room and, despite the considerable difference in rank, the two were soon gossiping and laughing like the pair of lads they had once been.
“So, how come the frigate?” Stewart asked when they had finished their second pot of coffee and were finally addressing matters more pertinent. “Not every day an old battle-wagon like Prometheus carries such a flighty little thing.”
“She was a privateer,” Banks explained briefly. “We had already encountered her capture: a five-hundred ton Indiaman.”
“And you retook her as well?” Stewart asked, with growing respect.
Banks shook his head. “No, she had been wrecked. But we rescued her people, and the prize crew, so were aware that a letter of marque was operating in the area. When she was sighted I disguised Prometheus as an Indiaman: the rest was relatively easy.” Banks felt the glib words flow almost without his willing them: even now he could remember those hours of worry, with the frigate taking pot shots at his precious command. But it was good to be with Stewart again, and difficult to remain formal in such company.
“Well, easy or not, you did well and Captain Otway, the naval commissioner, will be glad to hear of it. Why, I shall send for the master shipwright immediately; she can be surveyed and, if there is chance of her being taken into the service, I am sure it will be done without delay.” He paused, and bent forward slightly. “Providing that is your will, sir,” he added, using the honorific for the first time. “She is your prize, after all: I had no wish to presume.”
“I should be delighted, Gordon,” Banks replied sincerely. “Thank you.”
“Frigates are as rare as the proverbial hen's teeth at present.” Stewart sat back in his chair and relapsed into the previous, easy, manner. “We could use a dozen more and not feel ourselves filled. There's talk of a sizeable squadron coming from San Domingo; nine or ten liners, so intelligence suggests; more than enough to overpower Dickie-Bickie's fleet off Toulon, if he isn't given fair warning. And with the Dons behaving as they are, we must keep check on Cádiz as if it were already an enemy port.”
The commander paused and sighed. “You would have thought lessons would have been learned from the last war; but we seem just as short as ever. Nelson has but three frigates to play with at present, and I know wishes for more.”
“There is further to tell, I fear,” Banks said quietly.
“Of your adventures?” Stewart asked, returning to the previous subject and raising a questioning eyebrow. “How so?”
“On our way here, with the privateer in consort,” Banks began cautiously, before plunging in with the awful truth. “The prisoners rose up and almost took my ship.”
Stewart was listening intently but said nothing.
“They began by poisoning many of the people, myself included, and came horribly close to pulling it off, though I am glad to say, were not ultimately successful.”
“Then they sound to be more enterprising than is usual in their type,” Stewart said, after considering for a moment. “Though I suppose it is not to be wondered at. Whatever the government may say, private enterprise will always win out in the end.” He pondered. “Poisoning, though: that is a mite unusual.”
“They had an accomplice; an Irishman, name of Carroll, who was captured with the prize. He had given his parole, though did not think to honour it.”
“Well, that is a sorry tale indeed,” Stewart sighed at last. “But, if you will excuse me, we need not concentrate too heavily upon some aspects.”
Banks regarded him with sudden interest.
“The main point must be this: his Majesty is one frigate the richer,” Stewart continued, his voice and expression set firm. “Take my advice and make that the central theme of your report.”
“But I have my journal with me now,” Banks protested, fingering the canvas covered document on his lap.
“Forgive me, Dick, but you do not,” Stewart told him firmly while keeping his eyes well away from the document. “It has yet to be written; there was simply too much depending on you during the journey back. It is a fair excuse considering the circumstances: you will be allowed a few days' grace.”
Banks felt momentarily confused, although Stewart, it seemed was far more in control. He leaned further back in his chair and gave a relaxed smile. “Believe me, the difference between a shore posting and one at sea is not just a question of keeping your feet dry. There is far more to it than playing with stay-tape and buckram; you should be amazed at the diplomatic tricks and deceptions that abound.”
“I am certain you are right,” Banks agreed, cautiously.
“Oh, yes, and I have learned much about reports, and what happens to them, which is probably why so few of us land crabs are ever allowed back on the briny,” the Commander added with a hint of regret. “But let me tell you this, one of the skills in writing such things is telling those who read them what they want to hear.”
Banks found himself smiling at the man's candour, although it was clear he was speaking in all seriousness, and gave wise counsel.
“With the right emphasis, your little tale will sound fine, and might even end up in the Gazette; word it badly, and they shall be waiting upon you in court martial.” Both men laughed, but in Banks' case the act was forced.
“When you come to submit your journal,” Stewart continued, with emphasis, “don't be afraid to lean on the good points. No one shall, if you do not. There sounds to be a full butcher's bill: that never fails to impress, and who is to know if they fell in taking the frigate in the first place, or fighting off your prisoners later? And if you can single out one or two juniors to praise, do so as well.” the commander gave a subtle wink. “There's something else I have learned; nothing diverts attention from a writer's deficiencies more than a commendation or two for his inferiors.”
“I see,” Banks said, even though he was still deep in thought. “So I should be vague?”
“Not vague, as such, but hardly too specific,” Stewart smiled again. “Think of your report as a book of accounts: the end result is what really matters, how it was achieved need only be considered secondary.
“You are in profit to the tune of the crew and passengers of an Indiaman rescued, a sizeable number of privateers taken prisoner, and a very acceptable frigate captured. Against that, the loss of so many men, and maybe a modicum of equipment, must be balanced. However you choose to word it, nothing can change that bottom line and, as I have said, you can be sure it is only the nett result that our lords and masters will be truly interested in.”
Banks stayed quiet, although continued to listen intently.
“You realise I would not say this to everyone?” Stewart asked in a lower tone. “There may be some who consider such an attitude to be fundamentally wrong – corruption, even, but that is another thing I have learned ashore: such things need not be so terribly bad. Why, you need only consider the problems Old Jarvie has caused in our own dockyards. Sure, the places were a mass of double dealing and jobbery in the past, but look at the mess he has made by supposedly putting things to rights.”
“I must confess, Prometheus' condition after refit was not good,” Banks allowed.
“Then you will understand,” Stewart's voice rose in triumph. “And the Admiralty itself could not survive without interest in its various forms,” he beamed. “Why I dare not ponder on the number of promotions and postings that are directly attributable to the assistance of friends or family connections. If rules are bent or, on occasion, disregarded, is that such a terri
ble thing, providing the right results are achieved?”
“But corruption...” Banks began, hardly knowing how to finish.
“Yes, perhaps that is too strong a word,” Stewart conceded. “Even though we are talking of the merest hint. Perhaps it is better to think of what you will be doing as more of a favour; like taking aboard a trusted friend’s son as midshipman. No one wishes to learn of a fine and mighty battleship being overrun by a bunch of pirates, so do not tell them – not directly. Or, if you do, make light of the circumstances. Write your report in the way that I suggest, and no more will be said – I am certain of it.”
It was hard to comprehend how a potential disaster could be disregarded in such a way, but Banks understood the point Stewart was making. He had not asked to be poisoned, any more than Caulfield had chosen to be captured and secured so easily. And drawing attention to the act would hardly be beneficial to either of them; in fact no one would gain. A carefully worded report might well divert attention from his own, pitiful, performance without committing too many deadly sins. And when it came down to it, he himself owed his title, captaincy and every posting until the present one to his father, or rather the Admiralty and City contacts the old boy cultivated. If he were to become prim and prudish over a few carefully chosen words, and maybe a whiff of deception, he would be starting late.
“Do you eat game, Dick?”
The question came as a surprise, and Banks took several seconds to respond.
“I have done,” he replied hesitantly. “Upon occasion.”
“And do you prefer yours to be hung?” Stewart persisted.
“To some extent, yes.” Banks eyed his friend cautiously. “The meat is more tender and flavoursome if left for a while.”
The commander winked again as he poured the last of the coffee into Banks' cup. “Then surely you can see,” he said. “However terrible the word might sound, a small amount of corruption can undoubtedly be of benefit.”
