by Alaric Bond
* * *
The surgeon woke unwillingly to the hand that persistently shook his shoulder. There was a light in his cabin, but it was moving: someone must be holding a lantern above his head and the smell was particularly unpleasant.
“What is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, then peering at the figure that could only be dimly seen beyond the guttering flame.
“It's the prisoners, sir,” a familiar voice told him, and immediately Manning was wide awake. The first of the captured privateers had already been removed from the ship, but there were still a fair number aboard. It seemed incredible that any attempt to escape should be made now, with Prometheus safe in a protected harbour. But they had already proved themselves to be a desperate lot, and the surgeon supposed he should not be surprised.
“The marines,” he mumbled. “They are aware, I assume?”
“Oh, they ain't tryin' nothin',” the same voice told him with a laugh, and Manning realised it belonged to Wells, a loblolly boy who also acted as his servant. “But one of 'em's been taken proper queer, sir, an' Mr Prior thought you should be aware.”
Manning rose up in his cot and prepared to clamber out. “Very well,” he said. “I'll come. What are the symptoms?”
Wells was lighting one of the surgeon's personal wax candles, a luxury Manning allowed himself as the berth was set deep in the ship and received very little ventilation. By the extra light he could see the man's face more clearly, and that it was smiling.
“Hardly anythin' to worry over,” Wells assured him. “Mr Prior says we seen it before. He reckons a particularly bad case of saltpetre poisoning; that's all,” he continued. “And that young Irish officer seems to have been affected the worst.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Stern windows and quarter-galleries should not take more than a week,” the elderly man who appeared to be a combination of master shipwright and dockyard supervisor, told Caulfield. “Mind, they won't be quite the fine affairs you are used to: my men can't spend time or materials on gingerbread and the like...”
“As long as any repair proves weatherproof, and can be quickly achieved, I shall not care,” Prometheus' first lieutenant assured him.
“Then there is a touch to see to with the fittings, that larboard bulwark to scarph and refit the top rail,” the older man scratched at his balding head before referring to his bundle of notes for a moment. “Nothing too burdensome about any of that, especially if your painters can clean up and make good as we go.”
Caulfield nodded; considering the mess an English dockyard had made of finishing Prometheus' recent refit, he would actually prefer to have such things under his control.
“Riggers will have a spot to do aloft, of course, but that is another department. And we may well discover more when the ship is truly surveyed. Even so, I should say ten days to a fortnight should see you straight.”
“That would be very acceptable,” the first lieutenant told him, genuinely impressed. “As well as highly commendable. My captain will be sure to say as much, I am certain. And if there is any service that can be done in return, I would gladly hear of it.”
The elderly face beamed back. “Kind of you, sir, to be sure. Though we are under special instructions with your vessel,” the man told him importantly. “Prometheus is needed on station at Toulon, so there is no time to be lost: the commissioner told us to give her our utmost attention.”
Caulfield was taken aback; as soon as he had discovered the ship to be assigned to the Mediterranean Fleet he had wondered about her eventual posting, but it was slightly galling to have it confirmed by a shore-based artisan.
“Many of those on blockade at present are barely holding together,” the older man continued with an alarming lack of discretion. “The Admiral is supposed to be sending one in at a time for us to refit, though quite what we're to do without a proper dock is another matter. And your prize ain't going to be no holiday,” he added. “We probably won't start on that until you are once more at sea. Reckon there'll be a month or so's work on her at least, even though the damage is mostly above the waterline and of no real consequence.”
“She will be returning to England though, I do not doubt,” the first lieutenant commented absent mindedly.
“I should think not, sir,” the shipwright replied aghast. “With such a lack of ships. I'd say they'll get us to pull her together, then rustle up a scratch crew before sending her on to join Admiral Nelson.”
“Indeed?” Caulfield was surprised, both at the frigate's destination, and his informant's apparent certainty of it. “So we may be meeting with her again off Toulon?”
“Maybe off Toulon, and maybe not,” the old man pondered. “The Admiral's playing a long game and will probably find a nice safe place to wait out the French, if I'm any judge. Leave a couple of sail keeping watch, but with the main force available to strike when they're needed.”
Caulfield was astonished. The shipwright seemed disturbingly well informed on the Navy's intended movements, and was equally unafraid of voicing his opinions.
“Oh, they might think we're blockading them, but in truth the last thing anyone wants is for the Frogs to be stuck in harbour. At present there are as many of them as us, but we can't stop Johnny Crapaud building more, an' Toulon ships are some of the best in the world,” the man added with a gleam of professional appreciation. “With their dockyards in full swing and them adding to their number on a regular basis, the sooner the French are allowed out to fight, the better.”
* * *
Once her prisoners were taken off, Prometheus was moved to the new mole, where sufficient depth enabled her to lie alongside and work could begin. In no time she became a mass of activity, with stages placed against her battered stern, while topmasts, only recently struck, were set up once more allowing a positive army of riggers to attend her tophamper. Within the ship, the hastily rigged pens on the orlop were removed with Roberts, the carpenter, jealously claiming back his timber. A team of dockyard workers began ripping her battered larboard prow apart and the smell of oil paint, marine glue and bubbling pitch soon permeated the warm air.
Being small, relatively confined and heavily populated by military and naval personnel, Gibraltar was a port noted for shore leave, as it could never be regarded as a popular destination for the casual deserter. On the strength of this, Caulfield had promised evening liberty as soon as the immediate work was completed. And the privilege would be repeated each night by alternate watches, for as long as no man chose to run. Consequently, all set to with a purpose. The ship was swept clean; brass work shone under the application of spit and brick dust with only the occasional surreptitious aid of a wire brush, and even the bilges were pumped dry and sweetened by a liberal dosing of vinegar.
So it was at the end of the first week, when much had been achieved and both watches were looking forward to the delights of shore, that Banks called Caulfield into the freshly cleaned and polished great cabin, and motioned him to a chair at the dining table.
“I have my report,” the captain told him, holding up a large sheaf of papers. “It covers the rescue of passengers and prize crew from the Indiaman, our taking of Belle Île and the subsequent revolt of the prisoners.” He said the last words more quietly; there were still men working beneath his stern gallery and, although the windows were firmly closed, he had no wish to draw any more attention to the incident than it had already attracted. “Considering that we were both somewhat indisposed during the latter incident,” Banks continued delicately, “I propose to allow you to read that section. You shall not mind, I am sure; we have served together a fair while now, Michael and, to be frank, I would value your opinion.”
“I should not mind at all, sir,” Caulfield replied as formally as any first lieutenant might on being asked a favour by his commanding officer, although he was also strangely touched by the gesture.
Banks sorted through the papers for a moment, then passed across three closely written sheets that Caulfield was quick
to notice were in the captain's own hand; obviously no secretary or clerk had been entrusted with such a sensitive document.
The sun was starting to lower in the sky as Caulfield began to read. Banks waited, hands drumming listlessly on the dining table that had responded so well to David's polishing, and listening to the far off hammering that, he told himself, would be the carpenter's party putting finishing touches to the larboard top rail. Despite his attempts at distraction, it was still a relief when the lieutenant finally finished, and he looked up expectantly, only to realise that Caulfield was starting to sift through the pages once more. Banks had the uncomfortable feeling he might be going to start from the beginning but instead the first lieutenant handed his report back and gave a slight nod.
“I see what you have done,” he said slowly. “And can understand why the action against the privateer figures more strongly in your account. Neither of us are in a position to give an accurate report of the later uprising, after all.”
Banks watched him carefully, wondering exactly how much his friend and second in command really did understand. There was silence for several seconds and the captain was about to speak when it appeared that Caulfield had more to say.
“But I think you may have made too much of Mr Davison's part in the proceedings.”
“In truth?” Banks asked, surprised. He had expected more objections to his allocation of dead and wounded. To his mind, much of their success or, to be more accurate, the reason why the French had failed, was totally down to prompt action taken by the prize. Had those aboard her not been so vigilant in spotting the disturbance, or carried out such an efficient boarding, it was very likely the British would have been overwhelmed.
“I interviewed every relevant officer,” the captain began to explain. “All were most forthcoming and appeared to have carried out their duties in an exemplary manner. I do not think Mr Davison's part has been emphasised unduly; indeed, his role was vital to the success we enjoyed.”
Caulfield considered this; perhaps he was wrong, perhaps the captain's report was sufficiently dispassionate, and maybe young Davison had truly been as active as Lewis or King; certainly he had nothing firm to base any contrary suppositions upon. But the first lieutenant also felt he had learned a lot about the young officer, even in the short time they had served together. And he would have been surprised if the action taken by the privateer had been solely down to him. “You spoke with Mr King?” It was hardly a question.
“Tom? Indeed I did,” Banks agreed. “And later learned from Mr Manning that he had been injured, though he did not think to mention the fact himself. And he spoke much in praise of an able hand, name of Ross; do you know of him?”
“He joined us in Tor Bay,” Caulfield replied automatically. “Highly educated and articulate, though a little out of practice as a seaman, if I am to judge. Still, he seems popular with the men: I have it in mind to promote him and was to speak with you on the matter.”
“Well, according to King he fought extremely well, and yes, we may certainly discuss his advancement.”
“It was worthy of King to commend him,” Caulfield said pointedly.
“Indeed it was,” Banks conceded, and considered the matter for a moment before adding: “But as to the rest of the report; will it pass?”
Caulfield thought for a moment longer; there was still a niggling feeling at the back of his mind regarding Davison's conduct, even though that was probably the more accurate part of Banks' account. He had no idea why the captain had chosen to garble what had occurred; presumably he was concerned at being shown to be indisposed but, as the distortion worked in his own favour as well, Caulfield would be a fool to say so. His mind wandered on to King – it was so like the young lieutenant to discount a minor wound, and wondered if the same tendency had been responsible for minimising his part in the proceedings. Again, so like King: as it was to commend that fellow Ross. Davison still worried him, but if he really suspected any defect in performance from that quarter, it was hardly from a position of knowledge. Caulfield's own contribution had been to allow himself to be captured and tied to a chair, so who was he to comment?
“Yes, sir,” he said finally. “I believe the report will be fine.”
* * *
“Would you care for some coffee, sir?” the wardroom steward asked, solicitously. “Or there could be tea: I can make a fresh pot.”
King loosened his stock and shook his head. “Thank you, I require nothing,” he said absently, his mind being on other matters. Work on the forecastle was progressing well and that was the last of their essential repairs. The dockyard had also taken a look at the persistent leak forward of the half deck, and there were a few more small items to consider, but nothing that would prevent Prometheus from putting to sea. And the new wardroom windows were really rather splendid, he reminded himself, glancing across at them. Perhaps not as ornate as their predecessors, but the simpler design actually allowed more light, and he was sure the overpowering smell of linseed and marine glue would go in time.
“There's a bite of cold beef left from dinner, sir, should you wish it,” the steward persisted, and King was now alerted. Wardrooms varied from ship to ship, and Prometheus was now blessed with one of the best he had encountered. But never before had he received such attention from a steward: certainly not one with whom he was only vaguely acquainted. And the man, though not unfamiliar, was rarely seen on service detail; King had always considered him to be one of the cooks. Apart from the two of them, the place was empty; perhaps the fellow was simply bored, or felt like a change of task, although King sensed there may be another reason.
“Potterton, isn't it?” he questioned, and the steward, who was older and far better spoken than most, nodded. “I require nothing, Potterton.” King continued. “But perhaps you are wanting something from me?”
“I-I would appreciate the chance to speak, sir,” the man confessed. “That is, if it be no trouble.”
“You are starboard watch, are you not?” King replied. “Mr Davison is your divisional lieutenant. Ship's business is better spoken of with him.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, I am aware, and have endeavoured to bring the matter up, though Mr Davison was unforthcoming. He is quite young, sir.”
The last words were delivered in a whisper and King supposed there was a form of compliment in them, even if he himself were hardly much older. It would be wrong to ask the man to sit, not when it was his place of work, so King remained standing.
“Very well, Potterton; what do you have to say?”
“It was about my recruitment, sir,” the older man began. “It is not that I wish to cause trouble, and am certain Mr Lewis felt it within his rights to seize me. But I think there may have been an error, sir. I am a cook: a recognised tradesman. I served an apprenticeship and have never had dealings with the sea in my life. And I am also part owner of the Three Tuns in Galmpton; it is only a share, but I have since learned that such a thing makes me a freeholder, so I surely should not have been taken.”
“Whyever did you not say something before?” King asked.
“It was so sudden, sir,” the man explained vaguely. “One moment I was happily at work in my kitchen, the next aboard this ship. I have only ever been in service, and was unsure of the correct procedure to protest. And, you will forgive me sir, but it does seem that those who complain or cause trouble are somewhat roughly dealt with.”
King supposed he had a point: the Navy was not known for its pastoral care and Davison, Potterton's divisional lieutenant, could never be accused of having a sensitive side.
“And then, when I was posted to wardroom service, I felt it a job that needed doing. We are at war, yet the methods and facilities for serving the officers were sadly lacking. I think I have made a few significant changes there, sir,” Potterton added, somewhat smugly. “It was only when we reached an English port, that I considered it worth bringing the matter up.”
“You have certainly made a great improvement,”
King allowed. “The wardroom fare has never been so good, and you have forged a fine team from the stewards. Were you to wish it, there may be a warrant in it for you – how would you feel about being a petty officer?”
“Thank you, sir; it has been enjoyable work. But I also miss England and would prefer to be there, and in my own kitchen.”
“I see,” King said, although in reality he was still slightly mystified. “And what is it that you expect of me?”
“Well, as a novice in these matters, I am unsure of the exact procedure, and wondered if you would be so good as to guide me?”
* * *
“You advised him to seek legal counsel?” Davison asked, with obvious disgust. It was the following evening, and once more in the wardroom. King, in contemplation of an early night, had been yarning pleasantly with Lewis, Dawson, the purser, and Marine Lieutenant Swift when Davison entered. The starboard watch had been granted shore leave; by now all should have returned and, as the divisional officer responsible, Davison was plainly troubled. But both his presence and position struck a chord with King, who had been looking for an opportunity to speak with him all that day. Consequently he broached the matter directly, and probably without the finesse it deserved; in any case, he was somewhat taken aback at the reaction.
“If that fellow Billings has been bending your ear, I am not interested,” Davison said, interrupting King's explanation. “Ever since we left Tor Bay he has been griping about being seized illegally; even brought a deputation from his mess, on one occasion. I own that he has been more quiet of late, but now I knows why: it seems he has found an ally. Damn it, King, we have few enough men aboard as it is; losing a good hand is not going to make matters easier.”
“Actually it is another; a steward, name of Potterton,” King replied mildly. “But if either is here in error, that should surely be corrected; no good will come of it otherwise. A pressed man is one thing, but any hand illegally detained only spreads dissatisfaction and contempt amongst the people.”
