by Alaric Bond
The words struck deep into Simpson's muddled mind, and his anger rose up once more. Rose up until it flowed over, and took control of his body. The final smirk from the master at arms was enough, Critchley failed to see the blow that hit him, and hardly felt any pain at all as his head cracked back and his body crumpled down on to the deck.
*****
The wardroom was more than eighty feet away from the punishment deck, quite a distance on a ship where six hundred souls shared a hull one hundred and sixty feet long. In addition an entire social class separated its occupants from Simpson and his problems. But despite this Tait was experiencing similar feelings to the failed deserter. When Rogers wanted to ingratiate himself his face took on a leering smile, and was pressed close to his victim. Unfortunately the occasions were relatively frequent, and with each Tait felt the desire to squash the rich, damp mouth with his fist grow stronger. At all hours of the day his breath was stale, and the mixture of false bon-homie and genuine halitosis was sickening.
“I wonder if I could beg a small favour of you?” Tait felt it a matter of personal pride not to flinch as Rogers confidently continued. “Small matter of the furniture in my cabin.”
This was a new angle; Roger's favours had previously confined themselves to swapping duties or articles of toiletry; exchanges that always turned out to be one-sided.
“Your furniture?”
“That's right; I understand that the carpenter is rather obliging?”
“Yes,” Tait had to think for a moment. It was late evening on their first full day at sea, and cabin furniture had been the last thing on his mind. “Yes, Mr Smith. He made most of my furniture. He'll do yours if you ask him.”
“That's exactly as I had hoped.”
“Send for him, I'm sure he'll accommodate you.” As an idler Smith kept predictable hours, and was able to spend most of the night peacefully asleep. Tait eagerly turned back to the table where the cheese was about to be passed. Rogers had only been on board a couple of days but already he was becoming an annoyance. He had noticed that a few of the other officers appeared as irritated, there were even those who treated him with annoying deference, like a rich and potentially generous uncle.
“I wonder if I could ask that favour?” Still that face taunted him with its abundance and proximity. “Could you speak to the carpenter for me? I am still a relatively new boy, and our cabins are so similar. He appears to have made a credible job on yours, and no doubt could be tempted to repeat your furniture in mine.”
“I could have a word.” It irked Tait slightly that Rogers had seen fit to inspect his cabin, although he supposed that there was nothing so very terrible in the act. At least he wouldn't have minded if it had been anyone else. “I have the first dog watch, I'll send for him then.”
Dyson at the head of the table was tapping his fruit knife on his glass. Roger's smile faded a split second before he turned to look at him and in that flash, Tait was treated to a different expression. It was the look of a conceited, spoilt, bully who had got what he wanted and Tait felt a wave of revulsion wash over him.
“If I could have your attention for a moment, gentlemen?”
The murmur of conversation dwindled to nothing.
“Steward?”
A face appeared at the pantry door in answer to Dyson's call.
“See that you and your staff are employed elsewhere for the next ten minutes.”
The man, who had been at sea longer than any of them, disappeared without a word. In no time the small pantry was empty, and the wardroom left to commissioned and senior warrant officers alone.
“I am sorry to have to speak to you all in such a confidential way so early into the cruise, but a matter has been brought to my notice that I fear is of the utmost importance.”
He had their attention now, even Rogers, his hand on his brandy, stopped in the action of bringing the glass to his lips.
“I also have to say that I am aware that Lieutenant Gregory and several others are not with us, I will be speaking with them as soon as the opportunity arises.”
Gregory still had the watch, and had eaten some while before.
“One of the young gentlemen has reported a Tree of Liberty on the orlop deck.”
The murmurs rose, only to die swiftly as Dyson went to say more.
“Fortunately he is not aware of the significance, he simply announced that there had been chalking on a deckhead. It is fortunate that I bothered to enquire of the subject, otherwise I think I would probably have assumed the usual.”
Rogers broke out with a crude snigger, although everyone else remained silent.
“Does any gentlemen present not understand the relevance of this matter?”
It was significant that, although of greatly differing backgrounds and experience, no one spoke.
“Let me say this once.” Dyson had the knack of holding each man's attention as if he was speaking directly to him alone. “However romantic or wistful the Irish question may appear, the Nationalists are as much our enemy as the French. Ignoring some of their quaint revolutionary ideals, they have openly spoken of aiding a French invasion of England in their fight for an Independent Irish Nation.”
“That they have support from some of our politicians can only be regretted, that they are present, and presumably active in this ship, is a matter of the deepest concern.”
Tait felt the urge to scratch at his nose, but the silence was heavy, and he did not want to draw attention to himself.
“I have inspected the muster, and can report that we have fifty-four Irish amongst our people. Naturally these will have to be watched,” he drew breath. “And while you are watching, please remember this; until we know better they can be trusted no more than you would a Frenchman.”
The murmurs rose again, and Tait managed to get in with a crafty stroke of his nose while his brother officers muttered around him. Fifty-four was approximately a twelfth of the crew; a large proportion, but by no means unusual. Tait considered the matter further. Fifty-four known Irishmen: those who had declared their nationality. What of the other foreigners, or even those English, with Irish sympathies? There were pressed Americans on board; who could say where their allegiance lay? In a ship where every man's life might, and often did, depend on the next it was a worrying way to start a voyage.
“Stay watchful, gentlemen,” Dyson continued. “Notice any action that might be construed as sabotage or mutiny; any gossip that you or your young gentlemen pick up; anything that could have bearing to the matter, and report it to me with the utmost despatch.” A series of nods passed about the table, Tait began to think back over small incidents that had occurred recently. None seemed to be anything other the normal frictions of shipboard life, although, in the light of Dyson's announcement, he became suspicious.
“I am confident that we can nip this matter in the bud.” Dyson smiled grimly. “Maybe scratch the back of a few ringleaders; show them the British Navy will not put up with their continental ideas. Meanwhile keep your people busy; nothing breeds mutiny and rebellion as much as idle minds. I want to see individual divisions fully occupied at all times. Keep them on the move and they won't have the energy for revolt.” He looked about the table, catching all eyes in one sweep before adding; “Thank you, that is all.”
As he finished speaking Dyson nodded briefly, before sitting back in his chair, and effectively withdrawing himself from the table. Tait noticed how the other officers talked around him, none even attempting to ask an ancillary question, or pass a comment to the first lieutenant, who was apparently no longer there. Tait had been commissioned for a little over four years and felt himself reasonably well versed in most of his duties, although time spent with Dyson had taught him there was more to being an officer than simply knowing one sheet from another. The man had a way about him; a subtle command of both language and men that could never be included in any training manual. Whether learnt or natural, Dyson held it in spades; diplomacy worthy of admirals, and yet cert
ainly not wasted amongst this collection of King's officers.
If there were to be a mutiny on board Vigilant, England would suffer. The French would take great delight in publicising the overthrow of authority, and every British officer would find his job that much more difficult as a result. That was all in addition to the loss of a line ship, and the encouragement to the Irish rebels. Should Dyson be able to avoid this he would be doing his country as great a service as physically winning a battle, although his actions would never be recognised as such. Tait took a sip from his own brandy. It was simply Dyson's job, he supposed. That he did it well meant that he should be picked out for promotion, although there were many more places for lieutenants than commanders. In the meantime Tait was fortunate in having such a worthy mentor; one he could observe from close quarters, and learn from for as long as he was able. He smiled quietly to himself. This was yet another of Dyson's attributes; rôle model to junior officers. In this he was equally effective, and equally unlikely to be rewarded.
*****
At least five and not more than thirteen post captains would be needed to hang Simpson. Shepherd sat at his desk, a closed copy of Regulations and Instructions Regarding His Majesty's Service at Sea in front of him. It was a long title for a big book, and most points were covered thoroughly, if not with elaboration. In the convoy he could rouse only one other post captain; Douglas of the Taymar. Richardson, captain of the sloop Badger, was only a commander in rank. More than that they were still in home waters, where the death penalty was subject to Admiralty confirmation, and even then liable to reprieve by Royal prerogative. He would have to wait, at least until they reached St Helena, and possibly even longer.
He grunted and stood up. The only other course he could take was to put back to harbour. It would mean delaying the convoy for two days at least, probably longer. Shepherd was glad to be at sea, and eager to wash his hands of the convoy and especially its commodore. The idea of going back when they had already made the break from land was repugnant to him and yet so was the thought of spending the next ninety days or so with Simpson languishing in irons. He would be the object of pity and morbid curiosity; worse, he might even become the focus of a mutiny. Men of the lower deck were known for being sentimental fools, and it was by no means beyond them to take the most stupid of risks to save one of their number. Of course he had the power to hang Simpson there and then if he truly considered him a danger to crew or ship. But both points were certainly debatable, and the Admiralty would not look kindly on a man who put another to death without going through the proper channels.
But a crime as blatant as this was not one that Shepherd was allowed to ignore, even if he wanted to. Critchley had escaped without major damage, but his authority would be drained if the correct procedures did not take place. The twenty-second Article of War provided for no lesser penalty than death. There was really no alternative other than Simpson to remain in captivity until a court martial could be assembled. Then he would hang; there could be no doubt about that.
*****
It was odd that the lad who had befriended Matthew at the anchor cable should also be called Jake. The clash of Christian names with the old carpenter back in Leatherhead seemed to lend the boy even more knowledge and maturity. Matthew followed him as he clambered down the companionway and on to the orlop deck.
“If it's only Jack Dusty we'll be all right,” he whispered back at Matthew as they walked past the midshipmen's berth. Matthew nodded, although he had little idea of what Jake had in mind. The possibility that it contained some degree of felony was not lost on him, but then in Jake's presence this hardly seemed to matter at all.
The purser's room was shuttered, although there was some light peeping through the slats. Jake looked about him, before peering through and into the room. He stepped back, and nonchalantly began to shuffle away.
“No sign of Morrison,” he whispered. “We're in luck.”
For upwards of a minute the two lads loitered next to the carpenter's store, with Matthew trying hard to match Jake's professionally indifferent pose. Then the younger boy approached the purser's room once more.
This time his step was bold, and he rapped on the deal door with all the assurance of a lieutenant. The same elderly man who Matthew had first met the day before opened the door and stared myopically at the pair.
“Message from Mr Morrison,” Jake's voice was loud and confidant. “Says you're to meet him in the stewards' room.”
“Stewards' room?” he shook his head uncertainly. “But I got me manifests.”
Jake paused a fraction too long, and Matthew felt his body tense.
“'E said to forget about them, and meet him.” Jake's voice had lost some of its assurance, although the old man still listened intently. “’E said it were important.”
“I see, I got to go to the stewards' room, an' meet Mr Morrison?”
“That's right.”
A faint twinkle appeared in the faded eyes. “An I suppose I jus' leaves this room wide open?”
Jake opened his mouth and considered for a moment.
“You all knows I ain't 'lowed keys, I suppose you were gonna stand in and guard the place for me?”
Matthew made ready to run, even though the elderly man now had a sly grin on his face.
“Think jus' 'cos a man's old, e's gonna be daft do 'e?” Mercifully he stepped back into the room before the boys could conjure up an answer. Jake flashed a worried smile at Matthew, who had taken a pace back, and both turned to walk away. Then the door opened again and the man was back. He held two clenched fists out towards the boys.
“'Ere you are, an' don't try no tricks'n future.”
Jake seemed unwilling to go near the man, but Matthew sensed something in his manner, and walked towards him. He held his hands cupped under one of the fists and received a warm handful of raisins. Seeing this Jake immediately came forward, hands outstretched for his share, before skipping off into the darkness of the orlop.
Matthew stayed and looking up, he whispered his thanks. The man gave him a tired smile. “Bugger off.” he said, and Matthew left.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning was grey and filled with rain. Lieutenant Timothy, who had the watch, stood in the dubious shelter of the mizzen shrouds; hands behind back, glass tucked under one arm, and shoulders hunched to allow his hat to cover the nape of his neck. A short man, inclined to portliness, and currently covered in many layers of clothing, his stance gave him an odd, beetle-like appearance, although there were few on deck to fully appreciate this. It was six bells in the forenoon watch, before long the other officers and midshipmen would assemble to take their noon sights, and the new navigational day would begin. But for the moment Timothy had the quarterdeck, and the rain, pretty much to himself.
A shout from above drew his attention, and Timothy reluctantly returned to his correct position next to the binnacle.
“What do you see there?” he bellowed.
The masthead's voice was equally strong, and carried easily down to the deck. “Three ships incoming to larboard, look like merchants.”
Timothy nodded, not an unlikely sighting for the Channel, although they could be the first of a large convoy, in which case there would probably still be Navy ships as escorts.
“I saw three ships come sailing in,” he said, absent-mindedly. He turned to Pite, the midshipman of the watch.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
Timothy smiled. “Never mind. Tell the captain, then pass the word for Mr King.” Pite nodded, much relieved, and touched his hat before dashing off. King was new to his post, and it would do him little harm to be prepared for the exchange of recognition signals.
Within half an hour the ships were in sight from the deck, although the rain distorted their images into a vague smudge. Shepherd inspected them for several minutes before turning his glass onto the commodore's ship. A slight smile spread across his face as he lowered the telescope and closed it with a snap. At that moment H
umble, the master, appeared on the quarterdeck sextant in hand, followed by a group of midshipmen with their quadrants. Shepherd turned to him.
“Mr Humble, There are three inbound merchant ships on the larboard quarter. I would be obliged if you would take us closer.”
Humble touched his hat and, exchanging his sextant with Timothy's glass, he inspected the convoy. His mind already carried all the necessary information about their present course, wind and the set of the sails.
“Alter course two points to larboard,” he muttered to the helmsmen.
Timothy called the hands to the braces and Vigilant creaked slowly round in the light wind and drizzle.
Drawn by the unexpected change of course, the quarterdeck was now positively alive with officers. Tait and King exchanged a glance. It was quite conceivable that the captain had a personal reason for closing with the ships, possibly wanting to pass a message home. He may even be intending to send Simpson back, although that was less likely. They were not left to wonder for long.
“Mr Timothy, you have the watch, I believe?”
“Yes, sir!” Timothy stepped forward and touched his hat.
“We're closing with home bound ships, Mr Timothy. I propose to make up our numbers.” The captain turned and caught Dyson's eye. “We could use some more people, Mr Dyson?”
“Indeed, sir.” Dyson very nearly smiled. It was possible that the promise of extra men was more enticing than anything else the captain could have offered him.
“We'll use the launch and the long boat. Get the crews ready, and appoint a lieutenant and a midshipman to each.”
Dyson touched his hat before turning to attend to his duties. Seasoned hands, trim from months at sea; just what was needed to bring Vigilant up to scratch.
*****
Lewis watched them go. He knew from experience that the ship would remain hove to for some while, and nothing would be required of him during that time. He had noted the noon sight, and now was fairly sure of the ship's exact position. He placed his journal safely inside his jacket and pulled out a little grey book that he always kept in his trouser pocket. The young gentlemen and master's mates were still puzzling over their calculations, and he guessed that any assistance from him would not be welcomed. Instead he swung himself down the quarterdeck ladder and strode along the waist towards the forecastle. Once there, in his own territory, he selected a convenient corner next to a knee and settled himself down to read. The thin pages of the book were almost learnt by heart now, but he read them through again, his mouth moving slightly with each word.
