by Alaric Bond
CHAPTER NINE
Whatever ideas Dyson might have had about keeping the men busy were in total accord with the heavens. On the fourth day of the voyage, when Vigilant and her convoy were about to leave the Channel and enter the Atlantic proper, the weather started to deteriorate. Mr Humble noticed the first signs as the pressure reading on his glass began to fall. He came out on deck and sniffed the air.
“Somethin' in the wind, master?” Lieutenant Timothy had the watch and was as concerned about the weather as Humble.
The master shook his head. “Gonna blow a storm 'fore long,” he said. Both men looked up to the sky. It was late into the first dog watch and the light was going fast, but still the mackerel clouds were unmistakable.
“Stratocumulus,” Timothy said, enjoying the word. The various names for cloud formations had been part of his preparation, although for him they held a more poetic ring. The master nodded, conscious that of late he had been inclined to forget one or two of the new fangled terms. He guessed that old age was to blame, and consoled himself with the knowledge that he was a born sailor and would always be able to recognise a dangerous sky.
“Be on us afore dawn,” he grumbled.
There was another matter to take into consideration; Vigilant was sailing with a draft of fresh men: about one in fifteen were new to the ship, and a good proportion of those, landsmen. Ships had left Portsmouth with far worse crews, although at least two weeks at sea would normally be needed to polish up the old hands, and break in the new. A storm this early was a serious matter, and would certainly put a strain on the capable.
“I'll mention it to the captain,” Humble muttered. Timothy nodded; the captain would have to know. He would also have to worry about the convoy. Timothy had no idea how well the merchants were crewed, but their station keeping had been appalling since Spithead. They might survive a squall without separating, but a full blown gale would be a different proposition. Something caught his eye, and he switched back to a more immediate problem without effort.
“You there; stand still!” Two youngsters were gambolling on the foretop. Hearing Timothy's voice they froze like the guilty children they were. “Behave that way an' you'll be the first to leave this ship!” Skylarking may be approved of on still, quiet evenings, but not when a storm was brewing.
The youngsters sank from sight, as the master went below and Timothy began to pace the weather side of the quarterdeck. At a turn he paused and took time to stare out at the sea. The water was iron grey, with just a hint of opacity at the borders of each wave. It moved with an inner power that was quite beyond him, and yet the fact of its presence thrilled Timothy in an inexpressible way.
“Watch your luff,” he growled, and the helmsmen allowed the ship to fall off a little. His eyes returned to the sea, and the magical spectacle that was being played out before him. Occasionally the wind scraped a line of crystal white that contrasted with the grey and died almost as soon as it had been created. The heave of the deck made him a part of it all, and he felt humble in the presence of such force and majesty. Yes, the captain would have a lot to think about, and as far as Lieutenant Timothy was concerned, he was welcome.
*****
“That man would spot a bedbug on a royal!” Jake grumbled. The foretop was usually a safe place to jolly; almost out of sight of the quarterdeck, especially when the main course was set. That was one reason for choosing it when taking Matthew on his first trip aloft.
“You'd better get movin',” Pamplin, a senior topmen, told them.
“Aye,” said Copley, Pamplin’s particular friend. Both men were off duty, and had chosen the foretop as a quiet place to be together. “That beamy 'un's a shark. If e's got 'is eye on you, it'll be the worse for the res' of us.”
Jake turned to Matthew. “Come on, Matt, take you to the crosstrees?”
Matthew grinned and nodded. He seemed quite at home aloft, with none of the stupid giddiness that some had when their feet left the deck. The boys made for the shrouds.
“'member why we takes the weather side?” Jake began.
“I know,” Matthew stammered. “That way the weight goes down an' the wind blows you against the shrouds, not off them.”
Jake grinned, “'S right. An' if I go, mind you shout, m-m-man overboard!”
They began to climb. The shrouds were narrower and closer together now, and the wind, which was gaining strength with every foot, certainly held them hard against the lines. Matthew and Jake ascended quickly, their bodies knocking together as the shrouds converged. The soles of Matthew's feet hurt from the unaccustomed harshness of the ratlines, but he was enjoying himself, and determined not to let Jake pass him without a fight. In fact he pulled slightly ahead, and was the first to reach the futtock shrouds, and the precarious safety of the crosstrees. He looked down at Jake complacently as he touched the smooth wooden frame.
“I see, a visitor, is it?”
The voice cut deep into Matthew's soul, and all thoughts of the game were dismissed. He looked up cautiously. It was Crehan.
“So come on up, let me show you about.” Crehan, stationed as lookout at the foretopgallant masthead, had heard the boys climbing, and was ready to meet them on the topmast crosstrees. He held his hand out to Matthew, who paused uncertainly. Surely there was little Crehan could do to him here? Whatever resentment the man held, it could not extend to wishing him dead. Unaware, Jake nudged him good naturedly from below, as he warily extended his hand to the man.
“That's the spirit,” his grip was hard and painful; as soon as he had Matthew's arm in his hand, he seemed to take over, pulling the boy up and away from the safety of the shrouds.
“Let's get you nice an' safe, shall we?” He was supporting Matthew's entire weight now, and for the first time the boy felt conscious of the height, and of the deck circling steadily beneath them.
“Jus' plant y'r here.” He laughed, holding Matthew above the crosstrees so that his feet were inches from the supports. Matthew looked into his eyes and knew the simple pleasure within. Crehan was treating him with the same callous disregard a child might have for an insect.
“Let me down.” he said, his voice breaking.
“Let you down, is it?” Crehan laughed, and swung the lad so that his body swayed sideways like the pendulum of a clock.
“You 'eard, let him down!” Jake was now on the futtock shrouds and level with the crosstrees, but could do little to help his friend. “Let 'im down, or I'll report you!”
Something struck a chord, and Crehan looked down at Jake, his face reddening.
“Oh, report me, would, you? Seems you've found a friend here, right enough; real peas in a pod, you two are!”
Matthew was still dangling, and could feel Crehan's grip slip slightly.
“I'm goin'!” he shrieked. Crehan turned back to him, his pleasure renewed.
“You'll go when I says you will.”
Matthew felt the grip slacken again, and shouted out. The Irishman's face turned to meet his as he realised he had misjudged. He went to pull Matthew in: the boy brushed the firm wood of the crosstrees with his foot, but it was only a fleeting touch. Crehan's grip slipped on his arm as he reached out with his other hand. For several seconds the Irishman struggled to pull Matthew up onto the perch, and had almost succeeded when a sudden blast of wind caught and spun him. The boy shouted and raised his hand to Crehan, who stretched out for him. Then Matthew fell.
It happened almost slowly. A flash of Jake's concerned face, then the topsail billowing out beside him. Pamplin shouting from the foretop as he passed, close enough to almost catch. He bashed against the forecourse yard, fought for a grip, and hung crookedly for a split second, before falling once more. Falling, but still conscious, and still fighting.
Then he was amongst the massive forecourse, the wind blasting him into the belly of the sail. His body scraped against the canvas; the burn of the course material against his fingers as he battled for a hold. He spun sideways, and caught a glance at th
e quarterdeck and poop. Everthing appeared normal, as if nothing had happened. Only he was behaving strangely in his private, exposed, battle. The sail tried to swallow him; he grappled with it and almost held, but the force that dragged him down was stronger.
There was sudden brightness and a loud noise close to his head that made him start. The pain flowed like a thrill down his back. Then nothing was beneath him. He struck out and gasped, body flailing in the empty, open air; fighting the pull that dragged him down. Anger welled up inside, and he gave out one single robust yell, before he closed his eyes and hit the solid floor of the sea.
*****
Vigilant was now riding heavy waves, and the unaccustomed motion, combined with the long spell at anchor, brought out feelings of seasickness in even the most seasoned of her people. Dyson, sitting in the only private space available at that time, the chartroom next to the captain's quarters, was experiencing distinct feelings of unease as he interviewed King in the cramped and stuffy office.
“And you have no idea what they were doing aloft?”
King shook his head. “I was off watch, sir, as indeed they were. Diggins is quite experienced; he could have been taking Jameson up to show him the ropes.”
Dyson nodded. King's conjecture fitted exactly with Diggins' statement. Skylarking, the unofficial climbing of the shrouds, was allowed only when conditions were good. It was still common however at all times and, in Dyson's view, probably a better way for landsmen to learn than being harried up by some bullying boatswain's mate with a starter.
“What about Crehan; were you conscious of friction between the two?”
King paused for a moment. “There was the incident at the rating board, sir.”
“I am aware of that, but since then?”
Dyson was looking at him intently, watching every change of expression as King thought through the events of the last few days. “Yes, there was something else, Mr Critchley caught them together in the heads.”
“I see.” Dyson withdrew his pen from his coat pocket and tapped it on the desk thoughtfully. “They were alone, I take it.”
“Yes, sir. Although Mr Critchley said he thought Crehan was plaguing the boy.”
“Do you think Crehan has a liking?” Although illegal, consenting homosexuality was tolerated on some ships, but there were few officers who would not intervene when a lad was involved.
“No, sir. No, I think its more resentment.”
Dyson considered the pen nib for a second before continuing. “And do you think it was wise for Crehan to be rated at foremast lookout?” He was clearly referring to the recent wardroom conversation, and King thought carefully before replying.
“With hindsight, possibly not, sir,” he swallowed. “But he is a trained hand, and I would judge him better at the fore than the skyscraper.”
It was a good point. The main lookout, being several feet higher than the fore, swept a wider horizon. In daylight the fore lookout was really only there as a failsafe.
“The other boy, Diggins. Have you spoken to him?”
“No, sir, I was attending to Jameson. But Mr Pite met him on the foretop. He says Crehan dropped Jameson on purpose.”
Dyson's eyebrows rose fractionally. “Dropped?” Diggins had said exactly that to him, but only after he had been given time to consider the matter.
“Yes, sir. He said Crehan held him away from the crosstrees, and deliberately dropped him.”
“He couldn't have been in the process of helping him up when he lost his grip?”
King shook his head. “I know that's what Crehan said, sir, but Diggins is certain. An’ there were others on the foretop at the time; Pamplin and Copley, they say the same.”
Dyson closed his eyes for a moment; he knew all about Pamplin and Copley. The break from conversation served to remind them both of the weather and, in Dyson's case, his stomach. The chart room creaked and groaned with annoying regularity, and the wind rushing through the shrouds was high pitched and frantic. Vigilant was already running under topsails alone; preventer stays had been rigged and it was likely that a reef would be needed before long. And the convoy, that could be holding together, or tearing off on different courses and individual speeds. Dyson swallowed as a wave of nausea swept over him; there really wasn't time to talk about one man's fate.
“Very well, we have enough to occupy us for now. Keep Crehan under close arrest, and look to your division. I expect a report from the surgeon directly; I will inform you when I know anything more.”
“Thank you, sir,” King stood up awkwardly in the small, heaving cabin. “Do you think this was an act of sabotage?” It was a question that had been on his mind for a while.
“No I don't.” The first lieutenant placed the statements and notes into a folder and returned the pen to his pocket. “This was far too obvious, and totally out of keeping with anything the United Irishmen might have in mind. Look for tainted drinking water in the wardroom; a rolling round shot when it's only you on deck and false reports and ridiculous signals that make fools of officers; that's more their line. Nothing so direct and personal as endangering lives. It would not serve their purpose.” He allowed King a grudging half smile. “Right now I would guess that Crehan is not a particularly popular person. If he was involved with any Nationalist ideals, his actions will not have served the cause well.”
*****
Tait threw off his pea-jacket and hung it on the rack outside the wardroom to dry. It was the end of the second dog watch; he had eight hours to himself before taking the morning watch which ran from four till eight. It was a duty he usually shared with Dyson, and Tait wanted to get as much sleep as possible, as the first lieutenant was an exacting man to work with. He drew his fingers through his damp fair hair, twitched his neck cloth and brushed his coat into a semblance of order before entering the wardroom. This was, after all, a place where gentlemen lived, and the fact that he had been on deck in the very teeth of a gale for the last two hours was certainly no excuse to be casual about his appearance.
The elderly steward stepped out of the pantry as he entered. Tait shook his head; he had no use for food or drink, all he needed was the chance to fall into his cot and let someone else take charge for a spell. The storm had been growing steadily; it would be a restless night, with the strong possibility that he would be called before his watch began. The only other occupants of the wardroom, Timothy and Gregory, had spread the green baize cloth over the table and were playing cards. Timothy had been trying to teach the intricacies of whist to the older man, and the table was laid with four hands face up, while Timothy patiently explained the order of play. Tait smiled at them both, before opening the screen door of his cabin, and retreating inside.
He appeared again almost immediately, his face full of bluster and indignation.
“Has anyone been in here?” he asked. Timothy looked up.
“Mr Dyson has just left, and Mr Morrison. Neither went near your cabin though.”
His look stirred their interest, and all thoughts of cards were put aside as they rose up from the table and followed him into the tiny room.
“Well bless me!” Gregory explained. This was far more interesting than guarding an ace or attempting a finesse. “Looks like you've been taken rotten!”
Tait's possessions were piled neatly in the middle of the deck. His furniture had all but disappeared, only the cot, now bereft of its embroidered cover, swung from the deckhead.
“Someone's squirreled your stuff,” Timothy said unnecessarily.
“Damn right!” Tait's eyes were filled with anger. “Bloody Rogers!”
“Rogers?” Timothy could not see the connection.
“Somebody call?” The voice came from the wardroom, Rogers must have entered while they were examining Tait's cabin. Tait pushed past the others to get at him.
“What the deuce do you think you're at?”
Rogers had dined well earlier, and now had the look of a satisfied cat. He lent on the bulkhead, bracing hims
elf against the heel of the ship.
“My dear Tait, pray do not excite yourself!”
“Excite myself?” he drew breath. “Curse you, for the stuffed up, conceited prig that you are!”
Timothy knew that Rogers was considered influential and was junior enough to bite his tongue while Gregory, who had no such inhibitions, grinned openly.
“I do not accept an address like that from anyone.” There was a formal edge to Rogers' voice now, as if he was reciting from a prepared speech. “I advise you to moderate your language, or I shall be forced to request a meeting!”
The mention of a duel raised the stakes along with Tait's blood pressure. He opened his mouth to reply, but it was Gregory, with his solid reasoning, who was first to speak.
“I think Mr Tait is referring to his furniture, or rather the lack of it.” Gregory's older voice, uncultured but authoritative, brought a semblance of order, despite the fact that he was junior to all bar Timothy.
