An Ensuing Evil and Others

by Peter Tremayne

“What happened here is that a penniless player met his death by the hand of a person or persons unknown. They might have climbed the wall and entered by the open window to rob him. It often happens in this cruel city. Hundreds die by violence, and hundreds more by disease among its teeming populace. The courts give protection to the rich, to the well connected, to gentlemen. But it seems that Master Keehan was not one of these; otherwise, I might have had recourse to pursue this investigation with more rigor.”

  He turned for the door, paused, and turned back for a moment.

  “Master Penhallow, I know not what conditions now prevail in your country of Cornwall. Do you take advice, and if it be possible, return your family to its protective embrace and leave this warren of iniquity and pestilence that we have created by the banks of this foul-smelling stretch of river. I doubt if health and prosperity will ever be your fortune here.”

  The young girl, eyes shining with tears, moved forward and grasped his arm. “Dursona dhys!” she cried, leaning forward and kissing the constable on the cheek. “Durdala-dywy!.. Bless you, Master Constable. Thank you.”

  Smiling to himself, Master Drew paused outside the Red Boar Inn before wandering the short distance to the banks of the Thames. The smells were overpowering. Gutted fish and offal. The stench of sewerage. Those odious smells, to which he thought that a near lifetime of living in London had inured him, suddenly seemed an affront to his nostrils. Yet thousands of people were arriving in London year after year, and the city was extending rapidly in all directions. A harsh, unkind city that attracted the weak and the wicked, the hopeful and the cynics, the trusting and the swindler, the credulous and the cheat. Never was there such an assemblage of evil. The Puritan divines did not have to look far if they wished to frighten people with an image of what hell was akin to.

  He sighed deeply as he glanced up and down the riverbanks.

  A boy came along the embankment path bearing a placard and ringing a handbell. Master Drew peered at the placard.

  It was an announcement that the King’s Players would be performing Master Will Shakespeare’s The Life of King Henry V at the Globe Theatre that evening.

  Master Whelton Keehan would not be playing the role of King Hal.

  Master Hardy Drew suddenly found some lines from another of Will Shakespeare’s plays coming into his mind. Where did they come from? The Tragedy of Macbeth! The last performance Whelton Keehan had given.

  Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

  To the last syllable of recorded time;

  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death.

  Out, out brief candle!

  Life’s hut a walking shadow, a poor player

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  And then is heard no more.

  THE REVENGE OF THE GUNNER’S DAUGHTER

  The last French shot had fallen a full quarter-mile aft of the Deerhound as she slipped into the sheltering fog that was rolling down through the Oresund from the Kattegat and across the Kjoge Bight, south of Copenhagen. That had been twenty minutes ago, and since then there had followed an uneasy quiet, free of the noise of battle; the sea’s quiet of creaking wooden spars, the fretful snap of canvas and the whispering waves against the sides of the twenty-two-gun sloop as she became immersed in the thick white mist that now concealed her from her vengeful pursuer.

  Captain Richard Roscarrock, captain of His Majesty’s sloop Deerhound, stood head to one side, in a listening attitude on the quarterdeck, hands clasped tightly behind him, lips compressed. Finally he raised his head; his shoulders seemed to relax.

  “Hands to shorten sail, Mr. Hart.” He turned to the midshipman next to him, a lad scarcely out of his teenage. “Quietly does it,” he snapped hastily as the youngster raised his hand to his mouth to shout the order. “Quietly all! We don’t want Johnny Frenchman to hear us. We’ll take in the tops’ls and mains’l. Pass the word! And have the hands take a care for the damage on the mainmast; the main topgallant mast seems to be badly splintered. And for heaven’s sake, get a couple of hands to secure the mainstay; it’ll cause damage if it swings loose for much longer.”

  Midshipman Hart brought his hand to his forehead so that his original motion ended in a cursory salute. He went forward to gather the hands.

  Gervaise, the first lieutenant, moved closer to his captain. His voice was quiet. “I don’t think the Frenchman has followed us, sir,” he observed. “He’s probably beating back into the Baltic now that he has discovered we are in these waters.”

  Roscarrock agreed mentally but gave a noncommittal grunt by way of response. He had been long enough in command to realize that it was not politic to discuss his thoughts with his juniors.

  Unstead, the second officer, joined them. “Did you see the cut of her, sir? I’ll bet ten guineas on that being the Epervier of Rambert’s squadron.”

  “Will we try to rejoin Admiral Gambier, sir?” pressed Gervaise.

  Roscarrock sniffed to indicate his irritation. “In good time, Mr. Gervaise. And I am well aware of what ship it was, Mr. Unstead. We’ll haul to and will use the cover of this fog to assess our situation. The French gunners were good, and we have sustained some damage. Look at our mainmast.”

  The sloop had encountered the French seventy-four-gun man-o’-war by accident, sailing around the headland of Stevns Klint and running abruptly under her guns before Roscarrock could wear the ship, turning the helm to windward. The Frenchman had opened fire almost immediately on the smaller vessel. The French guns had inflicted a lot of damage on the English sloop before her swifter sailing ability, good seamanship, and the descending fog across the bight had allowed a means of escape.

  Roscarrock knew that he must have sustained several casualties. He could see for himself that the main topgallant mast had been splintered, the rigging and spars still hanging dangerously. The last shots the French had fired had been high and chain shot, which had ripped into the rigging. Captain Roscarrock also knew there had been at least one, probably two shots landed on the gun deck. However, his first concern was whether the Deerhound had been holed below the waterline, and his second concern was whether the damage to his masts was irreparable and would prevent him returning quickly to the main British fleet of Sir James Gambier to warn him of the presence of the French.

  Lieutenant Gervaise had already read his mind and passed word for the masters mate, bosun, purser, cooper, chief gunnery officer, and doctor: all the heads of the various departments that ran a ship-of-war.

  The group of men came after in ones and twos and gathered before the captain on the quarterdeck. They were tired but wore that look of relief at finding themselves still alive. Faces were blackened by powder burns; clothes were torn and stained with blood.

  “Has the word been passed for the gunnery officer?” Captain Roscarrock asked, looking round and not seeing the third lieutenant who fulfilled this role.

  An elderly sailor, with petty officer insignia, touched his forehead briefly. “Beg pardon, sir. Gunnery officers dead. I’ll make his report.”

  The first lieutenant blinked a moment. The second officer, Unstead, whistled tactlessly. Roscarrock broke in harshly as if he had not noticed their reactions.

  “And where’s the bosun?”

  “Dead, sir,” replied the masters mate dryly.

  “Then his mate should be here.”

  “Dead as well, sir. I’ll attend to the report,” the man replied.

  “Very well. Damage?”

  “No shots below the waterline. Main topgallant mast splintered and upper rigging tangled and dangerous. There is no way we can replace topmast shrouds nor the futtock shrouds. She should be able to take the mainsl and we can run without tops’ls, though it will slow us down.”

  “What about the mizzentop mast?”

  “We were lucky there. A chain shot went through the sheet, but it can be patched. That was the shot th
at impacted against the mainmast.”

  Roscarrock nodded swiftly. “Do your best. Well attempt to rejoin the fleet as soon as this fog bank clears. Then we’ll effect proper repairs. If our main fleet have already captured Copenhagen, we should have no problem.” Roscarrock turned back to a grizzled petty officer. “What’s the situation with the guns?”

  The elderly man raised a finger to his forelock. “Four guns and their crews out of action, Cap’n. Three guns totally destroyed.”

  Not as bad as Roscarrock expected-still eighteen guns remaining in action. “Purser? What’s our status?”

  “Most of the stores are safe, sir. Only two water casks were smashed by shot, but we can replace them. The biggest loss is one of the rum casks.”

  “The men will have to lose their rum ration until we can replenish the cask. Cooper, how about replacing the water casks?”

  “I’ll have new casks made by tomorrow if we have easy sailing.”

  Roscarrock was coming to the report that he disliked most of all. “Mr. Smithers, what’s the total casualties?”

  The sloop was lucky in that it carried a surgeon. Sloops of His Britannic Majesty’s navy did not usually have the luxury of carrying a surgeon and had to rely on the cook-cum-barber to double in that capacity.

  “Thirteen dead, twenty-four wounded, five seriously,” intoned the florid-faced surgeon with an enthusiasm that seemed to indicate he relished his work.

  Roscarrock’s mouth thinned. “How seriously injured?”

  “Three will be dead before nightfall, sir.”

  Roscarrock’s jaw tightened for a moment. Then he asked, “What ranks among the dead?”

  “Two midshipmen and… and Lieutenant Jardine; four petty officers, and the rest”-the surgeon shrugged-”the rest were other ranks. Of the wounded, all are seamen, sir.”

  Roscarrock glanced quickly at the surgeon. “Jardine was killed, you say?”

  It was the petty officer gunner who answered. “Beg pardon, sir. Lieutenant Jardine was on the gun deck, laying the guns, when he-”

  Roscarrock interrupted with a frown. Lieutenant Jardine was the chief gunnery officer. There was no need for an explanation as to where his station had been during the action. “We’ll get the details later. And the midshipmen who were killed?”

  “Little Jack Kenny and Tom Merritt,” the surgeon replied.

  “Very well,” Roscarrock said after a moments silence. “Very well, I want this ship cleared and ready for action again within the hour.”

  There was a chorus of “aye ayes,” and the petty officers dispersed to their jobs. The surgeon went with them to take charge of the wounded.

  Lieutenant Gervaise was shaking his head. “Jardine, eh? There’ll be a lot of ladies at Chatham who will shed a tear, no doubt.” He did not sound grief-stricken.

  Lieutenant Unstead was positively smug. “And there’ll be a lot of husbands who will sleep more comfortably at night,” he added sarcastically.

  Jardine had been third officer on the sloop. He had been a youthful, handsome, and vain man with a reputation for the ladies, especially for other men’s wives. Roscarrock did not rebuke Unstead, because he was aware that, before they had left the port of Chatham, Unstead had actually challenged Jardine to a duel: something to do with his wife, Phoebe. The duel had been prevented by the provost marshal on shore, and both officers were severely reprimanded.

  Roscarrock did not bother to comment. He knew that most of the officers and men would not be sorry to hear of Jardine’s sudden demise. His handsome looks disguised a cruel temperament. He had been too fond of inflicting discipline with a rope’s end. Roscarrock had tried to keep Jardine in check, but the man was possessed of a brutal nature that enjoyed imposing pain on those who could not retaliate. It was not good for discipline for a ship’s company to see their officers in conflict, and so Roscarrock was unable to show his disapproval of Jardine before the men. He had to support the punishments that his junior gave out and reprimand him only in private. No, there would be no false grieving in the Deerhound over Jardine.

  “Mr. Hart!”

  The young midshipman came running forward, touching his hat to his captain.

  “Lieutenant Jardine is dead. As senior midshipman, you are now acting third lieutenant. I want you to go round and make a list of all casualties. The surgeon will have his hands full tending the wounded.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Report back to me within the hour.”

  Roscarrock swung round, dismissing the youthful officer with a curt salute, and turned to his first officer.

  “Make sure that the men know the urgency of our situation, Mr. Gervaise. I shall be below in my cabin for a while.”

  In a sloop, a captain’s quarters were small, dark, and stuffy. A small curtain separated his sleeping quarters, a single bunk, a cupboard, and space for a chest, from his day cabin, in which there was space for a desk and a couple of chairs. Roscarrock went to the desk and pulled out a half-filled bottle of brandy. He uncorked it and poured out a glass. For a moment he held it up to the light that permeated through the cabin, seeing the amber liquid reflecting in the dull gray light. Then his features broke into a smile and he raised the glass, as if in silent toast, before swallowing in one mouthful.

  He replaced the bottle, sat down, and drew out the ship’s log. Then he took out pen and ink.

  Kjoge Bight, 2 September 1807, he wrote at the top of his entry, and then sat back to consider how, in brief form, he should address the events of the brief but fierce engagement.

  He had just finished the details and realized that Midshipman Hart had not returned with the list of names to enter in the log. But at that moment there was an urgent tap on the door.

  Frowning, he uttered the word: “Come!”

  Midshipman Hart stood flush-faced in the doorway. He seemed in a state of great excitement.

  Roscarrock frowned irritably. “You’re late! Do you have the casualty list?”

  Midshipman Hart placed a piece of paper on the captains desk but continued to stand in a state of some agitation.

  Roscarrock suppressed a sigh. “What is it?”

  “Beg to report, sir,” he began, “concerning the death of Lieutenant Jardine-”

  “What about the death of Jardine?” Roscarrock demanded sharply, causing the young man to pause awkwardly again as if trying to find the right phrases.

  “There are some… some curiosities about the manner of his death, sir. I–I don’t know quite how to put it.”

  Roscarrock sat back with a frown, placing his hands before him, fingertips together. “Curiosities?” He savored the word softly. “Perhaps you would explain what you mean by that word?”

  “It would be better if you would come to the gun deck, sir. Begging your pardon, it would be easier to show you rather than to tell you.”

  The young man was clearly embarrassed. He added quickly, “I’ve asked the surgeon to join us there.”

  Roscarrock sat quietly for a moment or two. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his hat and stood up. “This is highly unusual, Mr. Hart, but I will come, as you seem to set such store by my attendance.”

  “Thank you, sir, thank you.” Midshipman Hart seemed greatly relieved.

  As Roscarrock followed the young man up onto the deck and allowed him to lead the way toward the gun deck, his expression was bleak. “I cannot see what is curious about a death in battle that needs a captain in attendance when a report is made of the fact, Mr. Hart. I presume you have a good reason for dragging me to look at a corpse?”

  Midshipman Hart jerked his head nervously. “I think you will understand when I show you, sir.”

  They descended on to the gun deck. The Deerhound mounted eleven cannon on either side. The first thing that struck one in that confined space, which had a clearing of only five feet between decks so that often the men crouched to perform their fighting duties, was the stench. The acrid gunpowder and smoke predominated, but it mingled with the smell o
f burnt wood, recent fires that had been doused where French shot had ignited combustible materials. There, too, was that odor of charred flesh, that indescribable nauseous combination of the reek of the wounded and the stench of urine.

  Captain Roscarrock drew out a square of lavender-soaked linen, which he always carried, and held it to his nose, glancing around him distastefully.

  The deck was a shambles where the French shot had hit. Wood was splintered. Ropes and tackle lay in chaotic profusion. There was blood everywhere, and canvas covered several bodies that had not yet been cleared away.

  Roscarrock saw at once that the French shot had blown away part of the first four gunports on the starboard side, which had been the side of the ship he had presented to the enemy in his attempt to turn. Three guns were mangled heaps of metal, almost unrecognizable. A fourth, as the gunner had reported, was damaged but not so badly as the first three.

  Yet it was not to that scene of chaos that the young midshipman led him but to a gun that was listed in the gunnery chart as number six portside, the central gun position of the eleven-gunport broadside. There was no damage here, but an isolated body was lying just behind the gun, which was being lashed into its position by two sailors.

  The florid-faced surgeon, Smithers, was standing by the body, over which a canvas tarpaulin had been placed.

  Midshipman Hart came to a halt by it and turned to his captain. “Lieutenant Jardine, sir,” he said, pointing almost dramatically at the body.

  Roscarrock’s eyes narrowed. “I think I presumed as much,” he said without humor. “Now, Mr. Hart, what exactly demands my presence here?”

  Hart strained forward like an eager dog trying to please its owner. “Well, sir, this position here, behind number six gun, was where the gunnery lieutenant was positioned to direct our broadsides.”

  Roscarrock tried not to sound irritated. “I am aware, Mr. Hart, of the battle stations of my officers,” he replied.

  The boy actually winced, and Roscarrock felt almost sorry for his sharpness. However, a ship-of-war in His Majesty’s navy was not the place to deal in polite manners.