The Patriot's Fate (10 page)

He walked down the berth deck where others from
Egmont
were also finding their way about and commenting on the situation. There was Cox, a former miner who had been a gun captain; and Joshua the negro, one of the servers, and strong enough to haul a thirty-two back almost single-handed. It would be an education to see how they took to the pop guns they would be using. A gawky midshipman was calling out names from a sheet of paper; presumably they were setting out the messes. Surridge caught the eye of Cox, who acknowledged him good-naturedly.

“Whatcha think, Suggs?” he asked. “Bit more space than the old girl, eh?”

Surridge sneered and looked about. Admittedly the lack of guns on the berth deck gave generous room for the two hundred or so men who would be sleeping there. But no artillery also meant no proper divisions; messes would be spilling out into one another; there would be a lack of privacy and no shortage of draughts.

“I been in frigates afore,” Surridge grunted. “She’ll be cold, damp, and constantly on the move.”

Cox shrugged. “Maybe so, but given the choice between ‘er and the
Egmont
, I’d choose ‘er,” he said. “No smell of wet rot, an’ you got more than an even chance of seeing port.”

Surridge took a furtive glance about, then spat generously on the deck. Cox looked his surprise, which bolstered the quarter-gunner’s mood still further. “B’now I should have been deep in the arms of Nellie Lake,” he confided. “Biggest apple shop in the West Country, she has.”

Cox opened his mouth to comment, when his face became fixed on something beyond his friend’s shoulder.

“You there,” it was a lad’s voice, but not without authority. “Wipe that up!”

Surridge turned to see a midshipman glaring at him, and pointing to the spittle on the deck. “What’s that?” Surridge demanded.

“I said, wipe that up,” the lad repeated. “An’ you call me Mister Rose.”

“Rose?” Surridge’s eyebrows twitched and a faint look of scorn appeared across his grubby face. The midshipman’s uniform was slightly too small for him, emphasising his age, and making the surname seem even more appropriate.

“Mister Rose,” the boy insisted, still pointing at the spittle.

Surridge smirked, and extended a bare foot. He wiped the spot with his sole, smearing it into the deck, then regarded the boy once more as if he was assessing him for a minor task.

Rose’s face was mildly flushed. “What is your name?”

“Surridge.” The man paused. “
Mister
Rose.”

“Very well, Surridge. “The next time I catch you behaving like that it will be a report to the lieutenant.”

“I’ll remember,” Surridge’s expression was not quite a smirk, and certainly nothing that could be officially regarded as insubordination, but he noticed the glow on the boy’s face had increased, and knew that the lad would remember as well.

* * *

Throughout the next day
Scylla
‘s men worked. The last of the water was taken in, along with a further, unexpected, and very welcome consignment of fresh vegetables. Then the tallow finally arrived, together with several barrels of oil, what seemed like a lifetime’s supply of candles, and even some soap, all of which was instantly claimed by Mr Dudley, the purser.
 

Amongst the hands there was a good deal of confusion at first. The men were of vastly differing backgrounds and intellects. Some, mainly those new to the Navy, found pretty much everything confusing, and could not be expected to remember much beyond their own names, while the experienced hands blatantly ignored their correct messes and gravitated to previous mates, much to the despair of their divisional officers. But by the evening a few were becoming familiar faces; small routines, such as the division of spirits at noon and four, had become established; and at least some semblance of sense and cooperation was starting to appear.

The senior officers were reasonably pleased, in fact, and as they all met in the small ship’s gunroom and ate their first meal together there was quite a convivial atmosphere.

Robert Manning had joined them that afternoon, and was present as a guest of King. By luck he had come down part of the way with Mr Clarkson, and so had had plenty of time to become acquainted. They had yet to work together, of course, but it was clear that the fair haired, slightly hesitant surgeon knew his stuff, and the two had the makings of a good professional relationship.

Captain Westwood had also boarded that day. A pleasant, well educated man of middle years and delicate features, he was far more refined than the bumptious Marshall they had grown uncomfortably used to, and soon became accepted by all. Westwood’s subaltern was Lieutenant Adshead, a considerably younger and almost frail little man, serving his first term at sea. Adshead was not quite so easy; he came across as somewhat nervous, and was inclined to stammer. He also had very fair skin that had already burnt horribly in the English summer and would not serve him well should
Scylla
ever be sent for tropical service.
 

The surgeon’s arrival meant that his wife finally released herself from what had become almost continual occupation of her cabin. Both her self-imposed exclusion and Marshall’s departure was understood by those who knew or guessed the reason, and politely ignored by the rest. In the case of Mr Dudley, the purser, whose life was neatly divided between keeping track of his constantly changing stores and the well being of Sophie, the gunroom tabby, it was possible that neither had even been noticed at all.

But now they were all together; even the cat was surreptitiously present on Dudley’s lap, and they seemed to have the makings of a full and happy gunroom.

“Wine with you, sir!” Westwood raised a half filled glass to Chilton, who had been one of the quieter contributors throughout the meal. “You have served in
Scylla
before, and shall have a wealth of stories to tell, no doubt?”

Chilton sipped at his wine a little uncertainly. “You are speaking of her sailing manners, sir?”

Westwood laughed. “Lord, no; I have singularly little knowledge of such things, nor the need of it.” He beamed good-naturedly to the company in general. “I was meaning more her history; she has shone in battle, perhaps?”

“I regret not,” Chilton replied. “The occasion never presented itself. Though of course I am sure that she would have, had it done so,” he added clumsily.

“You were with the Channel Fleet, I collect?” Caulfield asked.

“Indeed, and were once ordered to join an escort for an India convoy back to Portsmouth; apart from that we spent much of our time polishing the French coast – without actually touching it, I am thankful to say.”

“Blockade duty can be deadly dull,” Caulfield conceded, amidst the polite laughter. “Let us hope our current role will show a bit more life.”

“It would be good to see a little action,” Chilton mused; then, noticing a faint look of concern in Fraiser’s eyes, he hurriedly added: “Not that I am wishing for bloodshed, of course.”

“On the contrary, it should be the desire of every serving officer,” the young Adshead replied, as if reading from a book. “We are at sea to fight; to do otherwise would be a waste of our talents.”

“Well, I for one have no need for combat,” Clarkson said. “And I think you would feel the same were you to attend the results.”

There was further laughter, and King noticed how Clarkson’s wife, who had been attentive to her husband’s every wish since his return, squeezed at his arm after he had spoken. The two exchanged what might have been a secret look, and King wondered briefly at her nerve.

“No, a bloody war and a sickly season,” Westwood joked, and glanced at his deputy. “Is not that what you are after, Gerald?”

“It is the better way for promotion,” Adshead confessed, then blushed dramatically at the roar of laughter that followed his comment.

“In that case, you will pardon me if I seek to retain my present rank,” Fraiser replied.

“And I,” Westwood agreed. “Long may your chances of advancement be thwarted,” and the laughter returned yet again. Then he focused on the sailing master. “You are new to the ship, sir?”

The Scotsman nodded. “Aye, I last served with our present captain, alongside Mr Caulfield, Mr King and Mr Manning.”

Westwood looked with interest. “So, we have a team ready built? Capital! What ship?”

“
Pandora
,” Caulfield replied. “A light frigate.”

“I regret I have not come across her; did she see action?”

“Oh, yes,” Fraiser confirmed. “Enough to satisfy even Mr Adshead’s desires.”

The young man, who had suddenly developed a keen interest in his dessert fork, blushed again but did not look up.

“We fought the Spanish at St Vincent, and the Dutch at Camperdown,” King admitted, and Westwood beamed with approval.
 

“And now you are to fight the Irish?”

“Hardly that,” Caulfield, said quickly. “Were the Irish to be supported by the French, it may well come to action, but that would be another matter entirely.”

“Do you think so?” Westwood asked. “My brother is currently stationed in Dublin. There are few Frenchmen to be had, but the Irish seem happy enough battling it out with each other. Since May’s rebellion was put down, they’ve been mainly warring between themselves: Catholic against Dissenter, worker against farmer, that is the rule. And the United Irishmen are united in name alone; by all accounts they are an ill-disciplined bunch and have little interest beyond pillage and plunder.”

“The troubles continue?” Caulfield asked.

“They do for now, but slowly things are easing. I gather the pitch-cap has much to do with it.”

“Pitch-cap?”

Westwood shrugged. “It is a cruel device, to be certain. A man’s head is coated with a mixture of pitch and gunpowder. When ignited there are few that will not speak, and many who cannot stop.”

“Barbaric,” Fraiser said softly.

“Indeed,” Westwood met his eyes. “But when brother is fighting brother such measures are needed if they are to put a stop to the process.”

“But you said things were easing,” Caulfield persisted.

“So I believe,” Westwood agreed. “My brother was involved in a recent flogging campaign; it left most praying for the King and cursing any who say otherwise. There are croppy hunters by the score, and the magistrates are half hanging any who show signs of dissent. I should say a few more months of such action will see all put to right for the next hundred years or so. That is, if the Frogs don’t interfere; then we may well find ourselves fighting them as well as the Irish, and I for one do not relish such a prospect.”

“I don’t understand,” King interrupted. “The rebels have no navy; surely an enemy at sea can only be French?”

“In theory, yes.” Westwood regarded him. “But this talk of an invasion fleet, do you believe that to be entirely manned by Frenchmen?”

“In the main,” King said a little uncertainly.

Westwood shook his head. “I should be surprised,” he replied. “The French cannot afford to waste any more able-bodied men; they have lost a good few on the invasion force that Admiral Nelson dealt with. An army sent to assist the Irish in their revolution would be largely made up of foreigners. And of those, the Irish dissidents, of which there must be a fair few, would make up the majority.”

There was silence for a moment as the room digested his statement. Westwood, realising he might have broken the mood somewhat, shuffled in his seat. “But let us not dwell on such matters now; this has been a pleasant evening. What say we round it off with song?”

The suggestion was quickly adopted, and soon voices were raised that filled the small room and could be heard throughout most of the ship. King joined in readily enough, although there was something in Westwood’s remarks that had bothered him. It was quite true; many patriots had sailed with previous invasion attempts: why, even Crowley had been present in the French frigate that
Pandora
had fought and captured on her way down to Gibraltar. But then Crowley had not been a true nationalist. The man was more of a stateless drifter, one without a home or a cause to support. King knew that his friend had found both in the Royal Navy and was glad; even though, as he had now decided, Crowley must have chosen to join another ship rather that wait and serve with him. But it didn’t stop King from wishing Crowley was with them in
Scylla
, nor did it quell the faint and undefinable feeling of unease that stayed with him for the rest of that evening, and even late into the night.