The Patriot's Fate (2 page)

“That won’t make the captain happy,” Manning muttered ruefully.

“Indeed it did not. Michael Caulfield and I were with him barely half an hour, and most of that time was filled with stories about the yard’s inefficiency.”

“It must be frustrating for him,” Kate said flatly. She could feel little genuine sympathy for a man who might wait several lifetimes for employment, yet still not find himself short of a roof or food.

“I think he blames the yard more than is their due.” King sank into the chair that Manning indicated and sighed. “It were most likely his fault to begin with; he would chivvy them so to have
Vernon
completed. Doubtless incentives were offered, and this is the result.”

“Aye, you can be too keen, I suppose,” Manning pondered, remembering that they had exactly two weeks rent left in their savings. Two weeks which might just stretch to three if their already meagre food bill were cut further. “So, when would you say?” he asked.

“At a guess, November, or possibly December; allowing for time to fit and work up; we will be lucky to be a-sea by the New Year.”

“Seventeen ninety-nine…” Manning shook his head again, and no one spoke for the moment.

“And sadly none of this has lessened the talk of his appointment,” King continued. “If anything, the gossip grows worse with news of the delay.”

“But he will be a senior captain in a week or so.” Kate had settled herself on the edge of the bed and was picking at her sewing.

“Sure, and an ‘over-three’ is fully entitled to a line-of-battleship, though it is rare for one to be given quite so soon, or as readily.”

“But Sir Richard commanded
Pandora
at both St Vincent and Camperdown,” Kate said. “As commissions go, it must be one of the more successful, surely?”

“There were many ships at both actions,” Manning replied dryly. “And few of the other captains have been allowed such an advance; especially when not six months ago he was set to give up the Navy for politics.”

King shrugged. “He has a powerful family and is being well looked after, but cannot escape the criticism of his fellow officers. And frankly, I think it is beginning to get the better of him.”

“Even he has little choice but to endure it,” Kate said philosophically. “And five months is not so very long. We could maybe find employment, and there is always the prospect of a berth elsewhere.”

“I think that to attempt work in your condition would be foolish in the extreme,” Manning said firmly. “And the chance of finding another ship quite so quickly is small; we shall just have to wait it out.”

“That might not be necessary. Sir Richard did make mention of a different opportunity. There is another frigate, a thirty-eight; bigger than
Pandora
, and ripe for a captain of his seniority to command.” Kate and Manning’s eyes stayed set on King as he continued.

“She’s the
Scylla
; she came in from the Channel Fleet a couple of months ago – likely to return there as well, but now she’s having a few minor repairs attended to and is lying at Falmouth. Ralph Jenkins had her last, but has opted for a quieter life; gout, I fancy. Her premier is being given a swab, along with a fourteen gun brig, so he will be taking one of the lieutenants and some of the lads with him. Sir Richard has been offered her as a jobbing captain, until
Vernon
is made ready, or so I gather.”

“Well that would be a splendid solution,” Kate said, flinging her sewing down and sitting upright. “She could be at sea almost immediately!”

Manning smiled. “There may be a few details, but in essence you are correct.”

“And he has to accept her first,” King reminded them. “I think his heart was set on a liner. A fifth rate, no matter how powerful, is not the same.”

“But he can take this now, and still have his battleship for later,” Kate insisted. “Really, I would have thought there would be no discussion in it.”

“Perhaps our dear captain is not so concerned about his rent,” Manning murmured.

“If there is a problem,” King said, his awkwardness returning. “I am sure I could maybe help.”

“Thank you, Tom; there is no need at present.” Manning said definitely. “And there never will be, as long as Sir Richard sees sense.”
 

* * *

“So you are set on your way,” Walsh said, when it was clear there was no more eating and little talking left to be done. “Sign on for the King and fight his enemies, even though they may turn out to be those of your own kind.”

Crowley shook his head and drained his tankard. He had been the only one drinking ale throughout the evening, the others having claimed no intention of raising more in taxes for King George. Such a petty action, Walsh’s comment, and the constant battering to join their cause suddenly combined to annoy him, and he knew it would be difficult to finish the evening with any degree of civility.

“I’m to sign on for the
Vernon,
if that is what you are meaning,” he said, placing the mug down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She is a liner, and likely for far-flung places, so will be of no bother to you and your expedition.”

“When do you sail?” Doyle asked.

“Likely a month or so; she is still in the yard, so I hears. But there is a berth for me when she is ready, and I will be taking it.”

The four men considered him, and Crowley felt obliged to continue. “It isn’t that I do not wish you well; you know it is a cause I have supported in the past. But that was a while back.
 
Now I have found a home for myself in the Navy, and to my mind that is as precious as a land I have not seen for many a year. It contains men who have fought with me, and for me. I did not ask for you to force a choice, but as you have, I must go with them.”

MacArthur sighed. “So be it, Michael; though it is a sad day when your friends desert you.”

Crowley opened his mouth to say more, when a sudden commotion from the street below made them all start.

“That’s one hell of a shindy going on below,” Doyle stood up and made for the window as the sound of hammering at the front door of the inn reached them.

“The press?” Doherty asked, of no one in particular.

MacArthur shook his head. “The landlord assured me not,” he said firmly, while young Walsh began to look about the place, as if for somewhere to hide. “Said he paid a pretty penny to the regulating officers for immunity.”

“Thieving bastards, the lot of them,” Doyle replied, although there was little malice in his comment. “Come, they are in the street; there must be a place we can shelter.”

The door opened slightly, admitting the worried face of a small balding man. “Gentlemen, you had better be about your way,” he told them urgently.

“So tell us where we should go,” MacArthur snapped. “The impress men have us surrounded, and after you gave me your word.”

“The word of an Englishman,” Walsh said automatically, as the door suddenly flew open, projecting the landlord towards them at the head of a column of burly men.

“Come lads, there is no need for alarm,” one of them said as they filled the room. “We are simply here to offer you employment.”

A naval lieutenant had followed and was smiling triumphantly. “A proper find, methinks,” he surveyed them with satisfaction. “Prime seamen, by the look of it, though the yonker might take a while to show his worth.”

“I, sir, am a clerk, and have no business with the sea.” Walsh’s face had grown paler still, and as he spoke Crowley noticed his lips were working terribly.

“Then it will be good to have a man of learning,” the lieutenant replied. “Another fine haul for King George,” he turned to one of the gang. “Take their belts, then add them to the lot below. I’d say our evening’s work is progressing rather well.”

* * *

Sir Richard had finished dining but still felt restless and oddly unsatisfied. His father, who sat at the head of the long table, was just selecting a cigar, and did not indicate for his butler to offer the box to his son.

“If you’d kept a better eye on the dockyard Johnnies, this would not have happened.” The older man was talking through regular puffs as he lit the cigar from a proffered taper, and Banks took a couple of seconds to work out what had been said.

“That is hardly fair, sir. They were under pressure for a speedy job.”

“Too much pressure,” his father regarded him through the smoke. “Too much hurry to be back at sea, and this is the trouble it has caused.”

Banks shifted uncomfortably. The old boy was right, of course, but that hardly made matters better. Yes, he was in a hurry; he had spent almost six months in England, and hardy seen the sea for all that time. But it was not the element he missed so much, rather the chance to be in charge: in command, not dependent on anyone for favours or approval.

The spell in the country, when he had been eyeing the Reading constituency, had been a farce. He had thought being a member of parliament would be roughly the same as a ship’s captain, that he could govern his borough pretty much as he wished. But the science and intrigue of politics had confused him from the start; rules and official procedure could be read up and learned in an evening, but there was so much more. Subtle allegiances, nods and winks across crowded dining rooms; he had felt completely overwhelmed by the whole circus even before applying for the seat.

His father had come up trumps, of course, as father always did. Nothing had been said; it was clear he was not government material, and a ship was promptly found for him. He had wanted a liner, or at least something a little more solid than poor old
Pandora;
and
Vernon
, with her lumbering bulk and lower deck of thirty-two pounders, had seemed the ideal solution. She would be fresh from a major refit; no crew, no officers. It should have been the ideal start to the rest of his naval career. Once he had seen her lines and walked amongst the mess and confusion that was her quarterdeck,he had felt totally at home, and the need to be at sea once more was undeniable.

But that had been more than two months ago; she was still no nearer seeing open water, and he was starting to find life in London, in his father’s house, in his father’s care, and at his father’s expense, stifling in the extreme.
 

To begin with, he had taken time out and mixed with his colleagues: eaten pies at Bellamy’s and drunk wine at White’s, but it was the company that soon began to stick in his craw. He had already made quite a name for himself in naval circles, and no one begrudged him any of his success. But a liner, and a newish one at that, given to a man still wearing the single epaulette of a junior captain – that was just too much for his fellow officers to take. Many of them had progressed through interest; the subtle old boy’s network that gave positions to those who could afford them, but there were limits to what family connections, and good old fashioned funding, could provide. Or so it seemed. The longer Banks stayed on shore, the lower his standing would fall. It made little difference that he was due to achieve his seniority in a few weeks time; he was doomed now, and possibly for the rest of his professional life, to be marked as the man whose father had bought him a battleship.

“Have they given a date?” the old man asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Three months,” there was a catch in his throat. “And another, at least, for the coppering. Then we can start to fit her out.”

His father shook his head but did not speak. Banks closed his eyes; he knew himself to be a worthy ship’s captain. He had commanded
Pandora
credibly enough through two notable fleet actions, and won the praise and admiration of admirals and commanders-in-chief. Yet all the old man could see was a small boy who could not get his ship into the water.

“What about that frigate?” his father asked finally.

Banks pursed his lips. The frigate had indeed been mentioned more than once over the last week, and was an option, he supposed. She was British built, at Rotherhithe, and of the Artois class, a design that was popular and well proven. But despite all that was in her favour, she was still a frigate; he had loved
Pandora
, but no one could pretend her to be anything other than a scout and message carrier. This new one was a thirty-eight, of course; far greater fire power, and from a firmer, stronger, platform, though she would doubtless show a good turn of speed when required. But she could never stand in the line of battle, and might be wiped out with a single broadside from a ship like
Vernon
.