The Patriot's Fate (5 page)

Crowley grinned. “I have to give you credit for trying. But my mind is made up.”

“Made up? Now how would that be?” Doyle had total control over his coughing now and stared hard at Crowley. “You know not when you will go, and little more where. An’ you as any understand the way the yards work. Chances are high it will be six month or more afore your ship is ready, and then what? Spend the rest of the war rubbing against a lee shore on blockade? Do that if you wish, but in the meantime you can choose between staying with your friends and supporting a just cause, or being taken by the press and ending up in some Godforsaken hulk until someone else decides on where you are bound, and who you will fight.”

“I’m not sure, I have to think.”

“Send a message to yer man, if you will.” Doherty suggested. “Ask him how long the ship will be. He’ll fill you in, no doubt.”

“Aye, that is a thought.” Crowley reached into his pocket and found King’s letter. He unfolded it on the table and looked about. “I’ll go now, if that suits?”

“Beware the press,” Walsh cautioned. “We can see a message gets delivered.”

“No, I’d better do this in person,” he said, and folded up the letter once more. “And if it is as you say, well then, maybe we should talk some more.”

* * *

The frigate was by no means a certainty, but the round trip from Portsmouth to see her would take all of a week, so King had felt justified in giving up the tiny attic room and leaving his sea chest and most other belongings with the Mannings. The captain’s carriage had collected him and Caulfield from Exeter’s post stop the day before; and now, as he bounced along on the final leg of the journey, he was starting to feel mildly excited. It was mid-afternoon: there would be plenty of time to view the ship in daylight, and Banks must have been impressed to have sent for them in the first place. He grinned at Caulfield who, despite the rigours of mail coach travel, seemed just as eager and ready as him.

“Sir Richard said to be sure to meet him at the hotel,” King shouted above the noise, as the carriage swung round and began the long, narrow decline towards the harbour. “Probably doesn’t want us digging about his new ship afore he has had a chance to view her first.”

“We have yet to see if she is to be his,” Caulfield reminded him. “Besides, he has had time enough to inspect her properly.”

The Marine Hotel came into view on their right as they headed for the town quay, and Banks was already there to meet them as they jumped down from the carriage.

“A good journey, gentlemen?” he asked, shaking their hands, and smiling readily.

“Very fair, sir, thank you.” King replied. “A little trouble near Bodmin; the road is yet unmade and leaves much to be desired, I fear.”

“It is being attended to,” Bank assured them. “They are building a mail station here as we speak; the coach will be calling direct from London in no time.”

“Indeed?” King could see little relevance in how the mail was distributed, but was struck by the energy and life that seemed to flow from his captain; a dramatic contrast to the last time they had met.

Banks nodded enthusiastically. “Were we to be based hereabouts, there should be few problems with communication,” he said, then turned away from the carriage with its snorting horses, and began striding down towards the quayside. “Come, there is much to do, and more to see.”

King and Caulfield exchanged glances, before hurrying after him, hoping the coachman would have the sense to collect their belongings.

“A touch eager, perhaps?” Caulfield muttered as they went. “I think the ship may have pleased our dear captain even more than we had thought.”

* * *

Banks had every right to be impressed.
Scylla
was in fine fettle; a small amount of work had seen any minor defects put to right, and Chilton, the only remaining lieutenant, seemed to have the right idea with regards to routine maintenance. There was further work to do, of course; the ship had to be manned: almost an entire crew found, stores taken on board, and a wealth of other details needed attending to before she could be taken to sea. Banks was also aware that
Scylla
was not yet his; by even inspecting he was taking a liberty with the usual protocol. But then he wanted her, he wanted her so very badly, and the reaction from King and Caulfield, the two men he felt closest to as far as service matters were concerned, only confirmed his longing, and changed it into something that was very nearly painful.

“How does she sail?” he asked Chilton, who had been present through this, and his earlier, inspection.

“Well, sir,” Chilton was a relatively new lieutenant, and felt awkward discussing the merits of the ship with her potential captain. “She’ll show a fair turn of speed to any of the class, and with the wind on her quarter there are few who can catch her.”

Banks felt his enthusiasm grow, but was careful to keep his feelings hidden. It was very much as he had suspected. He had studied the lines before leaving London, and to all reports
Artois
ships were good in most weathers. She was also solid; he reached out and felt one of the knees as he stood on the upper deck. It was not the all out bulk of a line-of-battleship, but the warm oak was certainly substantial, and felt massive when compared with
Pandora’
s timbers.

“There’s some weight there,” King was looking at the nearest eighteen pounder carriage gun. He was right; the piece was a little shorter than a thirty-two, and the shot would obviously be lighter, but it was powerful enough for anything a frigate might choose to fight and, when backed by the twenty-four pounder carronades, they would have a broadside to be proud of.

“Would you care to view the great cabin, sir?” Chilton chanced. Banks shook his head; he had already seen what would be his quarters on the first inspection, and he knew King and Caulfield well enough; they were as smitten as he was. To investigate further, only to find his father was unable to secure the ship, would be frustrating in the extreme. There was already a personal risk taken in sending for the two officers; discovering that
Scylla
was not actually available would make him a fool in both their eyes.

“Thank you, no, Mr Chilton. We must leave you to your duties.”

The young man touched his hat respectfully and stood to one side as the three made to return to their boat.

“There was just one more thing,” the captain said, turning. “What officers are aboard?”

If Chilton was thrown by the question he did not show it, and Bank’s opinion of the lad improved further. “All of the standing officers, sir. Most, bar the carpenter, have been with her since she launched. Surgeon’s still appointed, but ashore at present, an’ there are a fair few petty officers; a master’s mate, the quartermaster and three midshipmen.”

“Marines?”

“Lieutenant Marshall, sir. And Sergeant Rice, with thirty or so privates.”

“Detailed, or are they aboard?” Banks asked.

“Aboard sir, there is a shortage of accommodation ashore, an’ we had a few runners when we first came in.”

“No sailing master?”

“No, sir. Mr Seabrook retired at the end of the commission.”

“Surgeon’s mates?” Banks might have guessed that King would ask that question.

“We only had the one, and he went to
Ardent
. Surgeon’s wife is used to helping out. She is not trained, but very good with the men, and they respect her.”

Banks didn’t particularly like the idea of women in a ship, but at least there was room for King’s friend Manning, as well as quite a few of his own followers, by the sound of it.

“Here she is now, sir,” Chilton said unexpectedly, as he noticed a figure at the far end of the upper deck. Banks turned to see a blonde woman carrying a large bundle of blankets walking towards them.

“This is Mrs Clarkson,” Chilton said as she drew closer. “Sir Richard Banks,
Scylla
‘s new captain.”

Banks cleared his throat and the woman smiled politely, her laundry limiting further contact.

“Mr Chilton is rather premature, madam,” he said. “Mr Caulfield, Mr King and I are merely inspecting the ship; nothing is official or in any way certain.”

“Well, she is a good one,” Mrs Clarkson said, looking into his eyes in a way that Banks found oddly disturbing.

“So I see,” he said stiffly. The woman was clearly in no way intimidated by him; it was as if she could see beyond his rank and title, and look directly at the man beneath.

“An’ lucky, though I don’t much hold with luck myself,” she continued. “I think you makes your own, don’t you, Sir Richard?” She grinned, and Banks blushed slightly.

“It is not something to which I have given much thought,” he said, feeling just a little foolish.

“ That is probably sensible,” she beamed. “It don’t do to get too deep with such matters.”

The men laughed awkwardly and Banks studied the woman with a little more care. Mrs Clarkson noticed the attention, but did not turn away. “Anyways,” she said after the briefest of pauses. “I hope you like what you see.”

* * *

With her three masts and bluff bow, the lugger appeared little different from the numerous small craft that plied the South Coast of England. She might be used for fishing, or one of a hundred other tasks, and when they left Portsmouth with the morning tide and in brilliant sunshine, Crowley and his men drew little attention. By noon the weather had started to grow unseasonably cold, and a steady rain began that continued throughout the night and all of the following day. What wind there was stayed with them, however; and the rain finally eased off as evening fell, just as they sighted the French coast and commenced the final run in toward Brest, shelter, and warm, dry beds.

Crowley shifted uncomfortably on the wooden thwart that had supported him for the last two days. Beside him Walsh drew his damp greatcoat more tightly about his body and lowered his head once more. Walsh had been horribly sick for most of the journey, yet hardly complained, even though he probably felt about as bad as was possible. Crowley knew better than to try and speak; when a man is sea-sick he has little need of conversation; but he longed for their final arrival in France, as much for Walsh as for himself.

They had already sighted several British line-of-battle ships, the main bulk of Admiral Bridport’s blockading force, and the lugger’s captain turned to join the coast further to the north in order to avoid them. Now as the light fell they altered course once more and were creeping towards their goal, with Ushant just visible to starboard, and the grey smudge that was the French mainland tantalisingly close off their larboard beam.

“That would be part of the inshore squadron,” Doyle spoke from the bow, where he was perched alongside Collins, the short-haired man from the Rondy who had turned out to be the boat’s captain. He was more than competent, having guided them this far without incident, and was still calmly controlling their destinies. Crowley has assumed they would be dropped somewhere a good distance from Brest and the attending British fleet. A ten or even twenty mile trek would have been well worth taking to avoid the danger they were now about to run. But the captain was experienced and had clearly made this trip many times before. Besides, after two days in an open boat, he was probably just as keen as any of them to find warmth and shelter.

Crowley peered forward; he could just make out a frigate and what looked like a brig cruising silently in the half light.
 

“There’s shoal water hereabouts,” Collins spoke softly, without turning back. “Take her closer to the coast, Jackie; we’ll give King George a wide berth.”

Douglas, who had been solidly steering since morning, pressed the tiller across and reached for the nearest sheet to adjust the mizzen lug. The boat tilted as she changed course, but the on-shore breeze was dying and the sail would not draw.

“We’re losing the wind,” Collins muttered, as he was similarly unsuccessful further forward. He looked about, gauging what was left of the breeze. Ahead and beyond the British, the dark outline of rocks marked the seaward limit of the channel they were aiming for. The brig was the closest to them; she stood less than half a mile off their starboard bow and still held the wind as she crept forward, presumably at the very edge of the shallows. “The current will carry us in,” he continued, meditatively. “Though I’d be happier not to dawdle so.”

The lugger slowed further and began to wallow. The falling of the breeze could not have come at a worse time, and was still not effecting either of the British warships; Crowley could see the nearest more clearly now as she continued to bear down on them.