The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (2 page)

“I suppose accommodation on board would have been a problem,” Fraiser mused.

King shook his head. “Michael Caulfield offered to give up his quarters to us both. He said he was quite prepared to rough it in the cockpit.”

“Then why did she not come?” Fraiser persisted.

The ship rode an unexpectedly violent wave causing a crash from the pantry. The young lieutenant looked away but said nothing: why not indeed?

Fraiser sat back and pursed his lips. He had probed far deeper than he had intended, and was wise enough to know when to stop. “Well, if you ever want to talk, you know I will listen,” he said. “That is, if you do not care to consult a higher authority.” He looked meaningfully at the book he had been reading, which King noticed, without surprise, was a Bible. The young man shook his head.

“I thank you, master, but it is not advice I require.” Standing, he pushed his chair back where it immediately began to rock in time with the heaving seas. “In truth I have never learned much from books of any sort. It is a spell ashore that will truly do the business and, as you say, it will come soon enough.” He set the chair firmly against the table, stopping further movement. “Then all will be put right, one way or another.”

* * *

“A
nd a King!” Jameson said decisively, placing the final marker down on the appropriate square. Ostensibly they were playing for sport, each of the coloured wooden disks having no monetary value. But every man round the table knew the difference between a red, a blue and a plain, and each were equally aware that almost a day's wage was being risked on that single bet. Jameson, who had only been rated able a week earlier, looked up to Flint, his friend and sea daddy of many years, before throwing the three bone dice. There was a sympathetic groan from the others; he also had counters on two other squares, one marked with an anchor, another a crown. Should any dice have matched one, his stake would have been repaid. Were there two, the return must be doubled, and tripled if all faces agreed. But none had come up and Mitchell, the bearlike creature who's natural lair was the dark and mysterious recesses of the holds, smiled briefly before reaching out and sweeping away all of Jameson's counters.

“Still blowing some,” Flint, commented nonchalantly as the ship took an extra heave. A trickle of water rained down onto the table, smudging three of the six chalked images that made up their game. Jameson held no hard feelings about losing money. It being a tight mess all knew that any winnings were liable to stay between themselves, and he would have plenty of opportunity to claim back the loss. Besides, money actually had limited value when they were several hundred miles from the nearest landmass. Usually the purser carried a number of small luxuries, which were offered at wildly inflated prices, but even these had not been replenished during their short stay at Spithead. It was only on sighting harbour and with the promise of shore leave that anyone started to hoard or value their coin. Had they been playing for sippers of grog, plugs of tobacco or any other commodity that acted as a far more viable currency at sea, it might have been a different matter.

“An' the old girl don't like it,” Hind, who besides being a gunner was also one of the ship's painters, agreed. He wiped the surface dry with the sleeve of his shirt before drawing fresh symbols on the damp wood. “If she's leakin' like this above, there's no guessin' what'll be goin' on below. It will be pumping duty for any that can turn a handle, an' more caulkin' for those what can't.”

“There's no point paying fresh pitch onto old,” Jameson said with the authority his new position entitled him to. “What we needs is a proper refit.”

“Listen to the cove!” Mitchell, bellowed, before laughing heartedly, thumping the table with one huge fist, and making the dice dance. As a holder Mitchell had found his level some years back, and it was well below that of a topman. “Give the lad an able rating, and we gets ourselves a chippy into the bargain!”

The larger man reached out and pulled hard at the short queue that Flint had tied only the day before, and Jameson was stupidly proud of. “You stick to your rags and string, youngster; let the real men worry about what's about below.”

“Any who goes aloft in this weather is man enough,” Flint said simply, as the ship rolled deeper once more. Mitchell was only just acceptable as a mess mate; his size and character meant that care must be taken at all times, and Flint had been wondering whether they should apply to have the beast moved elsewhere. There was nothing specifically bad about the man, when sober he could even be good company, but after grog or, as now, a few pints of stingo, his attitude was likely to change, and he would know neither bounds nor his own immense strength.

“Well you wouldn’t catch me up there with yon fairies,” Mitchell assured them. “Below, where the scent is sweet an' darkness covers much, that's my world.”

And he was welcome to it, as all about the table had long ago decided, though none were foolish enough to voice such an opinion. Flint looked across at Jameson; the two had joined
Scylla
as part of a draft from the Channel Fleet, but first met over five years before, when the lad was a third-class volunteer. They had sailed together ever since and Flint was especially proud that his prodigy had finally been rated topman; the highest grade of seaman possible without the compromise of becoming a petty officer.

“Better turn in, Matt,” he said. “We're under short sail, but that don't mean you won't get a call if this weather grows worse.”

“It ain't the weather that worries me,” Jameson all but whispered. “I reckons if we do get the shout it will be for all hands, and we won't be shortening sail.”

“How’s that?” Mitchell asked in a loud voice.

Jameson turned back to the mess and shrugged. “Well, it's probably nothing,” he said, only a little louder, “but I thinks I caught sight of somthin' earlier on.” Even Mitchell was quiet, as the men waited for him to continue. “It were an hour or so back – during the thunder.”

“Man-of-war?” Flint asked. “Merchant?”

“Mermaid?” Mitchell added.

“Frigate,” Jameson answered cautiously. “An' to the north. But it were only in the flash of lightning, and I couldn't be sure.”

“Lookouts stayed mum,” Hind commented, after a pause.

“And it sounds like you did an' all,” Mitchell added in his customary roar.

“I told Draude,” Jameson continued. “And he said to forget it. Both mastheads were well awake, an' it was their job to make a report, not ours.”

The seamen nodded; that was the way of things: it didn't do to speak out of turn, and no one ever dobbed on a shipmate. If a strange sail were about then the lookouts would sight it soon enough.

“Besides, it don't mean much,” Hind said, after further consideration. “Not just one ship. Not when the likelihood is she'll be British.” There was a general murmur of agreement, and the tension lessened while Jameson picked up his remaining counters.

“Not going to hand over the rest?” Mitchell asked, and Jameson shook his head. The man was well into his cups; even if he won, there was little chance of being paid out.

“We'll play again tomorrow,” he promised.

Mitchell began to grumble but Flint stood up with Jameson, and no one tried to stop them as they made for where their hammocks were already slung.

“That man will end up on the punishment deck,” Jameson said softly. “Or he'll put someone else there.”

“Never mind him,” Flint urged. “Tell me again of your sightin'.”

Jameson shrugged. “Weren't much more'n a glance, and even that I couldn't be sure of. Besides, as Hind says, she were probably British.”

“Well whether she is or not, if another ship's out there we're both likely to have a bad night,” Flint grumbled as he arranged the biscuit mattress in his hammock.

Jameson was already settled and had pulled the blanket up to his chin. “If they are French,” he asked, “will there be an action in this storm?”

“Only if they catches us,” Flint grunted. “An' even if then, probably not. Best thing both captains can do is keep a keen watch on the other an' see who sinks first.”

“So there's nothing to worry about,” Jameson said quietly.

For years Flint had been the younger man's principal teacher, guide and counsellor and even now there were times when he looked to him for reassurance.

“Nay, Matt,” Flint said firmly as he climbed into his own hammock. “Tain't nothing. Get some sleep an' let the officers do what they're paid for.”

Jameson settled further into the folds of his blanket. Flint was right, he usually was, but still that brief image stayed with him and deep down he knew that he was not mistaken. “Only I thinks there might have been more'n one,” he said finally, and almost to himself.

* * *

I
n the great cabin they were gambling far more openly. Banks and his current partner, the governor's lady, had won the third rubber and now the other three players sat back from the green baize-covered table while Sir Terrance Hatcher dutifully counted up the score, before passing a small pile of copper coins across to his wife.

“There, my dear.” he said, greatly condescending. “You may as well have your dress allowance now as later.”

Lady Hatcher, who was in her early thirties, probably less than half her husband's age, gave a raucous hoot of laughter as she clawed up the money. “Were it your generosity that I relied upon, my sweet, I would most like spend my days entirely naked!”

Banks and his wife smiled politely, each not meeting the other's eyes, although it was clear that, rather than being discomforted by the comment, the older man seemed to positively enjoy it.

“Well, that might brighten up a somewhat dismal voyage,” he said daringly and his heavy cheeks reddened. Then, turning to Banks, he added: “Sure, I never knew it could be such a mistake to marry a woman with money!”

“The mistake was yours to think you would ever touch a penny!” Lady Hatcher countered swiftly as she, in turn, singled out Sarah, Banks' wife. “Never did see a man so dished as when Terrance discovered my fortune to be secure. Why, the trustees to my family's estate attend court and sit in both houses; try as he might he could not get so much as a sniff, and that's a situation I have no thought of changing!”

The captain kept his smile, and his eyes away from Sarah. Certainly these were not the easiest of guests. The woman– and Banks found the term 'lady' did not come readily to mind–was of a totally different social level to her husband. Large in frame, and with a figure that was fast filling out, she retained fragments of what must once have been stunning beauty. But now her skin was inclined to a mottled bloom come evening, and both her yellowed hair and bright, yet stunted, fingernails gave a fair warning of the coarseness that could be expected. Banks had originally assumed some financial arrangement had been behind the union, and was surprised when, quite early into the voyage, Lady Hatcher revealed her status as an heiress. With an equal lack of tact the news of her husband's own dire financial state quickly followed.

Such a situation was unusual at a time when it was customary for all of a woman's assets to be transferred to her husband upon marriage, and Banks had wondered at the foresight Lady Hatcher's advisers had shown in protecting her interests. However he soon came to realise that any business or legal ingenuity was totally down to the woman herself. Loud and brash she may be, but a shrewd brain worked behind those highly accentuated eyes, and its purpose was totally self-interest. On several occasions she had tried to tempt Banks into betraying a confidence and once even his own marriage. It was an experience that had taught him well; he now felt he knew the woman for what she was, and kept a careful guard up at all times. Such a thing was difficult, as they were sharing the same quarters, but whenever possible Banks avoided speaking with her for any great length, and never when the two of them were alone.

Of course he and Sarah had discussed the matter in some detail over many nights, whispering in their own tiny sleeping cabin not ten feet from where the subject of their conservation lay. They had come to the conclusion that Sir Terrance was prepared to stand a modicum of coarseness in return for what he considered to be an attractive partner, while in turn he gave her far more than could ever have been achieved with money alone. As an elderly man, and of a type that many would assume to be a natural bachelor, the governor was hardly every woman's dream spouse. However, by marrying him she had secured herself a title, and would, inevitably be considered part of the aristocracy, if not now, then by the time her husband's tenancy of St Helena came to an end. And before then she seemed set to enjoy life, eating and drinking to excess, while making eyes and advances to any man she chose. Sir Terrance appeared as tolerant of her behaviour as he was the hypothetical short lead she obliged him to wear. Banks and his own wife eventually decided it must be an arrangement that suited both parties equally, even if they also agreed there was no question of love being in any way involved.

The governor had Banks' crystal decanter in his hand, and was offering to fill their glasses with the captain's brandy. Sarah placed a hand across the lip of hers. “No, thank you, Sir Terrance, I have enjoyed quite enough for one evening and must be abed.” Both men rose as she went to stand, and Banks reached out to steady her. He had noticed Sarah tiring easily of late, and her usually rosy face now looked quite washed out.

“I will join you directly,” Banks said, collecting his own glass that was in danger of being refilled.

“And I am also for an early bed,” the governor agreed. The couple's personal servants arrived, and Sir Terrance allowed his, a smug, precocious little man that Banks had disliked at first sight, to guide him gently across the heaving deck.

“Even if he cannot claim the same excuse as you two love birds!” The governor's wife chuckled, before addressing herself more directly at Sarah, “Really, my dear, you should take more care – I don't think the walls in this boat are any thicker than paper. We hear every movement the two of you make.”