The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (3 page)

“I – I really must retire,” Banks said, flustered, and placing his glass down on the table. “If this storm continues it is likely I shall be called in the night.”

“You think the ship is in danger?” The governor looked back as the captain and his lady followed him out of the great cabin.

Banks shook his head. “I doubt it, Sir Terrance. It is a drawn out affair, but
Scylla
has endured far worse. With luck we should find clearer skies in the morning.”

Lady Hatcher watched them depart, then dismissed her own maid, leaving all the space and splendour of the great cabin to herself alone. She sat back in one of the captain's dining chairs and sipped at her full glass, highly content. These might not be the most palatial of quarters, but they were by far the grandest the ship had to offer and now, indisputably, they belonged to her alone to enjoy. That was all she required, to be as near to the top, to mastery and total dominance, as possible. However large or small the pond, she must be the biggest fish. Or if not the fish itself, at least to have control of it.

That was partly the reason she had agreed so readily to marry what was effectively a eunuch, and endure a term on St Helena as the governor's lady. As the major refuelling and replenishment point in the South Atlantic, the island had an importance far in excess of its physical size, and was a vital link in the foreign trade that seemed the only thing keeping the country solvent. Any ship travelling to or from the Far East was bound to call there and with Britain's very future relying on the riches available it would be strange if she could not see to it that some were diverted in the right direction. Terrance was a pleasant enough companion, and on occasions could actually be quite good company, although he gave no satisfaction. But then neither did he object if such were sought elsewhere while she, in turn, was prepared to ignore his apparent liking for that damned prissy manservant who always seemed to be around.

A noise startled her; it was a door opening and she swiftly returned to full consciousness. One of the captain's stewards had entered, clearly thinking the room now empty. He was young, well built and had that wonderfully worldly look that Lady Hatcher found so tantalising in all sailors. She placed her glass down and set herself in readiness; the man's name was John – that had been learned several days ago when he had first caught her eye, and she whispered it softly now as he approached.

––––––––

S
tiles was still damp from his time at the masthead and in no hurry to climb into a hammock. He had already eaten a lump of cheese, saved from his evening meal, and was now considering a slice of double shotted plum duff as he squatted on the berth deck beneath the lines of sleeping bodies. The fruit in the title was in fact raisins, but there could be no doubting the rich and heavy pudding; immensely satisfying after a spell exposed so far up and in the very teeth of a gale. He bit into the sticky lump of suet and flour; if it had been sweetened the pudding would have been known as a spotted dog, but Stiles preferred an old fashioned duff; the batter's slightly sour taste emphasised the flavour in the fruit and didn't leave him feeling as if he had been stuffed full with molasses. He ripped into the pudding now, chewing gamely with his mismatched mixture of teeth and gums and sucking out every last element of sugar from the raisins. Not for the first time Stiles was silently grateful that
Scylla
had a decent cook. Unlike most of his type, Grimley bore a full set of matching limbs, and owed his position entirely to culinary skill rather than injury. The making of duff, and other puddings, usually fell to a nominated hand in each mess, but this particular example was created by the man himself. Grimley could usually be persuaded with half a prick of tobacco; others considered it too high a price, but Stiles subscribed without hesitation. The seaman's diet, though not lacking in bulk, was inclined to the mundane and a notable pudding, such as this, could be eked out and enjoyed over a considerable period. Grimley took particular pride in his craft, and enjoyed access to the best flour available. Besides, he always soaked the fruit in water or, when he could squirrel the heel taps from a steward, the captain's wine. In fact all the food Grimley served was far superior to any Stiles had tasted in fourteen years at sea, and yet the man himself was a cantankerous old sod with a mouth as foul as any dockyard matey.

Stiles was taking his second bite of the pudding when Draude, a fellow topman, slumped down next to him. As well as being younger, Draude was far fitter than Stiles. Currently he was rated captain of the foretop, but it was an open secret that a vacant position as boatwain's mate would soon be filled.

“Late supper?” Draude asked, after watching the depredation of Stiles' pudding for a moment or two.

“Happen,” Stiles replied, taking his last proper bite. There were several dozen sleeping men within ten feet of them, but neither made any attempt to lower their voices. If the noise and motion of the storm hadn't woken them, a couple yarning wouldn't make much difference. Stiles considered the last chunk for a moment, before flipping it across to Draude, who caught and deposited it swiftly into his own mouth. There was no comment or acknowledgement from either party: Draude and Stiles might not always be the best of friends, but they did share the same watch, and such considerations were always remembered.

“You were maintop last trick,” Draude said when he had finished the mouthful. Stiles, who was teasing a small lump of fruit from between his back teeth, nodded absentmindedly. “Notice anything?” Draude asked.

The other seaman stopped and stared at his companion. “If I 'ad, we'd 'ave all known about it,” he said, in a voice slightly tinged with resentment. Draude nodded, and gave a pout.

“Only I were at the fore tops'l yard. It's been showin' signs of weakness and Bos'un detailed Jameson an' me to take a check. Truth is, I reckons we'll be lucky if it sees us back to Pompey, but it's 'olding well enough for now.”

Stiles nodded, even though he could not remember seeing either seaman at the mast or on the yard.

“We sorted it quick enough, and weren't lookin' to stay long, but while he was there young Matt Jameson thinks he saw a Frenchie.”

Now Draude had Stiles' complete attention. “A Frenchie, you say?”

“It were in the last of the lightning, and some ways off, so he couldn't be sure. Might even 'ave been two.”

“Two?” Stiles was now worried. “An' French you say?”

Draude nodded. “He weren't so certain of the number, but however many, I can't see them being British – not out here, and without us knowing 'bout it.”

“They don't tell us everything,” Stiles said, and Draude acknowledged the understatement. “What were it anyway?”

“One looked to be another frigate; the other 'e couldn't say, and weren't even definite about the first, so I figured it best to keep mum.”

“An' he thinks it were a Frenchie?”

“No, that were me talking, an' jus' a feelin'.” Draude scratched at his armpit as he mused. “We were sent south in a bit of a hurry see, and the barky's well due for a refit. If they 'ad another frigate going the same way, surely they'd 'ave sent that?”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. His one hour trick at the main masthead had come at the end of the watch; before that he was aloft and quite active for three hours. The lookout perch at the main was the highest in the ship and, in a drawn out storm such as they were experiencing, would describe a circle many feet in diameter, as the ship was tossed about amid the seas. In such conditions it would have been relatively easy to miss one small sighting, especially as any experienced seaman would make himself relatively comfortable even on such a tenuous perch. It might not be possible to actually sleep, but there was no doubting the movement could be vaguely hypnotic, and minds had been known to wander.

“Collins, at the fore, didn't say nuffin',” Stiles said, after considering the matter further.

“Collins didn't see it,” Draude agreed. “An' there ain't no blame being laid here. I shimmed up an' gave the direction, but Collins couldn't make a thing, an' I didn't see nowt neither. That's the thing about lightning, you don't know when it's comin', and then the whole thing's over in a flash.”

“Then it were probably Jameson's imagination,” Stiles said without humour. His eyes were staring sightlessly at the spirketing opposite, and it was clear the matter had been taken very much to heart.

He was well aware that of late he had been inclined to miss things – only the previous week, when on cook's duty, he misread the lead tag and presented another mess's meat ration, and there were times when he needed to look especially carefully to pick out bargemen in the hard tack. The fact that he had failed to notice two men on a mast barely thirty feet away was hardly reassuring, and yes, he may well have missed an entire ship in such conditions. “I didn't see it,” he added finally, and with more than a trace of defiance.

“An' neither did I.” Draude agreed, pressing the man gently with his fist. “As I say, there ain't no blame; the lad weren't even certain. Besides, the old Syllabub can handle any Frenchman up to twice her size.” He paused, and brought his hand down as he thought. “But if there is a bunch of 'em out there, perhaps we ought to be a mite careful.”

* * *

T
hree sharp taps on the door to his sleeping cabin and Banks was instantly awake. “What is it?” he demanded, clambering out of the bed and reaching for his watch coat. Had he been alone, the caller would no doubt have entered and spoken with him, but Sarah's presence denied such a liberty.

“Mr Caulfield's duty, sir, and there is a sighting.” It was the voice of Chapman, one of the volunteers.

Banks pulled on a pair of duck trousers and thrust his bare feet into boots before pushing his way out of the door. Opposite was the second sleeping cabin that had been hurriedly constructed in the coach to house the governor and his lady.
Scylla
remained in the grips of the storm and Chapman's coat was dripping onto the deck.

“Where away?” Banks snapped as he turned to make for the companionway.

“Eastwards, and there are two ships, sir; though it may be three,” the volunteer said, rushing after his captain. “Lookout can't say no more for the present, but Mr Caulfield thought you should be called.”

“Who is at the masthead?” Banks was moving past the pantry now, and the smell of morning coffee came to him. Thompson, his servant, must have the spirit stove alight; it was clearly later than he thought: probably nearly dawn.

“I–I don't know, sir,” the midshipman confessed. “Jackson is the watch mid, and has been sent to join him. I was turned up earlier, sir – after the first call.”

“First call?” Banks stopped and glanced at the lad. “When was the sighting made?”

“About five minutes ago, sir, though it still ain't clear; no one can say for sure what the ships are or even how many.”

Anger flushed through the captain's body. An unidentified sighting had been made – at least two ships, which might well indicate a fleet – and he had been allowed to sleep peacefully while his officers argued amongst themselves over what should be done. Chapman was positively squirming under his gaze, and Banks realised he must have been glaring at the lad. He looked away and continued to make for the deck. Whatever the delay, it was not the boy's fault: the officer of the watch should have called him. A captain should know immediately if his ship was in potential danger. But as he mounted the steep steps and felt a keen draught of air from the outside world on his face Banks slowly realised exactly why he had not been called and that, if anyone was at fault, it was him.

“Good morning, sir,” Caulfield called out as Banks mounted the deck and, as he looked about his ship he realised the words were very nearly true. The wind had veered but still blew hard and, though the decks were damp with spray, rain had actually ceased to fall. A rolling mist was being blown above the waves but the first stray fingers of dawn could also be seen stretching across what promised to be a clearer sky. “Sighting to the east,” the first lieutenant continued. “Five mile or so off; masthead thinks it to be two ships but cannot be certain.”

Banks nodded; the bearing was good news at least, whatever lay out there might not have spotted
Scylla
.

“I would have called you before, sir.” The first lieutenant continued awkwardly, “But...”

“Do so in future, if you please, Mr Caulfield,” Banks interrupted. It was not the first time Sarah's presence had disrupted the proper running of the ship, and he knew inside that it would not be the last. However hard she might seek to be otherwise, there was no doubt that a captain's wife could only be a distraction to his officers and men. But that was not Caulfield's fault, nor Sarah's, come to that. The blame, and blame it must be, fell squarely on him and his weakness in thinking a wife could be anything other than a negative aspect aboard a fighting ship.

“Deck there: I have them now!” Jackson's adolescent voice sounded hollow through the speaking trumpet, but it cut through the sound of the wind in the shrouds well enough. “Two ships, less than five miles off an' a third maybe a mile or so beyond.”

“Bearing, if you please, Mr Jackson!” Caulfield called back.

A pause, then the lad replied in a more considered voice.

“East nor-east, sir. Larger one appears to be a frigate, with what might be a sloop in company. The third I cannot rightly say.”

“What heading?” Banks called this time.

“South, sir. Or as near as makes no difference.”

So there were at least three ships off their larboard quarter; they were to windward and heading in roughly the same direction as
Scylla
. One, or even two, might be escorts to a friendly convoy although, this far outside the shipping season, that was unlikely. The second possibility was an enemy force, either merchant ships or a battle squadron; again both were improbable. Few traders would be at sea at this time of year, and France was surely too short of warships free of blockade to waste any this far south. He supposed it was possible that some devilment was being planned elsewhere; a squadron travelling so might be heading to round either the Horn or the Cape. But when he had left Spithead the rumours were of peace; besides with much of their land forces committed, and almost all naval power soundly trapped, it would be foolish of the French to waste a sizeable fleet on what must be a speculative venture. Which only left neutral shipping.