The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (8 page)

From the outset it was made clear that she blamed the captain personally for the loss of her husband, and there had been stony silences at the dining table together with rapid departures from the quarterdeck whenever he had the temerity to show his face until, by unspoken agreement, her meals began to be taken in solitary splendour in the great cabin after the usual dining hour. It also became common for her late husband's servant to enquire of Thompson, the captain's steward, exactly when Sir Richard might be free of the deck, to allow her to take the air in private: an arrangement that Banks was happy to co-operate with whenever possible.

Nothing more had been said of her accusations and he felt he had disguised the fact that they continued to concern him. He had however noted that others, his officers and specifically Sarah, were not quite so blasé. Lady Hatcher clearly attracted influence as easily as she did money, and however sound Banks' reputation, mud was inclined to stick. Normally such accusations might also have been supported by the crew. The average British sailor was known for his sentimental tendencies and, when asked to choose between a blousy yet arguably attractive widow against the man who had the power to see any of their backs stripped to the bone at a grating, some undercurrent of support could be expected. But, in that respect at least, Banks, and his officers were fortunate and felt they could count upon the men's support. Lady Hatcher might be of common stock, but the adoption of a title had wiped away any loyalty she may have expected from the lower deck. Her behaviour with the cabin stewards and anyone else unfortunate enough to enter her web had also not gone unreported and, however mawkish the crew might appear at times, few could feel any great sympathy for her. To them, a supposed lady who indulged in so many of their own vices was more a subject of derision than pity.

“Was there anything else, Captain?”

Banks realised his mind had wandered, and he must have been staring aimlessly while the sailing master waited.

“No, Mr Fraiser. Thank you: that will be all.”

The elderly warrant officer made as if to return below, then stopped at the mouth of the quarterdeck ladder.

“If it is of any assistance I would say the weather will hold, sir,” he said. “At least until the end of the afternoon.”

Banks was momentarily taken aback. “In what way will that help, Mr Fraiser?”

The sailing master lowered his head slightly. “I had assumed you were planning celebrations: for the passing of the line, sir. And I guessed that was why you sent for me.”

The man was quite right: Banks had completely forgotten, so lost was he in his own thoughts. He glanced up at the sky and felt the wind on his freshly shaven cheek; the morning had certainly dawned bright and clear and, although the sun was hardly over the rim of the horizon, it was already hot.

“Why yes, master, that was exactly what I had in mind.” It wasn't the first time the older man had effectively read his thoughts. “So you would say that we should go ahead with the ceremony?”

Fraiser took a step nearer his captain, and his face relaxed into what might generously be called a smile. “You'll excuse me, sir, but as a Christian man I can have little truck with such superstitions.”

Banks said nothing. His own faith was far less defined than Fraiser's although, in a largely God-fearing world, it was usually better not to admit as much.

“But I accept that to some they are important, and if it has to be done, today would be as good as any.”

Most of
Scylla
's people were seasoned hands, yet a good few would not have travelled south before and the ritual of crossing the line was so fixed in naval tradition that Banks knew he would have to make some concession. But to stop the ship, as was customary, and waste what would be the whole afternoon as well as both dog watches in tomfoolery went totally against the grain. And it wasn't as if the whole performance was nothing more than harmless fun; all knew that the various escapades were often used as a means for righting wrongs or getting even. Men frequently suffered minor injuries under the banner of horseplay, and there were tales aplenty of ceremonies aboard other ships that had ended in maimings and worse.

“If you are considering inviting royalty aboard, sir, I'm sure the men would appreciate some notice.”

Once more the master was right, much of the morning would also be lost to the absurd preparations; Banks felt plagued with bad luck – this voyage was turning out to be one of the worst he could remember.

“Could we not simply hold a tournament of King Arthur?” he asked hopefully.

Fraiser eyed him cautiously. Such a game, which required little preparation and hardly any risk, would indeed be a far easier alternative, but unlikely to satisfy men keen on one of their few official jollies. “Do you think the people would accept that, sir?”

“I could combine it with an extra ration of beer,” Banks persisted. “And call a make and mend for the following afternoon?” 

“It may serve, sir, but I feel they would not take to it,” Fraiser said softly. “No man chose to be sent south; all would far rather be in England at present and some might even say they had a right to be so. But as they are here, they will expect their traditions to be respected.”

Banks knew Fraiser was correct, and even the presence of a hostile squadron somewhere to the north would not be excuse enough to cancel the event. He would have to abandon the day, give it over to folly and foolishness, just to appease a group of men who found pleasure in such banality. It was annoying, but a morose crew was that much worse and, despite the recent action, he had noticed certain signs of discontent which it would be prudent not to encourage. Yet again Banks was grateful to Fraiser for his guidance: the sailing master might not always be the most cheerful of company, but there was much wisdom stored in that wizened old face.

“Very well, Mr Fraiser; I shall speak to the first lieutenant, and the men can elect a King, or whatever else they wish. You have been south before, I trust?” 

“Oh yes, sir,” Fraiser assured him. “And yourself, sir?”

“Indeed, master: more times than I care to remember.” Fraiser turned for the quarterdeck ladder once more, and it was only then that Banks remembered that it was Sarah's first deep sea voyage.

* * *

“I
'll have you know I've crossed the line more times than most aboard this ship,” Kate replied truculently as she shook out a freshly washed bandage and started to roll it expertly between her fingers. “And went through all that pollywog malarkey when I was but a child.”

“Then you will have no reason to be involved,” Manning said softly, and with some relief. His wife was very much stronger now, but he still wished to avoid stressing her unnecessarily. “It will just be a few japes in the afternoon – you may watch if you wish, though much of it can be a little coarse.”

“A little coarse?” She snorted. “I should say; my father was forced to break up such ceremonies in the past, and that was in a merchant ship with far less crew. And they did not have the access to alcohol that your Royal Navy finds so essential. It may have escaped notice, Robert, but we do not have the happiest of people aboard at present.”

“The men are disappointed,” he replied. “Nothing more; there is no harm in them. We have both been aboard a ship where there was mutiny and I cannot say the feeling is the same.”

“Oh the men respect their officers right enough, and much has improved since the action. But they were all but promised a run ashore on two previous occasions, and even dropped anchor at Spithead, only to be left swinging for the best part of a month, before sailing south.”

“So, perhaps a little frivolity will ease the mood,” he chanced. “Cheer them up somewhat.” He glanced at his wife surreptitiously; if anyone could do with being cheered up it was her.

“
Scylla
is currently tinderbox dry,” Kate continued firmly, her attention still ostensibly set on the bandages. “A bit of light heartiness is fine, but things can so easily go the other way. In fact it might equally provide the necessary spark to set her ablaze.”

* * *

“I
t will just be a few japes in the afternoon.” On the berth deck Flint was unknowingly repeating the surgeon's words. “And I reckons that as a topman, and one who can handle himself, you'll be getting off light. It's the lads what 'as to watch theirselves: them and any women what might be about.”

“Who are they choosing as King Neptune?” Jameson asked, even though there only seemed to be one possible candidate.

“That would be Mitchell,” Dixon, the oldest member of the mess, replied. “Though I don't believe he were chosen,” he continued. “I think he chose himself.”

“He's got the build for it,” Flint conceded. “And the muzzle.”

Certainly there was little doubting that the holder's massive frame, which was almost entirely bone and muscle, made him the ideal candidate to play a king of the ocean, and the man even sported the only beard aboard
Scylla
. Facial hair of any sort was not officially approved of but Mitchell's station, in the darker regions of the ship, kept such minor infringements far from official notice, while his temper, which was as legendary as his strength, was enough to dissuade most from taking the matter further.

“That fribble from the governor's party is going to be queen,” Dixon continued. “Can't say I cares for him much m'self, but there's a few of that persuasion who do and, you got to admit, he comes up well enough in a frock.”

“Have they chosen a Davy Jones?” Flint asked.

“Hind,” Dixon told them. “He may be a painter but working so much with turpentine means he's got the cleanest hands of all, even if he don't always smell so good. There are no end of volunteers for bears. Captain was asked for a sail to be slung over the side, but that weren't allowed apparently. The ship ain't stoppin' neither.”

“There's a good chance the French are still over the horizon,” Flint reminded them. “An' this will be no more than a bit of fun.”

“Aye, but you can't work up much excitement,” Dixon grumbled. “Not in a couple of hours and with us still under sail.”

“Any real women takin' part?” Flint asked: Dixon shook his head.

“None can get near the lady's maid and the only one that might have been sporting enough is Mrs Manning. But she's already a shellback several times over: anyways, she's been a cross old cat for most of this voyage, an' her husband would never agree.”

“Can't say as I blame him,” Jameson commented dryly.

“Nor I,” Flint agreed. “Things are liable to get out of hand.”

“We had a prime doxie one time,” Dixon told them, sparking suddenly into life and apparently shedding several years. “In 'eighty-nine, when we was headin' for New South Wales in a transport. We'd got the wench suitably drenched, an' was starting on the shaving when her dress just started comin' adrift in our 'ands. The drab was almost fully unrigged before her flash man stepped in. It were a pity,” he added sadly. “She was more'n willing.”

“When do we start?” Jameson, who was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, asked.

“Four bells in the afternoon watch,” Flint told him. “An' all has to be shipshape again by 'Up Spirits'.”

“So, there won't be much time for the trials,” Dixon mused then, fixing his gaze on Jameson, winked broadly. “Nor the punishments.”

* * *

K
ing had been delegated to supervise arrangements, and stood with Cahill, a passed midshipman who had shipped as a master's mate. Cahill had the watch and both men stood at the break of the quarterdeck. Forward, a well-used royal had been rigged from the edge of the barge to the starboard gangway netting and brim filled with seawater, which was regularly slopping down onto the gundeck below. King supposed he should order the mess to be swabbed, but there would doubtless be more to clear up later. An empty gun carriage, padded out with unrolled hammocks, was in a position of prominence on the forecastle to seat Neptune himself, and two further mess benches had been placed to either side, presumably for his cortège. Next to one stood a wooden kid, which was filled with what looked like sweepings from the manger. The muck had been mixed with a little water, and now had the consistency of stiff porridge, if not the smell. A line of twelve marines, crisp in full uniform, stamped past, blocking his view.

“All present, Mr Jarvis?” King asked the corporal who accompanied them.

“Aye, sir,” the man answered, saluting smartly. “I've men detailed to the fo'c'sle and half deck, and will retain four here for the quarterdeck. Bayonets will be fixed and muskets loaded,” he said, as if reciting. “We'll not 'ave no trouble.”

King was glad to hear it, but still felt vaguely uncomfortable about the whole procedure. It had already been agreed that no other officer would be witnessing and all women should stay below. This was partly, King assumed, to play down the event, but it did mean that he would be in sole charge, and that was not a prospect he particularly relished.

The ship's bell rang; it was time for all to begin, and King was wondering if he should make some sort of announcement when a cheer, followed by the sound of running feet, came up from the deck below.

“Lordy, will you look at that!” Cahill was staring down, and King followed his gaze. Mitchell, the half-man half-bear who all but ran the ship's bilges, was being carried on a lighter made from two sweeps connected by canvas. He was clad in a woman's floral
robe-de-chambre
that was open to the waist and waved an iron loggerhead in his right hand as if it weighed no more than a child's toy. There was some sort of crown on his head, and his black mane, for once untied, had been dusted white with flour and flowed down the sides of his bovine face. Both shoulders were partially bare and the mighty beard, also dusted, filled the open neck in the gown, finally disappearing into the garment, or merging with the thick shag of his chest fur.

“It's something to frighten the children,” King agreed. Four men carried the bier, and they manoeuvred Mitchell, not too delicately, up the forecastle ladder, before dumping their load next to the gun carriage with a thump that echoed about the ship.