His Majesty's Ship (17 page)

      
“No, sir. No, I think its more resentment.”

      
Dyson considered the pen nib for a second before continuing. “And do you think it was wise for Crehan to be rated at foremast lookout?” He was clearly referring to the recent wardroom conversation, and King thought carefully before replying.

      
“With hindsight, possibly not, sir,” he swallowed. “But he is a trained hand, and I would judge him better at the fore than the skyscraper.”

      
It was a good point. The main lookout, being several feet higher than the fore, swept a wider horizon. In daylight the fore lookout was really only there as a failsafe.

      
“The other boy, Diggins. Have you spoken to him?”

      
“No, sir, I was attending to Jameson. But Mr Pite met him on the foretop. He says Crehan dropped Jameson on purpose.”

      
Dyson's eyebrows rose fractionally. “Dropped?” Diggins had said exactly that to him, but only after he had been given time to consider the matter.

      
“Yes, sir. He said Crehan held him away from the crosstrees, and deliberately dropped him.”

      
“He couldn't have been in the process of helping him up when he lost his grip?”

      
King shook his head. “I know that's what Crehan said, sir, but Diggins is certain. An’ there were others on the foretop at the time; Pamplin and Copley, they say the same.”

      
Dyson closed his eyes for a moment; he knew all about Pamplin and Copley. The break from conversation served to remind them both of the weather and, in Dyson's case, his stomach. The chart room creaked and groaned with annoying regularity, and the wind rushing through the shrouds was high pitched and frantic.
Vigilant
was already running under topsails alone; preventer stays had been rigged and it was likely that a reef would be needed before long. And the convoy, that could be holding together, or tearing off on different courses and individual speeds. Dyson swallowed as a wave of nausea swept over him; there really wasn't time to talk about one man's fate.

      
“Very well, we have enough to occupy us for now. Keep Crehan under close arrest, and look to your division. I expect a report from the surgeon directly; I will inform you when I know anything more.”

      
“Thank you, sir,” King stood up awkwardly in the small, heaving cabin. “Do you think this was an act of sabotage?” It was a question that had been on his mind for a while.

      
“No I don't.” The first lieutenant placed the statements and notes into a folder and returned the pen to his pocket. “This was far too obvious, and totally out of keeping with anything the United Irishmen might have in mind. Look for tainted drinking water in the wardroom; a rolling round shot when it's only you on deck and false reports and ridiculous signals that make fools of officers; that's more their line. Nothing so direct and personal as endangering lives. It would not serve their purpose.” He allowed King a grudging half smile. “Right now I would guess that Crehan is not a particularly popular person. If he was involved with any Nationalist ideals, his actions will not have served the cause well.”
 

*****

      
Tait threw off his pea-jacket and hung it on the rack outside the wardroom to dry. It was the end of the second dog watch; he had eight hours to himself before taking the morning watch which ran from four till eight. It was a duty he usually shared with Dyson, and Tait wanted to get as much sleep as possible, as the first lieutenant was an exacting man to work with. He drew his fingers through his damp fair hair, twitched his neck cloth and brushed his coat into a semblance of order before entering the wardroom. This was, after all, a place where gentlemen lived, and the fact that he had been on deck in the very teeth of a gale for the last two hours was certainly no excuse to be casual about his appearance.

      
The elderly steward stepped out of the pantry as he entered. Tait shook his head; he had no use for food or drink, all he needed was the chance to fall into his cot and let someone else take charge for a spell. The storm had been growing steadily; it would be a restless night, with the strong possibility that he would be called before his watch began. The only other occupants of the wardroom, Timothy and Gregory, had spread the green baize cloth over the table and were playing cards. Timothy had been trying to teach the intricacies of whist to the older man, and the table was laid with four hands face up, while Timothy patiently explained the order of play. Tait smiled at them both, before opening the screen door of his cabin, and retreating inside.

      
He appeared again almost immediately, his face full of bluster and indignation.

      
“Has anyone been in here?” he asked. Timothy looked up.

      
“Mr Dyson has just left, and Mr Morrison. Neither went near your cabin though.”

      
His look stirred their interest, and all thoughts of cards were put aside as they rose up from the table and followed him into the tiny room.

      
“Well bless me!” Gregory explained. This was far more interesting than guarding an ace or attempting a finesse. “Looks like you've been taken rotten!”

      
Tait's possessions were piled neatly in the middle of the deck. His furniture had all but disappeared, only the cot, now bereft of its embroidered cover, swung from the deckhead.

      
“Someone's squirreled your stuff,” Timothy said unnecessarily.

      
“Damn right!” Tait's eyes were filled with anger. “Bloody Rogers!”

      
“Rogers?” Timothy could not see the connection.

      
“Somebody call?” The voice came from the wardroom, Rogers must have entered while they were examining Tait's cabin. Tait pushed past the others to get at him.

      
“What the deuce do you think you're at?”

      
Rogers had dined well earlier, and now had the look of a satisfied cat. He lent on the bulkhead, bracing himself against the heel of the ship.

      
“My dear Tait, pray do not excite yourself!”

      
“Excite myself?” he drew breath. “Curse you, for the stuffed up, conceited prig that you are!”

      
Timothy knew that Rogers was considered influential and was junior enough to bite his tongue while Gregory, who had no such inhibitions, grinned openly.

      
“I do not accept an address like that from anyone.” There was a formal edge to Rogers' voice now, as if he was reciting from a prepared speech. “I advise you to moderate your language, or I shall be forced to request a meeting!”

      
The mention of a duel raised the stakes along with Tait's blood pressure. He opened his mouth to reply, but it was Gregory, with his solid reasoning, who was first to speak.

      
“I think Mr Tait is referring to his furniture, or rather the lack of it.” Gregory's older voice, uncultured but authoritative, brought a semblance of order, despite the fact that he was junior to all bar Timothy.

      
“Mr Tait volunteered his furniture to me only the evening before last.” Rogers turned to Gregory as a child might an adult. “I have merely taken him up on his offer.”

      
“I'll be damned if I did!”

      
“And what about the carpenter?” Rogers continued. “Did you not ask him to make you a fresh set of furniture yesterday afternoon?”

      
“Yes, but for you, and at your request, damn it!”

      
Rogers smiled an ingratiating smile that was totally wasted. “Well surely, once the carpenter has completed his task, all will be well?”

      
“All will be well? All will be well?” Tait was very nearly breathless. “I fail to see how that will come about when rogues like you walk the deck!”

      
Roger's look grew cold and concentrated. “I have warned you about your language, Mr Tait. Now you have called me a rogue in front of other gentlemen. For that I must seek satisfaction!”

      
The atmosphere, already tense with anger and the enormity of the occasion, was amplified by a change in sound. The groaning of the ship's timbers took precedence as
Vigilant
rode out a sudden increase in the gale. For a moment all attention was turned to the weather, and it was only when a lull came that the conversation resumed. It was Gregory who finally broke the impasse.

      
“Both of you should be aware that it is a court martial offence for King's officers to challenge, or take any part in a duel while on active service.”

      
Rogers' anger, together with his eyes, fell on Gregory.

      
“I know of no rules that prevent us from settling this matter like gentlemen!”

      
“Then you are ignorant of King's Regulations, Mr Rogers. An' before you try the same trick on me, I am speakin' the truth.” It was Rogers' turn to be lost for words as Gregory continued. “It is also against regulations, and common law for that matter, for a fellow's possessions to be taken or moved without his allowance. I suggest you ask your man to return Mr Tait's furniture to his quarters.”

      
“Damned Sea Lawyer!” Rogers glared at Gregory. “Damned peasant dressed up as a gentleman!”

      
“You should watch your language, Mr Rogers,” Gregory twinkled. “That's another offence you've just committed!”

      
It was more than he could stand, and Rogers stormed out of the wardroom, slamming the door behind him.

      
Timothy let out a long held breath. “He's supposed to be pretty influential, y'know?”

      
“I couldn't care if he knows Farmer George personally,” Gregory allowed himself a brief smile. “Now Mr Timothy and I were exploring the intricacies of whist, perhaps if Mr Tait would join us I could teach you both another game. The Colonials call it poker; I learned it while stationed in New York back in eighty-one. A trifle less complex, but enjoyable nevertheless.”

      
It was when they were starting their second hand that Rogers' servant entered, and together with a wardroom steward, returned Tait's furniture to its proper place.

CHAPTER TEN

      
By midnight the storm was at its worst. The wind blew across their larboard quarter with such force and energy that it ceased to be simply moving air, becoming instead something solid in the minds of the men who had to fight it. Spray mixed with the rain and scoured their skin, teasing their throats with thirst. A thirst that could never be satisfied, despite the water that constantly attacked every sense in their bodies.

      
Shepherd had been summoned from his cabin for the third time in three hours and now stood by the binnacle, leaning into the gale at such an angle that he appeared on the very brink of falling over. He wiped the salt from his eyes as he tried to penetrate the deep black night.

      
“Still under full reefs?” he bellowed at Humble, who stood no more than a yard away.

      
“Aye, sir,” came the reply. “An' all safe. But I'd like permission to heave to. We've been lucky; she can't take this punishment forever.”

      
Shepherd caught his balance as
Vigilant
heeled into a particularly deep wave that drenched a group of topmen sheltering by the break of the forecastle. Humble was right, they had been lucky. But the men on deck were all seasoned hands, and it was luck that came from preparation, training and not a little skill. He wondered if the merchant ships with their laden hulls and meagre crews would have met with such fortune and survived for as long before giving in.

      
The traverse board banged incessantly against the binnacle, trying to disrupt his thoughts in its bid for freedom. To heave to meant losing what control they had;
Vigilant
would be at the whim of wind and wave. They might drift for days without the chance of a solar sighting; the idea went against all Shepherd's instincts, both as captain and seaman.

      
“What of the convoy?” he asked, with little hope.

      
The master held his hands wide in an attitude of despair. The storm had increased as darkness fell, and the convoy disappeared into the gloom. Shepherd had ordered sail reduced early, knowing the Indiamen's habit of snuggling down when the weather was bad. That was over six hours ago. Now, even if the merchants' lights were as bright as Eddystone he doubted that they could have been made through the darkness. It was highly likely that, whether she hove to or not,
Vigilant
would find an empty horizon come morning.

      
“Yes, let her go, Mr Humble!”