His Majesty's Ship (25 page)

      
He walked from the table and left the wardroom. Taking the hint the others soon dispersed, until only Rogers and King were left.

      
“You'll join me?” Rogers held the bottle up to the younger man.

      
“Thank you, no.” King always felt awkward when refusing to take wine with Rogers. In a hard drinking age the second lieutenant was by no means unusual. Even among officers of commission status it was customary to down more than half a bottle of spirits, or two bottles of wine in a day; occasionally both. King's stomach reeled at the thought of drinking in the morning, especially when he would need all his wits about him that afternoon. He told himself he was a fool, that he had at least an hour before he need assemble his division and a glass now might help him rest until then. But King had a long memory, and knew from experience just how he would feel when he rose from that rest.

      
“It's always the same, before a battle. I mean when you know you're going to have one.” King allowed Rogers' words to flow over him as he helped himself to a piece of hard, pink Suffolk cheese. An idea was forming in his mind, one that might turn out to be a young man's fancy, not worth the time spent thinking, but King was intent on reasoning it out to the end.

      
“They get carried away remembering all they have to do, thinking of anything but what is actually bothering them.” Rogers stopped, waiting for King to ask the invited question. There was silence; it was an absurd notion, yet King felt it worth writing down, and maybe even taking to Dyson or the captain.

      
Rogers looked up to see his junior munching through his meal, clearly unconcerned about anything he might have to say and for a moment he wanted to start an argument. He opened his mouth to begin, when the effort suddenly appeared much too great. Instead he raised his glass once more and drank.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      
Captaine de vaisseau
Jean Louis Duboir stood on the quarter-deck of his command, the ninety-eight gun
Lozere
, studying the British through his glass. Like his ship, Duboir was subtly different from his British counterpart, although he shared with them a thorough understanding of the sea, and the men who sailed it.

      
Until a few years ago Duboir had been a rich man, with a good house and a profitable business. Starting as an apprentice, he had risen quickly to become, at nineteen, one of the youngest masters in the French merchant marine. From there, seeking further excitement, he had pooled his money into a half share of a small trading brig, and had paid off his partner and leased a second ship by the time he was twenty-four. The revolution, which Duboir felt had been too long in coming, hardly affected him at first; he was of humble birth and his wealth, which was by now considerable, had been earned through hard work and provided employment for many. The subsequent changes in government, both local and central, proved more of a problem and his finances were soon hit by rising taxes as well as the necessity to grease palms, which had become the only way of continuing to trade. When war with Britain was declared it signalled the end, and his struggling business foundered under the certainty of imminent blockade.

      
He had considered fitting out his one remaining ship for use as a privateer. Fortunes were to be made, and he could have prospered, even employing a master to sail her, while he stayed and protected his property against any fresh laws the local council might decide upon. But
la guerre de course
was an option that Duboir barely considered. He was a merchant seaman, and others of his kind would be his victims. Despite any unfairness in his own fortunes, he refused to lower himself to the status of a commercial cannibal. Then fate had taken an ironic step, and he had found himself an officer in a fighting navy, whether he liked it or not.

      
Duboir had seen this as nothing more than another challenge, and one that he was quite ready to meet. If he had to fight at sea, then he would do it well. The lack of experienced officers meant that he had been appointed to the French Navy at his present rank without going through the usual stages of
aspirant, enseigne de vaisseau
and
lieutenant
. He had spent three months at the Naval Academy and given nominal command of
Lozere
, a rare ninety-eight gun ship, shortly afterwards.

      
In the following year much changed and the revolution began to be seen in a different and more sinister light. At Christmas Herbert, the diseased and obscene journalist, presided over the Feast of Reason in Notre Dame where a whore was elevated at the high altar amid Rabelaisian rites. While in the prisons men and women, increasingly there due to the whim of some sadistic Party member, were fed on offal served in troughs, or sent chained like so much cattle, to run in droves through the city streets.

      
The menace had grown and with it the terror, until two to three thousand heads were falling every month to the Lottery of the Holy Guillotine. At Nantes five hundred children had been slain, while their mothers were given the choice between prostitution or death. Five thousand more followed at Arras, and Duboir feared there were other, greater atrocities committed elsewhere that he had not chanced to hear about.

      
Throughout this time he had stayed patiently by his new command, burying his head into his books, learning all he could about a new craft, while his mind blanked out the successive rumours of a terror that he assured himself he would be incapable of halting. There had been no time for sea trials, even without the powerful blockading force that hovered just over the horizon, the chaos that had replaced naval infrastructure meant that he had barely enough consumable supplies to equip his ship without risking more on training.

      
In fact this was his first chance to take
Lozere
to sea, and already he had found woeful inadequacies in her rig and fabric; the crew had also caused him to worry. A few were trained hands, and others, though new to their business, had learnt much even during their time in harbour. But there were also those who could spend a life on the ocean and still never have the resilience and understanding necessary to become a true sailor. The balance was more dangerous still; political animals that seemed to infiltrate every rank, sent to ensure that, however far they may be from France, they would never lack the ideals of their new republic.

      
He was considering just this last point when
contre-amiral
Lafluer appeared from his quarters, and Duboir felt foolishly guilty in case the man, whose eyes seemed to bore deep inside him, had indeed been able to read his thoughts.

      
“The enemy fleet is dividing.” Lafluer commented as he joined Duboir. “You did not think it necessary to inform me?”

      
The guilt increased, although there was still no basis for it. “I sent a message as soon as it was obvious,” he turned, but Dumas, the
aspirant
he had instructed, was nowhere to be seen.

      
“It is of no matter,” Lafluer waved his hand at Duboir's explan-ation as if it was a lie he was prepared to tolerate. “We will take what is left; there is not the time to look for more.”

      
Duboir swallowed; Lafluer was the product of the revolution. A dry little man, old before his time, who would never have progressed past his former rank of
Lieutenant
were it not for his political opinions (which Duboir considered bordering on the insane) and the woeful lack of experienced officers without an aristocratic pedigree.

      
“You wish us to clear for action?” The fact that he was only in nominal command of the ship, and had to request direction upset Duboir further, although he sought to hide this, as he did with all the other humiliations of his present position.

      
“No,” Lafluer graced him with a tight smile. “There is no need. The enemy will run; some are even doing so already. We will close with the battleship, and she will strike or go also. The merchants can be collected and taken with us to meet with Canard. The ships may be of value even if their cargos turn out to be worthless.”

      
Duboir again had to fight against his natural instincts. His knowledge of the British Navy did not suggest that a warship would flee, however outnumbered she may be. And the callous use of merchants, to be seized on the chance that their hulls may be of use, upset his trader's instincts. France had been under blockade for two years and although she could last much longer, forever if need be, the trouble to send these cargoes home must surely be worth taking.

      
“How long before we are in range?”

      
Duboir pursed his lips and shrugged. “Two, maybe three hours. Less if these conditions hold.” He too had noticed the changes in the weather; in the last few minutes the wind had increased considerably.

      
Lafluer nodded. “Call me if there are any developments,” he turned, then stopped and stared Duboir straight in the eye. “See to it yourself, Captain. I want no more excuses.”

      
Duboir took up his glass once more, and set it on the escaping ships to hide the resentment that burned deep inside him. They were clearly the faster, more valuable vessels, and he felt that, given the opportunity, he could have collected some, if not all, and still have had the time and sea room to turn back for the others. They were being efficiently handled, their sails taking full advantage of the wind; before long they would be effectively out of his reach. Then they would continue their journey in relative safety. And there would be others; journeys on open oceans protected by a force of ships that was becoming the envy of the world.

      
He shrugged once more, shut his glass with a snap, and took a turn or two across the deck. With all the wretchedness and discomfort associated with serving a man like Lafluer, it was an effort for him to quell a slight and quite unreasonable feeling of envy.
 

*****

      
Whenever King stood for long in the presence of his captain he became unusually aware of his elbows. Even with his arms straight by his sides, as they were now, his elbows contrived to stick out, proud of his body. He stretched his limbs in an effort to make them straighter still and was immediately conscious that he was fidgeting, a habit known to annoy his captain, and one it would be foolish to indulge in at that moment.

      
Shepherd looked up from the paper on which King had outlined his ideas.

      
“You seem to regard our merchant friends as expendable, Mr King.”

      
King remained silent, there would be more, he knew it.

      
“That is ignoring our own people, and the danger they will be in.”

      
“The ship is a drogher; she's been falling behind since Spithead, sir; I think the risk is worth taking.” Shepherd said nothing, although he did read through the idea once more: a positive sign and one that gave King hope.

      
“The French did nothing when the convoy divided, what makes you think they will react when one ship makes a run for it?”

      
That was a hard one; King drew a deep breath. “Sir, at the time the convoy split they could not be sure of our true strength. For all they knew several other liners could have gone off with the other merchants. Now they can assess our force: they can see five merchants and us.” He struggled slightly, what he wanted to say was the French would feel the British ships as good as captured, although this could be construed as defeatist talk.

      
The captain nodded, apparently content with the explanation, and King was struck, not for the first time, at the similarity between their two minds.

      
“Who would you detail for this expedition?”

      
“Myself, sir,” he swallowed. “I had hoped to lead it. And no more than ten men, from my division if possible, and the marines of course.” That was an important point; part of the plan called for discipline and fire power, attributes that the marines excelled in, and something that would come as a devastating shock to the enemy. “Twelve marines, and a corporal to command them.”

      
“That's roughly five percent of my crew; worse, as you want fighting men, and almost a quarter of the marine complement.”

      
Shepherd tapped his finger on his lips as he thought, then looked up and fixed King with his clear blue eyes.

      
“And how will you re-organise the watch bill, without leaving men short?”

      
King was prepared for this. “I could take men equally from each watch, sir. A couple of topmen would be handy, but I could even do without them. Or I could take landsmen if it came to it.”

      
Shepherd smiled. “You are certainly determined, Mr King.” Then his face straightened. “But you are also my signals officer, and I will be depending on you in the next few hours.”