His Majesty's Ship (43 page)

      
“Your captain is wounded, lieutenant?”

      
“No, sir. I regret Captain Shepherd died during the early stages of the action. A passing shot caused concussion that brought on a seizure.”

      
“I see,” Nichols looked genuinely sorry. “He was a fine man, we served together in
Monarch
.”

      
A servant entered the room and, after a nod from Nichols, placed a small table beside Dyson.

      
“Wine, sir?”

      
Dyson nodded, and watched as the red liquid filled the crystal glass. The admiral smiled sympathetically.

      
“I am sure you are tired, lieutenant, but you have no idea of the rumours that are circulating about your actions. Perhaps we could persuade you to give us a verbal report, in advance of your written journal?”
 

*****

      
Dyson finished speaking about half an hour later. It was not the end of the story, and he was conscious that some aspects had been missed, or not given sufficient emphasis. But his head swam with the combined effects of wine and exhaustion, and he knew he could not say more. For a moment no one spoke, then Morris moved forward and poured a fresh measure of wine from the crystal decanter. Dyson was taken aback at being waited on by a senior captain, although his tired mind interpreted the action as positive.

      
Nichols cleared his throat. “Well, it seems you have been busy. We learned a little of what you have told us from Douglas of the
Taymar
. And
Vibrant
, our leeward lookout, spotted one of the frigates shortly afterwards.” He cleared his throat again. “Of course I cannot comment on your late captain's actions, nor your own come to that,” the smile came readily. “But I do feel it would be fitting if you remained in nominal command of
Vigilant
until we reach England.”

      
A cough was rising in Dyson's throat; he took a hasty sip of wine. To remain in command showed a good measure of approval, possibly one that would help him on the next important step to Commander.

      
“We are currently transporting several battalions of foot soldiers, as well as the outgoing consular staff from Bombay. I am sure your surgeon would welcome assistance from their medical service?”

      
Dyson nodded. “Yes, sir; that would be appreciated.”

      
“And you will call on us for any materials, provisions or man power your ship needs, as well as any personal requirements that you or your officers may have, is that understood?”

      
Dyson said it was, although later he would have doubts as to whether the admiral had actually made the offer.

      
“There is one, rather awkward point...” A faint alarm bell rang in Dyson's muddled mind as the admiral continued. “The capture of the two frigates was undertaken while
Vigilant
was out of sight.” That was quite true, although Dyson's tired mind failed to grasp the significance of the point. “That means you cannot benefit from the prize money. However, the two liners are certainly down to you, and as
Vigilant
was sailing under Admiralty Orders, there will be no eighth for a Commander in Chief.” He smiled again. “I think you will find your share will be adequate enough.”

      
There was irony in the fact that at no time during the action had Dyson considered prize money, and as soon as he did, he found that a good proportion was to be taken from him. But then, even allowing for sharing with the other ships, the commissioned officers' portion would be substantial.

      
“Well, I am sure you have many things to occupy you, I hope I can count on your presence at dinner at least once during our journey home.” The admiral smiled, “lieutenant?”

      
Dyson suddenly realised that he had lapsed into a trance, and had been staring into space for several seconds. With an effort he stood up, and allowed himself to be led from the great cabin. Morris saw him off at the entry port.

      
“The admiral was impressed, I could tell.” he said softly as they shook hands. “With his influence you should go far; indeed you deserve to.”

      
“I had exceptional support from my officers, sir,” Dyson muttered.

      
“So you have said, and that is also to your credit.” Morris smiled, then suddenly grew serious. “You made no mention of your second, was he injured?

      
“No, sir.” Dyson eyed the captain guardedly. “Lieutenant Rogers survived the battle.”

      
“Antony Rogers?”

      
Dyson grew more wary. “You know him, sir?”

      
“I know of him,” the look was unmistakable. “And I know the kind of man he is. You made no mention of his conduct.”

      
That was true; Dyson had not trusted himself to give a neutral account. “Mr Rogers did not impress me with his actions,” He said simply. “I considered the subject more suited to a written report, sir.”

      
“You were probably very wise, although you may wish to be a trifle circumspect. He is known as a rogue, but he does have important friends.” The words registered even in Dyson's weary brain. “A bad report from you may affect more than one man's naval career, you might consider that.”

      
The thought remained with him as he was ferried back to
Vigilant
. It was true, Rogers did have important friends, whereas he, in contrast, had very few. He also knew of men who had risen to be admirals that by rights should never have been commissioned. Men such as Rogers, men who achieved rank through connections, rather than capabilities. Was he to allow another to go that way when it was in his power to expose him? Dyson swallowed as a thought occurred. In a service where promotion relied so heavily on influence, he had finally been given one small chance to exert his, albeit at a personal cost. He smiled grimly as he prepared to clamber up the wounded side of
Vigilant
, knowing himself well enough to predict the outcome, even before he had properly thought things through.
 

*****

      
It was a different group of men that now sat at Flint's mess table. Matthew, perched on the bread box at the end, looked down the line of faces. Some were new, fresh hands drafted from the convoy, while others were his friends of several weeks, although already it seemed that he had known them for ever. Some, for various reasons, were no longer present. O'Conner had left the ship only that morning. Together with many others, and under a union flag that was yet to carry the colours of Ireland, his body had been bound in a weighted hammock and sent over the side to take his final journey to the bottom of the sea.

      
Others were there in body only; Flint was eating intently to Matthew's left, his eyes fixed on the table, and his thoughts kept entirely to himself. It was more than the recent burial service that had subdued him; his attitude had been different since the battle. He remained friendly, but now was detached, as if he was considering matters from a different angle. Simpson was sitting opposite Flint; by rights he should have been back in bilboes on the punishment deck. But Critchley, the master at arms, had died early the previous day, and with so much still out of kilter since the action, no one had seen the necessity of placing Simpson back under arrest. He cut a chunk of the cheese with his clasp knife and sat back on the bench, his eyes naturally resting on Flint.

      
“Out bound convoy was sighted 'smorning,” he informed him. Flint looked up as Simpson continued. “Gib. bound. Came into signalling range jus' 'fore six bells.”

      
“'sright,” A man from the frigate confirmed. “
Taymar
and
Badger
been sent across to join, 'long with the merchants you was escortin'.”

      
For the first time since the battle Flint's eyes showed a flicker of interest.

      
“All of 'em?” he asked.

      
“Reckon,” Simpson had noticed the change and was eyeing Flint with curiosity. “'cludin' the las' four.” He took a generous bite into his cheese.

      
Flint nodded, while his mind began to race. That would mean his father would be leaving the convoy; probably had done so already. So there would be no embarrassing meeting in Brighthelmstone, no fear of running into him in a dockside pot house, no need to explain to what was left of his family the terrible truth he had discovered. The British Navy, larger now than it had ever been, was still small when viewed against the area it covered. One meeting in ten years was probably more than he could normally expect, especially when his father now knew where he was likely to be and would doubtless take even greater precautions to avoid an RN vessel.

      
The idea brushed some of the despondent thoughts from his mind; he straightened his back and felt his shoulders relax. Simpson was still eyeing him quizzically, although he could not know the importance of the news. No one knew what he had discovered on the deck of the
Hampshire Lass
, and no one was aware just how deeply it had affected him.

      
To his right Matthew was munching his cheese with hardly a care. The boy had been afraid,; that was natural. And he had even allowed his fear to show; the cardinal sin of which Flint was equally guilty. But what might be excused in a boy was liable for punishment in a man; especially one so old and experienced. He had expected repercussions from the other men; certainly Simpson and Lewis: both had certainly noticed. To his knowledge there had never been a time when cowardice had been excused, and yet he was still being treated like any other member of the crew. It might mean that the men had not realised; thought the terrible moment when he had stopped and all but ran from the deck was not due to fear. The memories of the battle were already starting to fade in his mind, and he could recall little in exact detail, apart from Simpson bellowing into his face, and Matthew standing rigid on the deck. But then for all he knew others experienced similar moments, it might even be considered common, and not worthy of comment later.

      
He saw then, with rare insight, that this had been his first time in action alone; the first time he had not depended on someone else, however distant, to give him strength. And it was only when he had realised just how weak that person was that he had discovered his true self; the one he had hidden ever since that night when the revenue cutter closed with them.

      
Now he had changed, the battle had seen to that. Now he was no longer dependent on a memory; an image that had grown in his mind with the years. He had himself to live up to, and himself to live for. Should action come his way again he knew he would cope with it; possibly not with the devil may care attitude of the past, but sufficiently well: certainly with more maturity. He glanced at Matthew, eating in childlike innocence, with all memories and doubts consigned to the cag bucket, and told himself that there were still some examples that were worth following.
 

*****

      
“You realise, of course, that you could be shot?”

      
Rogers showed no surprise, only a slight sneer of disdain marked his face. “You may think so, but I fear you will meet with others who have my interests at heart.”

      
“That's quite possible, and yet somehow I feel I will be believed.” Dyson paused, timing his stroke as accurately as any he had used to fend off boarders. “Few are willing to befriend a coward.”

      
At this Rogers stood to face him, as Dyson had known he would. “Say that in front of witnesses, and I shall...”

      
“Demand a meeting?” he scoffed. “No, I think not. I have witnesses of my own. Men who saw your conduct, and know you for what you are; I think a court martial would soon decide your fate.”

      
The words seemed to sap some of the fight from Rogers, and he sat down once more, helping himself liberally from the black bottle on the wardroom table. It was early evening, and just starting to grow dark. The stewards should have been in to light the candles by now, but for some reason they were holding back and giving the two officers unheard of privacy.

      
“You'd do that?” Rogers asked, after drinking deeply.

      
“I would.”

      
He smiled, a generous
bon homie
smile, and reached out with his hand. “But I could do you so much good. I know people, my father knows people. I could get you promoted to commander; you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

      
“I want nothing from you.”

      
The smile vanished, and Dyson could all but see the workings of the man's mind. It took almost five seconds for him to think of his next gambit.

      
“What about Gregory?” he said, the snarl now firmly back in his voice. “Striking a superior officer; that's one for the court room.” He warmed to his subject. “And I'd wager there'd be one or two things we could dig up about you, given the opportunity.”