His Majesty's Ship (44 page)

      
“It was you who attacked a senior officer; Gregory only struck you following a direct instruction from myself,” he hardly drew breath as he continued. “You drew your weapon and made to strike me; I ordered that you should be restrained.”

      
The cold lie hung in the air, and Rogers seemed unable to comprehend what was being done to him.

      
“You wouldn't swear to that,” he said, the smile momentarily returning.

      
“I would. And I will also state as much in my report.” That was another lie, but Dyson was long past caring.

      
Their eyes met and the tension increased with each breath. Finally Rogers broke.

      
“What do you want?” his voice was tired, almost resigned, and Dyson knew that he had won.

      
“I require your journal; a written account of the battle, and your conduct in it. No fudging or licence; the bare facts.”

      
“And?”

      
“And you will sign it, and pass it to me before we enter harbour.”

      
“The court martial?”

      
“There will be no court martial, providing you decide to resign your commission immediately.”

      
Rogers shrugged. “Anything else.”

      
“No.”

      
Dyson walked from the room, leaving Rogers to consider the matter. Slowly the sun began to dip below the horizon, leaving the wardroom and Rogers in darkness.
 

*****

      
In the early morning of the fifteenth of June HMS
Vigilant
waited at the entrance to Number Three Dock, a little over seven weeks since she had set sail. Her few remaining yards were set cock-a-bill signalling the death of her captain, and the patched sides bore witness to the recent battle. News of her exploits had travelled before her and there were a good few onlookers who had gathered to shake their heads and stare at the damage. Dyson stood on the quarterdeck surveying the scene. Despite the fact that the journey back had been as uneventful as any undertaken when a leaking ship is under tow, he felt a strange mixture of emotions. He was tired; he longed to be free of the ship and his responsibilities, and yet he also felt a wrench, as if a part was about to be taken from him and left in the hands of strangers.

      
Vigilant
had been due for a minor refit even before the battle, and it was likely that a year or more would pass before she saw open seas again. She may even have her upper deck removed, and be turned into a heavy frigate, like her sister,
Indefatigable
that Pellew was now making his own. Dyson hoped not; the sixty-four might be considered an antiquated style of ship, but it was one that could still carry itself well in action, as
Vigilant
herself had shown.

      
The hands were assembling in the waist wearing their tiddley suits: the smart shore going clothes that each kept stowed away. Their ditty bags were slung over their shoulders, and they stood next to a block of sea chests, piled high and ready to be swung ashore. Dyson examined the faces as they jostled with each other, eager to be free of the ship. The commissioners had arrived early yesterday morning and initiated a ceremony that was taken every bit as seriously as ‘Up Spirits’. Each hand had been called in turn, and his allowance doled into his hat. In every case six month's pay was kept back as an incentive against desertion. Some noticed, and some did not, but most now had money in their pockets. Money they had earned like horses, and now was certain to be spent by asses. A good few would find themselves back in the Navy within a month, although none would ever know how close they came to being transferred straight into a receiving ship, without a chance of tasting the pleasures of the shore. Some Dyson would meet again, as he had with former shipmates, while others were doomed to disappear into obscurity.

      
One had gone already; while they had waited at anchor at Spithead a small splash and the sight of a red pigtail vanishing beneath the waves was the last they had seen of Simpson. Dyson supposed he should feel bad about the loss of a known deserter who had compounded his crime by striking a superior officer, although curiously he could not summon the emotion.

      
King appeared on deck, and touched his hat. Dyson had commended the lad in his report, and hoped he would be given a chance to attend an examination board without delay. Men like him, Timothy, and Tait (who was recovering well from his wound), these were the future of the service; the captains and admirals of tomorrow. Gregory was forward looking to the warp that would carry them in. He was not so much the Navy's future as its foundation, although Dyson knew that whatever praise he might receive, Gregory would be lucky to retire as anything other than a lieutenant.

      
Flint was at the head of his mess. He stood by the young lad who had fallen from the masthead. Next to him, and no longer a part of the mess, stood Lewis. Dyson had noted changes in all three. Flint was certainly less cocksure. The journey back had shown him to be far more dependable and mature, yet still with the ability to command respect. Were they to continue to sail together, Dyson would consider him for promotion; just as an experiment to see how he would take to it.

      
Lewis had already got his, and not before time. In addition to his skill with numbers it was clear that the men looked up to him. Such natural ability was not to be wasted, and Dyson's report had favoured him well. The recent action had accounted for a good number of petty officers, and the admiral had agreed to rate him as quartermaster's mate, with a recommendation that he should be considered for further promotion.

      
And the lad, Jameson; he had hardly been on board ten minutes, but had grown tremendously. The adolescent stammer had gone, and the boy looked likely to make a solid and reliable hand, even a potential warrant officer. England would need men like him if the war was to continue any longer.

      
There was a commotion on the wharf; a group of women, doxies or wives, were shouting out to the men. Dyson was glad to see the boatswain's mates rear up to keep order. As he looked he caught sight of a pair of ladies standing apart from the mob. Both were dressed in black and one he recognised as Shepherd's wife. Presumably she was here to see her late husband's ship home. Dyson inwardly nerved himself for the meeting that he already knew would be awkward. He was far from good when it came to speaking with women, and this would not be the easiest of circumstances.

      
“Rosie! Rosie!” His attention was called back to the waist by an outburst. Jenkins had broken free of his division, and was leaning over the bulwark, waving like a child at a woman who returned his greetings. A grinning boatswain's mate stepped forward to pull him back, but Jenkins brushed him aside.

      
“I lost your brooch!” he shouted, as the mate grabbed him once more, and began to drag him away.

      
“'sall right,” the girl shouted. “I knows where you are, an' I'll wait!”

      
The men in the waist were all smiling now, and Dyson found that he was doing the same. Admiral Nichols had spoken about the importance of stopping the French, how a fleet was rumoured to be building in the West Indies, and the ships they had captured would have strengthened it, possibly to the point when another invasion of England could have been attempted. He didn't know about that, in the same way that he didn't know what his next posting would be, or when this war would end. But they were back, and there was at least one on the quay who was glad about it.

About the Author

      
Alaric Bond was born in Surrey, England, but now lives in Herstmonceux, East Sussex, in a 14th century Wealden Hall House.  He is married with two sons.

      
His father was a well known writer, mainly of novels and biographies, although he also wrote several screenplays.  He was also a regular contributor to BBC Radio drama (including Mrs Dale’s Diary!), and a founding writer for the Eagle comic.

      
During much of his early life Alaric was hampered by Dyslexia, although he now considers the lateral view this condition gave him to be an advantage.  He has been writing professionally for over twenty years with work covering broadcast comedy (commissioned to BBC Light Entertainment for 3 years), periodicals, children’s stories, television, and the stage.  He is also a regular contributor to several nautical magazines and newsletters.

      
His interests include the British Navy 1793-1815 and the RNVR during WWII.  He regularly gives talks to groups and organizations and is a member of various historical societies including The Historical Maritime Society and the Society for Nautical Research.  He also enjoys Jazz, swing and big band music from 1930-1950 (indeed, he has played trombone for over 40 years), sailing, and driving old SAAB convertibles.

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK,

YOU’LL LOVE ALL OF THE BOOKS

IN ALARIC BOND’S

FIGHTING SAIL SERIES

His Majesty’s Ship

by Alaric Bond

The First Book in the Fighting Sail Series

A powerful ship, a questionable crew, and a mission that must succeed.
 

In the spring of 1795 HMS Vigilant, a 64 gun ship-of-the-line, is about to leave Spithead as senior escort to a small, seemingly innocent, convoy.
 
The crew is a jumble of trained seamen, volunteers, and the sweepings of the press; yet, somehow, the officers have to mold them into an effective fighting unit before the French discover the convoy’s true significance.
 

Based on historical fact, His Majesty’s Ship will take you into the world of Nelson’s Navy, and captivate you all the way to it’s gripping conclusion.
 

“Bond has an extraordinary talent for describing the sights and sounds of an 18th Century man-of-war.
 
When you finish this book you genuinely feel like you have been there—and no novel can receive higher praise than that.”
 

The Jackass Frigate

The Second Book in the Fighting Sail Series

      
December 1796. It was a time of unrest and discontent for Britain, made even worse by the war with Revolutionary France and the possibility of imminent invasion. Fresh from the dockyard, HMS Pandora, a 28-gun frigate, is about to set sail to join the Mediterranean Fleet.

      
For Captain Banks the harsh winter weather and threat of a French invasion are not his only problems. He has an untried ship, a tyrant for a First Lieutenant, a crew that contains at least one murderer, and he is about to sail into one of the biggest naval battles in British history—the Battle of Cape St. Vincent.

True Colours

The Third Book in the Fighting Sail Series

The Royal Navy is immobilised by mutiny, and the only thing that’s standing in the way of an invasion is a commander who is communicating with a fleet that isn’t there.
 

While Great Britain’s major home fleets are immobilised by a vicious mutiny, Adam Duncan, commander of the North Sea Squadron, has to maintain a constant watch over the Dutch coast, where a powerful invasion force is ready to take advantage of Britannia's weakest moment.
 

With ship-to-ship duels and fleet engagements, shipwrecks, storms and groundings, True Colours maintains a relentless pace that culminates in one of the most devastating sea battles of the French Revolutionary War—the Battle of Camperdown.
 

Alaric Bond has stepped into the first rank

of writers of historic naval fiction.
 

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