The Patriot's Fate (13 page)

“I say,” Banks said, amazed despite himself. “It repeats.”

“And will continue to do so,” Westwood replied, with just the trace of a smirk. “There is a magazine of twenty balls here,” he said, pointing to a metal tube running along the stock towards the hammer. “And upwards of thirty charges in the butt.”

“And what is the charge, sir?” Chilton asked.

“Air,” Westwood beamed. “It is a
Windbüchse
; deadly and accurate, yet powered by nothing more mortal than the wind! Will you take a shot, sir?”

Banks shook his head. He had a credible eye, but was not going to risk his dignity by shooting a strange firearm on his own quarterdeck.

“Mr Chilton?”

The young lieutenant was less reluctant, and eagerly collected the weapon.

“Hold it upright,” Westwood instructed. “You will feel the ball roll into the chamber.” He turned to Banks. “It is not only fast and convenient, but this method of loading allows for a prone marksman to retain his position.”

Banks pulled at his chin speculatively. Westwood was correct, a man could stay relatively hidden while maintaining an astounding rate of fire. There would be little risk to him while reloading, and the lack of smoke and flash would mean he was almost invisible to the enemy. Chilton had the rifle now and was holding it cautiously.

“The butt is a touch large,” Westwood explained. “Though the lack of recoil means that placement is not so essential.”

The lieutenant took sight for several seconds then fired. The target was hit, a little lower than before, but still within the bull. Chilton grinned at Westwood. “What an astounding thing, sir. Sure, there is no flash and hardly a kick at all; it is a sharp-shooter’s dream!”

“All of the force of the charge is directed at propelling the shot; there is none lost through the pan, and no chance of stray embers blinding the firer or robbing him of his night vision.”

“I should like to see its penetration,” Banks said. “And there may be issues with the loading; you said it took some while to compress the air.”

“Experiments are in hand to produce a larger device that several might operate; similar to a ship’s pump, so a detachment of men might be accommodated at one time. The intention is for them to load the charges overnight, or just before action. As to the penetration, for a ball to carry accurately it must hold a fair degree of force. The first ten shots are reckoned to be the better, beyond that the range and penetration grow less, although they remain able to stop a man. And, of course, a fresh butt may be inserted at any time. Sure a musket may be more powerful, but this is almost as effective and, considering the higher rate of fire, must be considered the more deadly weapon.”

“Highly impressive, Mr Westwood.” Banks conceded. “I assume the government knows of such an invention?”

“Indeed, sir. It is currently issued to regiments of the Austrian Army, and the Americans are also considering adoption. The British Army are holding trials and I would hope to see our marines carrying them in action before so very long.”

“How typical that the Army should have them first.” Adshead snorted.

“First or last, I simply hope we will not be missed,” Westwood replied. “A weapon such as this could surely change the course of the war, and I consider it vital that we are not left behind.”

* * *

A bunch of gentry coves playing with a toy gun. Surridge viewed the spectacle with disdain from the forecastle to where he had returned following his morning ablutions. Officers might fancy themselves as fighting men, but a true scrapper didn’t need gewgaws or trinkets to get the job done. Surridge had never actually been in action with the enemy but was the veteran of countless private brawls, and he was confident that he could handle himself well enough with maybe the occasional help from a cosh or knuckleduster.
 

But he was off watch and wasn’t going to waste time in fruitless musings. Besides, Surridge was not a happy man; he had a headache, which was rare for him, and his throat felt dry and rough. His tongue was also strangely swollen and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The cause was obvious to anyone with even half a brain; he had a bad case of ‘fat head’, it was what came from sleeping in an airless berth full of common hands. Surridge stomped about the crowded forecastle with a face like thunder; he would not go below, as it was the cause of his current problems, but equally did not want to remain in the fresh morning air, even if doing so might allow the symptoms to disperse. There were still some while before his watch would be called, he had nothing constructive with which to fill the time, and, for Surridge, a bad mood and a loose end was a dangerous combination. Even as he stood there, while annoyingly contented men worked or relaxed about him, the quarter-gunner felt well known symptoms of repression and anger build up inside. Experience told him that his temper was ready to explode, and he longed for a cause, a justifiable reason to release the pent up emotion.

Rose was the unwitting provider. He happened to be in the vicinity with Johnston, the boatswain’s mate. They were carrying out a check of the bowsprit gammoning that had been giving concern when Surridge came lumbering across the deck. The lad stepped back and into the seaman’s path, giving a short cry of surprise as the ox-like bulk struck him. He was spun round, landing against Johnston, who caught him almost instinctively, and both glared at Surridge as he continued on his way.

“Steady there!” The midshipman called back, brushing himself down.

Surridge stopped for a moment but did not turn.

“Where are your eyes, man?” Johnston asked, reaching to collect Rose’s hat. “Be more space aboard if we’d shipped an elephant.”

“You got a problem?” the man was looking back now, and neither Rose nor Johnston liked the light in his eyes.

“You’re a lumbering oaf, Surridge,” Rose told him as he replaced his hat. “Watch your step in future.”

“An’ have the grace to apologise when you don’t,” Johnston added.

Neither felt the need for more and were about to return to the gammoning when Surridge lurched forward. Despite his temper the seaman knew better than to threaten the lad in the dandy blue uniform, even if a clean hard fist in the face would arguably have been well worth the throwing. Instead it was the boatswain’s mate who drew his attention and the focus of his wrath. The man, Johnston, had annoyed Surridge several times already and, being new to his post, could probably benefit from being taken down a peg or two. With a movement swift enough to belie his heavy build, Surridge grabbed the petty officer by the shirt front and dragged him close. For a moment he enjoyed the look of shock on the man’s face, then closed his eyes as he cracked his own head down on Johnston’s skull. The smack of bone on bone was delightful: a delicious release, and as Surridge, still holding Johnston’s shirt, felt the body go limp, all the frustrations and disappointments of the last few days were magically resolved.

Chapter Six
 

“I’ve examined Johnston,” Clarkson told King, the divisional lieutenant responsible. “He has a fine lump to his frontal lobe, but nothing more.”

“He was probably blessed with a skull as thick as his skin,” King grunted. He had known Johnston in previous ships, and even under a different name. The man had been a persistent deserter for many years and King had hoped the recent elevation to petty officer rank would cure his errant ways. It was clear Johnston had done nothing to instigate matters, yet still King felt mildly disappointed to hear of the fight so early in
Scylla
‘s commission. “Can he take up light duties?”

The surgeon considered this for a moment. “In a day or so, maybe,” he said finally. “I’d like to keep an eye on him a while longer.”

“Very well.”

“Then there is Surridge,” Clarkson continued.

“Surridge?” King was surprised. There would be some official action to be taken, of course, but he had not thought the man to be injured.

“Yes, potentially more serious, I’m afraid.” Clarkson was referring to a small piece of paper. “My assistant, Mr Manning, examined him and his report is not good. You certainly won’t like it and neither will the captain.”

Actually King could not have cared less what was wrong with Surridge. In the space of a few days the quarter-gunner had already made his presence aboard
Scylla
painfully evident. There had been several bad reports, and an awful lot more gossip. King secretly wished whatever damage the man had caused to himself would be permanent and enable his dismissal as soon as they reached Ireland.

“He has the mumps.”

“The mumps?” Now that definitely was more serious. While the condition might be not dangerous in itself, there had been instances when entire ships had been all but disabled while their crews succumbed to the illness.

“The man’s parotid
glands are heavily distended, and he complains of nausea and headaches.”

“Striking Johnston on the head might have caused the latter,” King said, hopefully.

“Very likely, although not the swollen tongue. Also he appears to be in a particularly sour mood, although I gather that not unusual in his particular instance.”

“What have you done with him?”

Clarkson looked up from his paper. “Done with him, Mr King? Why he is in bilboes on the punishment deck awaiting judgement at your orders.”

“But the mumps, surely the condition is infectious?”

“Oh yes, highly. In fact they are likely not to grant us entry to Dublin, have they the mind.”

“Well, should he not be in isolation?”

“Ideally yes, though I would suggest that any quarantine we might arrange now would be somewhat belated. The condition is infectious long before the first symptoms appear, and Surridge has already been active in the ship for several days. Any man who has previously suffered will be immune, and those that have not, well, I would say that contagion is already extremely likely. Besides, whatever provisions we make, absolute isolation is impossible; this is a fifth rate after all.”

King thought for a moment. The mumps might have come to the ship through a variety of different avenues; Chilton’s draft of volunteers, the men from
Egmont
, or it could even have been present in the original crew. It was a nuisance, but no more, he supposed. Unless they were very unlucky no one was going to die, and most should avoid the more unpleasant complications. In fact the majority of the crew may even be safe; it was in the midshipmen’s berth and amongst the volunteers third class that those without immunity were more likely to be found. But that would not stop the older hands worrying. Seamen were inherently gullible; it only needed one blab with a modicum of medical knowledge, some tattler to regale them with a few horror stories, and they would all be thinking of nothing else.

“The young can expect the condition to pass within ten to fourteen days,” Clarkson continued. “The same with older men, although any complications are more likely to come about there.” He hesitated as a thought occurred. “Tell me, Mr King, have you had the mumps?”

A cold feeling ran down his spine. “I believe so,” he said. “Many years ago, when I was young.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” Clarkson was positive.

“But, are there not unpleasant side effects?” King was now starting to worry: it might have been measles rather than mumps.

“They need not concern you, Mr King. And the less we talk of such matters the better. I am not adverse to the opinion that illness can be acquired through thought; indeed I have witnessed it myself on a number of occasions. No, this is simply something we will have to ride out, hoping that all is passed by the time we see action.” Clarkson considered King again. The man’s face appeared mildly flushed, although there was no sign of undue swelling about the ears and neck. “You are quite certain about your medical history?” he asked.

King went to speak but no sound came, instead he nodded emphatically, before adding a feeble, “Yes.”

“Good.” Clarkson considered him once more. “Then I had better inform the captain.”

* * *

Banks had dined well but alone, and came on to the quarterdeck to benefit from the afternoon sun and perhaps a little company. The wind was blowing light but steady, cooling what had been another baking day, and, as he stood breathing in the soft air that had just the faintest tang of pitch he felt relatively at ease.