His Majesty's Ship (13 page)

      
The words struck deep into Simpson's muddled mind, and his anger rose up once more. Rose up until it flowed over, and took control of his body. The final smirk from the master at arms was enough, Critchley failed to see the blow that hit him, and hardly felt any pain at all as his head cracked back and his body crumpled down on to the deck.
 

*****

      
The wardroom was more than eighty feet away from the punishment deck, quite a distance on a ship where six hundred souls shared a hull one hundred and sixty feet long. In addition an entire social class separated its occupants from Simpson and his problems. But despite this Tait was experiencing similar feelings to the failed deserter. When Rogers wanted to ingratiate himself his face took on a leering smile, and was pressed close to his victim. Unfortunately the occasions were relatively frequent, and with each Tait felt the desire to squash the rich, damp mouth with his fist grow stronger. At all hours of the day his breath was stale, and the mixture of false
bon-homie
and genuine halitosis was sickening.

      
“I wonder if I could beg a small favour of you?” Tait felt it a matter of personal pride not to flinch as Rogers confidently continued. “Small matter of the furniture in my cabin.”

      
This was a new angle; Roger's favours had previously confined themselves to swapping duties or articles of toiletry; exchanges that always turned out to be one-sided.

      
“Your furniture?”

      
“That's right; I understand that the carpenter is rather obliging?”

      
“Yes,” Tait had to think for a moment. It was late evening on their first full day at sea, and cabin furniture had been the last thing on his mind. “Yes, Mr Smith. He made most of my furniture. He'll do yours if you ask him.”

      
“That's exactly as I had hoped.”

      
“Send for him, I'm sure he'll accommodate you.” As an idler Smith kept predictable hours, and was able to spend most of the night peacefully asleep. Tait eagerly turned back to the table where the cheese was about to be passed. Rogers had only been on board a couple of days but already he was becoming an annoyance. He had noticed that a few of the other officers appeared as irritated, there were even those who treated him with annoying deference, like a rich and potentially generous uncle.

      
“I wonder if I could ask that favour?” Still that face taunted him with its abundance and proximity. “Could you speak to the carpenter for me? I am still a relatively new boy, and our cabins are so similar. He appears to have made a credible job on yours, and no doubt could be tempted to repeat your furniture in mine.”

      
“I could have a word.” It irked Tait slightly that Rogers had seen fit to inspect his cabin, although he supposed that there was nothing so very terrible in the act. At least he wouldn't have minded if it had been anyone else. “I have the first dog watch, I'll send for him then.”

      
Dyson at the head of the table was tapping his fruit knife on his glass. Roger's smile faded a split second before he turned to look at him and in that flash, Tait was treated to a different expression. It was the look of a conceited, spoilt, bully who had got what he wanted and Tait felt a wave of revulsion wash over him.

      
“If I could have your attention for a moment, gentlemen?”

      
The murmur of conversation dwindled to nothing.

      
“Steward?”

      
A face appeared at the pantry door in answer to Dyson's call.

      
“See that you and your staff are employed elsewhere for the next ten minutes.”

      
The man, who had been at sea longer than any of them, disappeared without a word. In no time the small pantry was empty, and the wardroom left to commissioned and senior warrant officers alone.

      
“I am sorry to have to speak to you all in such a confidential way so early into the cruise, but a matter has been brought to my notice that I fear is of the utmost importance.”

      
He had their attention now, even Rogers, his hand on his brandy, stopped in the action of bringing the glass to his lips.

      
“I also have to say that I am aware that Lieutenant Gregory and several others are not with us, I will be speaking with them as soon as the opportunity arises.”

      
Gregory still had the watch, and had eaten some while before.

      
“One of the young gentlemen has reported a Tree of Liberty on the orlop deck.”

      
The murmurs rose, only to die swiftly as Dyson went to say more.

      
“Fortunately he is not aware of the significance, he simply announced that there had been chalking on a deckhead. It is fortunate that I bothered to enquire of the subject, otherwise I think I would probably have assumed the usual.”

      
Rogers broke out with a crude snigger, although everyone else remained silent.

      
“Does any gentlemen present not understand the relevance of this matter?”

      
It was significant that, although of greatly differing backgrounds and experience, no one spoke.

      
“Let me say this once.” Dyson had the knack of holding each man's attention as if he was speaking directly to him alone. “However romantic or wistful the Irish question may appear, the Nationalists are as much our enemy as the French. Ignoring some of their quaint revolutionary ideals, they have openly spoken of aiding a French invasion of England in their fight for an Independent Irish Nation.”

      
“That they have support from some of our politicians can only be regretted, that they are present, and presumably active in this ship, is a matter of the deepest concern.”

      
Tait felt the urge to scratch at his nose, but the silence was heavy, and he did not want to draw attention to himself.

      
“I have inspected the muster, and can report that we have fifty-four Irish amongst our people. Naturally these will have to be watched,” he drew breath. “And while you are watching, please remember this; until we know better they can be trusted no more than you would a Frenchman.”

      
The murmurs rose again, and Tait managed to get in with a crafty stroke of his nose while his brother officers muttered around him. Fifty-four was approximately a twelfth of the crew; a large proportion, but by no means unusual. Tait considered the matter further. Fifty-four known Irishmen: those who had declared their nationality. What of the other foreigners, or even those English, with Irish sympathies? There were pressed Americans on board; who could say where their allegiance lay? In a ship where every man's life might, and often did, depend on the next it was a worrying way to start a voyage.

      
“Stay watchful, gentlemen,” Dyson continued. “Notice any action that might be construed as sabotage or mutiny; any gossip that you or your young gentlemen pick up; anything that could have bearing to the matter, and report it to me with the utmost despatch.” A series of nods passed about the table, Tait began to think back over small incidents that had occurred recently. None seemed to be anything other the normal frictions of shipboard life, although, in the light of Dyson's announcement, he became suspicious.

      
“I am confident that we can nip this matter in the bud.” Dyson smiled grimly. “Maybe scratch the back of a few ringleaders; show them the British Navy will not put up with their continental ideas. Meanwhile keep your people busy; nothing breeds mutiny and rebellion as much as idle minds. I want to see individual divisions fully occupied at all times. Keep them on the move and they won't have the energy for revolt.” He looked about the table, catching all eyes in one sweep before adding; “Thank you, that is all.”

      
As he finished speaking Dyson nodded briefly, before sitting back in his chair, and effectively withdrawing himself from the table. Tait noticed how the other officers talked around him, none even attempting to ask an ancillary question, or pass a comment to the first lieutenant, who was apparently no longer there. Tait had been commissioned for a little over four years and felt himself reasonably well versed in most of his duties, although time spent with Dyson had taught him there was more to being an officer than simply knowing one sheet from another. The man had a way about him; a subtle command of both language and men that could never be included in any training manual. Whether learnt or natural, Dyson held it in spades; diplomacy worthy of admirals, and yet certainly not wasted amongst this collection of King's officers.

      
If there were to be a mutiny on board
Vigilant
, England would suffer. The French would take great delight in publicising the overthrow of authority, and every British officer would find his job that much more difficult as a result. That was all in addition to the loss of a line ship, and the encouragement to the Irish rebels. Should Dyson be able to avoid this he would be doing his country as great a service as physically winning a battle, although his actions would never be recognised as such. Tait took a sip from his own brandy. It was simply Dyson's job, he supposed. That he did it well meant that he should be picked out for promotion, although there were many more places for lieutenants than commanders. In the meantime Tait was fortunate in having such a worthy mentor; one he could observe from close quarters, and learn from for as long as he was able. He smiled quietly to himself. This was yet another of Dyson's attributes; rôle model to junior officers. In this he was equally effective, and equally unlikely to be rewarded.
 

*****

      
At least five and not more than thirteen post captains would be needed to hang Simpson. Shepherd sat at his desk, a closed copy of
Regulations and Instructions Regarding His Majesty's Service at Sea
in front of him. It was a long title for a big book, and most points were covered thoroughly, if not with elaboration. In the convoy he could rouse only one other post captain; Douglas of the
Taymar
. Richardson, captain of the sloop
Badger
, was only a commander in rank. More than that they were still in home waters, where the death penalty was subject to Admiralty confirmation, and even then liable to reprieve by Royal prerogative. He would have to wait, at least until they reached St Helena, and possibly even longer.

      
He grunted and stood up. The only other course he could take was to put back to harbour. It would mean delaying the convoy for two days at least, probably longer. Shepherd was glad to be at sea, and eager to wash his hands of the convoy and especially its commodore. The idea of going back when they had already made the break from land was repugnant to him and yet so was the thought of spending the next ninety days or so with Simpson languishing in irons. He would be the object of pity and morbid curiosity; worse, he might even become the focus of a mutiny. Men of the lower deck were known for being sentimental fools, and it was by no means beyond them to take the most stupid of risks to save one of their number. Of course he had the power to hang Simpson there and then if he truly considered him a danger to crew or ship. But both points were certainly debatable, and the Admiralty would not look kindly on a man who put another to death without going through the proper channels.

      
But a crime as blatant as this was not one that Shepherd was allowed to ignore, even if he wanted to. Critchley had escaped without major damage, but his authority would be drained if the correct procedures did not take place. The twenty-second Article of War provided for no lesser penalty than death. There was really no alternative other than Simpson to remain in captivity until a court martial could be assembled. Then he would hang; there could be no doubt about that.
 

*****

      
It was odd that the lad who had befriended Matthew at the anchor cable should also be called Jake. The clash of Christian names with the old carpenter back in Leatherhead seemed to lend the boy even more knowledge and maturity. Matthew followed him as he clambered down the companionway and on to the orlop deck.

      
“If it's only Jack Dusty we'll be all right,” he whispered back at Matthew as they walked past the midshipmen's berth. Matthew nodded, although he had little idea of what Jake had in mind. The possibility that it contained some degree of felony was not lost on him, but then in Jake's presence this hardly seemed to matter at all.

      
The purser's room was shuttered, although there was some light peeping through the slats. Jake looked about him, before peering through and into the room. He stepped back, and nonchalantly began to shuffle away.

      
“No sign of Morrison,” he whispered. “We're in luck.”

      
For upwards of a minute the two lads loitered next to the carpenter's store, with Matthew trying hard to match Jake's professionally indifferent pose. Then the younger boy approached the purser's room once more.