The Devil's Own Luck (9 page)

“They have a difficult choice to make.”

“It seems a simple choice to me.”

“Choices are always simple when you’re not the one who has to make them.” From habit, Harry was scanning the horizon.

“You seem to be going out of your way to defend them, Harry.” James raised his voice as he continued. “Carter has used this ship and everyone aboard it to settle a personal vendetta. If what he did was not criminal, then it ought to be. So the choice is very simple. Stark in fact. Anyone condoning a crime, is himself engaging in a criminal act.”

“Then it is a pity that what he did was not truly a crime,” said Harry quietly.

“You seem very sure of this, which I ascribe to your cloistered nautical upbringing. I, for one, am not so sure. I shall certainly consult an attorney, even if you don’t.”

Harry laughed, glad that he was facing away from the quarterdeck. James was quite incensed. He had raised his voice enough for it to be heard on the quarterdeck, causing all there to turn and look out to windward.

“Well, brother. If they were not friendly before, they certainly won’t be now. Why you are practically threatening to have them slung into the Marshalsea.”

“In irons,” said James with a quiet smile. “At least overhearing that part of our conversation will give some of them food for thought.”

“Which is why you made sure that they did.”

“I would not want anyone to assume that we merely intend to let the matter rest. And how can you laugh at a time like this?”

“In truth, James, I can think of nothing better to do. Consult your attorney by all means, only make sure he is one who practises in the Admiralty courts, otherwise you may get some fool to take your case and spend a great deal of our money before realizing that he is wasting his time.”

“You are very certain that it is a waste of time.”

“It is. Unless we have more than half the ship’s officers in court, willing to swear on oath that Carter knew I was aboard the
Medusa,
and that one fact directed all his subsequent actions.”

“So you don’t intend to try?” James seemed to be concentrating on drawing, but Harry guessed that was just for show. He turned to face his brother, leaning against the bulwark.

“I’ll most certainly try. But we will be in Gibraltar within the week if this wind remains steady. Not much time to persuade a group of complete strangers to risk their careers. And their verbal disapproval of Carter will not be enough. We need signed affidavits, sworn before a notary on the Rock. After that we must go to England while they sail on into the Mediterranean. And who is to say that they will stay together? They may be killed or dispersed to a number of ships, all going to different destinations. Calculate how long it may be before they are all ashore in England at the same time. It could be years.”

James looked beyond Harry. “I think this young man is waiting to address us.”

Harry turned. The same small midshipman, the one he had snapped at this morning, stood to attention a little way off. His pale face was pinched, but he still had a lively expression. As Harry turned, he whipped off his hat and spoke in his high unbroken voice.

“Captain’s compliments, sir. It is the captain’s intention to give a dinner this afternoon to celebrate the taking of the
Verite
to which end he has invited the French captain and all of those officers not required to watch the ship.”

“Surely he does not intend to extend an invitation to us?” asked James, jerking forward and dropping his pad. His usual sang-froid had entirely deserted him at the prospect of such a slight.

“The Captain has sent me to extend an invitation with the knowledge that, given Mr Ludlow’s wound, you may not wish to attend.”

The boy was looking up at the sky, his eyes tightly shut, as he waited for the blast of anger that was surely bound to follow his message.

“Damn . . .” cried James, beginning to confirm the lad’s worst fears.

“Please inform the captain,” said Harry, his upheld hand silencing his brother, “that we will be delighted to attend his dinner.”

The boy’s face dropped and he opened his eyes to look in astonishment at Harry.

“You may further say that no wound, short of a mortal one, would keep me from such an event.”

The boy’s mouth worked silently as he sought some response. No words came. Instead he clapped his hat back on his head, turned and fled towards the poop.

“Harry. You are not seriously suggesting that we attend a dinner to celebrate the sinking of our ship?”

“I am.”

“In God’s name why?”

“Because he does not want us to attend. That invitation was meant as an insult, and we were meant to react by an angry refusal. Pity that poor child for having to deliver it. But he has miscalculated. We shall most certainly attend his dinner. And just as certainly, the sight of me happily consuming his food is likely to bring on an apoplexy. At the very least it will entirely spoil the enjoyment of his meal.”

“It is more likely that the food will be ours,” sighed James gloomily. “He stripped our stores out of the
Medusa
before he sank her.”

CHAPTER FIVE

HARRY AND JAMES,
having checked with the quarterdeck that it would not be an imposition, had a look round the ship. To James it was rediscovering something that he had seen as a child, a dim recollection. It had seemed enormous to a child’s eye. Now it seemed small and rather cramped. The smell was that of any ship, made up of salt, tar, wood, and numerous unwashed bodies. They had descended from the quarterdeck to the upper deck, a long clear space full of working parties with its rows of twenty-four-pounder guns bowsed tightly against the top of the gunports. They walked the length of the deck, from the wardroom door to galley stove and larder under the forecastle, then they made their way down to the gundeck.

Harry, paying great attention to the massive thirty-two-pounder guns, was reliving part of his past. The sights, the sounds and the smells were all familiar, yet so very different to a man who had spent the last few years in flush-deck ships. To him it all seemed very spacious. That is, until you counted the number of people aboard. Above, men were working at various tasks, under the direction of petty officers. Here on the gundeck the mess tables were down for the watch off duty. Home to five hundred men, the hammocks were now stowed in the netting along the ship’s side and the deck was clear from one end to the other. How different it would be at night.

Regulations allowed fourteen inches for each man to sling his hammock. In truth, this was usually twenty-eight inches, as there was always a watch on deck, but that still made for a cramped mass of humanity in the available space. Normally a fairly noisy place, the gundeck seemed quiet. There seemed to be a listless quality about these men who were, after all, at their leisure. Already, having observed the other hands at work, Harry had remarked that the
Magnanime
was not a happy ship. The dull behaviour of these men below decks only served to confirm that view.

“I am aware that you are familiar with the ship. But can you say that with certainty after such a short acquaintance with the crew?”

“This is my world, James. Or was,” replied Harry. “I am sure that you can walk into a drawing-room full of strangers, and within minutes you will have noticed the atmosphere. A ship is no different.”

“I don’t doubt you in any way. As I remarked to you earlier, dinner yesterday was a very unpleasant affair. If the hands are as glum as the officers at table, then this will indeed be an unhappy ship.”

“No skylarking. The midshipmen and the ship’s boys. On a happy ship, however taut the discipline, the boys have fun. And the hands. The men don’t joke here.” Harry stopped and looked at the deck behind one of the great guns. They were beside a mess table, and though he looked at the hands sitting there and smiled, the men did not respond. They walked on.

“I have been told that flogging is very common. Almost a daily occurrence. Odd that. I don’t remember Carter being over fond of flogging when he was a premier.” Harry was speaking absent-mindedly. He was looking everywhere, absorbing a mass of detail. The deck was spotless, the ropes and the countless instruments needed to work the guns all slung in proper fashion. From forrard they heard the bleat, and the smell, of his own sheep in the manger.

“The debilitating effects of power. I remember Father first telling me how much power a captain had. He was quite sanguine about it. The effect, I mean. I must say it horrified me.”

“Perhaps it’s Bentley,” said Harry. “That is the premier’s name?”

“It is. Swarthy-looking cove with small eyes.”

“That can be a very powerful post. Depends on the captain, mark you. Outhwaite hinted as much. The first lieutenant really runs the ship. If he wants a man punished badly enough, there is little a captain can do to stand in his way. See that man there—” Harry indicated with his head. “Over by the capstan. See how he moves. Very stiff.”

“A recent victim?”

Harry nodded. “And not the only one I’ve noticed.”

“Yet it is generally agreed that flogging achieves nothing. That it makes a good man bad, and a bad man worse.”

“Easily said in the comfort of a salon, James. But if you are at sea, with an inexperienced crew, and half of them pressed men or the scourings of the gaols, how do you keep them in check?”

“Some captains manage.”

“A few. Not many. Can’t say that it’s something I’d want to use, but I can envisage many a situation in which I wouldn’t want to be without it.”

“I wonder what you would have been like as a commander.” James smiled. “Hang ‘em high, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Harry looked wistfully about the gundeck. It could have been his, all this. “Let’s go and get some air,” he said, heading for the stairwell.

As they came on to the quarterdeck they could hear a raised voice.

“Bentley,” said James.

“The deck looks like a whore’s bedroom, sir. Your want of ability is plain to a landsman’s eye.”

Harry looked along the deck. It seemed fine to him, and he knew himself to be a stickler about such things. One thing had struck his eye. He noticed that the great guns, bowsed tight against the ship’s side, were rarely used. The deck behind them was as smooth as all the other planking. If the crews had been given regular training on the guns, there would be grooves in the deck where they had been run in and out.

That was how it had been on the deck of the
Medusa,
with constant dumb shows, as well as the real thing. Firing guns was an expensive business, easier perhaps for him than for Carter, who had to account for his expenditure of powder and shot to the Admiralty. There were those in the higher reaches of the service who could see the sense in having well-trained gun crews. But they were in the minority, outnumbered by those who saw it as a waste of time, not to mention the clerks of the Ordinance Board, who saw only a waste of money.

To Harry it was false economy. Why eschew gunnery and engage yard-arm to yard-arm, when you could stand off, and using the greater sailing experience of your crew pound your adversary from a distance? Carter was obviously one of the old school, who preferred to rely on the bulldog tenacity of their crews in an engagement. The voice was raised again.

“And now you tell me that you alone are responsible, sir, that the hands have not been slacking in their duty. I say that either you are blind or incompetent, sir. Or perhaps you are avoiding the truth.”

Everyone was still, the officers, the midshipmen, and the hands. Yet there was no surprise on their faces to see one officer’s public humiliation of another, in full view and hearing of the entire ship’s company. To call a man a liar in such circumstances was coming it very high.

“What I said, sir,” replied the other officer in a tense voice, “was that if anyone has been slacking, and I have not observed it, then I bear sole responsibility.”

“You also have a responsibility for the maintenance of discipline,” shouted Bentley. “You will make it your duty to find out who the culprits are, and report them to me for punishment.”

“With respect, sir, I doubt I could do that.”

“Respect!” Bentley was purple with rage. The other officer flinched as he was hit by the spittle flying from the first lieutenant’s mouth. “You speak to me of respect in the same sentence that you refuse to carry out a direct order. Find them, Mr Mangold, or I will be obliged to do it for you.”

Bentley turned to look round the ship. That they were afraid of him was obvious. Suddenly everyone was very busy. His eye caught the two brothers standing observing the scene.

“I must protest, sir,” said Mangold. “And in the strongest possible terms.”

“Protest, Mr Mangold. Do so by all means. And if you wish to see an example of the consequences of such a protest, just cast your eye towards the gangway.”

Harry, direct in the man’s gaze, smiled. He was about to speak, but James beat him to it.

“And if you require an example of bad manners, sir, I suggest that you find yourself a mirror.”

Bentley was unused to people talking back to him. His response was therefore lame.

“I would remind you, sir, that you are guests on this ship.”

“It has been my experience that guests are normally the recipients of an invitation,” said James, adopting a foppish air. “We are not, Mr Bentley. And should I ever be the object of an invitation from you, sir, I would take great care to decline it.”

Harry burst out laughing. No one else did. No doubt they were thinking that they would pay the price for James’s barbs. Bentley was speechless, but he was trying to pull his features into the same unconcerned expression as James.

“It really is too tedious, Harry.” James addressed his brother in the same languid tone. “And to think I believed you when you said that the Navy was recruiting a better class of officer.”

Bentley rushed from the quarterdeck, and down into the waist of the ship before James could insult him any more. But still no one laughed, and, even more remarkable, no one produced even a guarded smile. With good reason, because they must have known what was coming.