The Patriot's Fate (14 page)

They had made slow progress. Even now Fraiser did not expect them to raise the south-east coast of Ireland until the following evening. Then there would be nothing more taxing than to follow the land north until they reached the mouth of Dublin harbour, a slow cruise in pleasant weather; there were worse ways of spending a hot summer. Such journeys might be long or short, and totally depended on the weather. Banks had been a naval officer long enough to enjoy the present without undue concern for a future that was beyond his control. And the present, for him, was actually quite rosy.
 

He was certainly pleased with his ship;
Scylla
had already fulfilled many of his expectations. She was a good strong sailer, with perfect manners and just the right amount of weather helm to make her both a joy to command and a first rate sea boat. She might lack the all out might of a seventy-four, but he had already decided that her speed and manoeuvrability, combined with a fire power that was by no means meagre, would outweigh any prestige that standing in the line of battle might bring. Besides, he had been fortunate in already partaking in two fleet actions. The majority of naval combat was single ship engagements, and he was confident that
Scylla
would hold her own with any of her size, and even some larger.
 

Sure, she had a few minor idiosyncrasies; there was a small but persistent leak on the forecastle deck that no amount of paying or re-caulking was able to stop, and the gammoning to the bowsprit was slightly loose and really should have been attended to in Falmouth. But even those faults, rather than lower his opinion, actually imparted more of a personality and made him like her the more.

The mumps was a problem, but not a great one; he had spoken to the surgeon at length and, apart from probably making communication at Dublin a little more complex, it should not hinder operations greatly.
Scylla
was well manned and could easily stand the temporary loss of a few hands. She was also fully provisioned: water, the first concern for any captain, was good for at least eighty days, and he had all else he needed for long after that. He took a turn about the deck and caught the eye of King, the officer of the watch.

“A pleasant afternoon, Mr King,” Banks said, wandering across.

“Indeed, sir,” King did not salute as the captain was bareheaded. “We’ve been especially lucky this summer.”

“Any further outbreaks?”

“The mumps, sir? Not that I am aware. Surgeon has taken some of the lads off duty for the time being, and four men who are suffering more than most have been moved to the sick bay. Other than that, just a couple more hands have complained, though they have no symptoms, and pass the test adequately enough.”

“The test?”

King lowered his voice. “Surgeon examines them; if they have enlarged glands they are put to light duties or allowed hammocks. Should they appear well he issues them a cup of lemon juice. Any man who has the mumps cannot tolerate the stuff,” King grinned. “It certainly sorts out the malingerers. Both the two drank it down without complaint, so the surgeon thinks they are swinging the lead.”

Banks chuckled softly. “Mr Clarkson seems to be remarkably perceptive,” he said. “I think I may as well pay him a visit.”

The ship was sailing sweetly enough and the watch on deck were yarning in the shade beneath the boats on the main deck when their captain descended the quarterdeck steps. He acknowledged them good naturedly as their conversation suddenly stopped and attitudes of earnest attention were quickly assumed.
 

The sick bay was on the deck below and further forward, so was not blessed with much natural light and appeared almost dark after the sunshine of the upper decks. A row of filled hammocks were slung by the entrance; clearly these were for the men whom Mr Clarkson considered worthy of observation. He stepped quietly past, then knocked on the deal wood door of the dispensary.

To his surprise it was Mrs Clarkson who answered. Banks stopped himself in the act of entering and stood, for a moment uncertain, on the threshold.

“Please come in, sir,” she said, standing to one side. “If it is my husband or Mr Manning you are a wanting they have been called to the stewards’ pantry.”

Banks eased himself past the woman and into the darkened room as she continued. “Apparently the cook is considering condemning a cask of pork and wanted them to take a look.”

“Very well,” he grunted. Mrs Clarkson was standing uncomfortably close, and there was insufficient space for him to move away. “I was just coming to inspect the patients, but can return if it would be more convenient.”

“You’re welcome at any time, sir,” she said, and he noticed her eyes were especially bright in the low light. “It is your ship after all. There are a couple of the lads in the sick bay proper; would you care to see them?” she asked.

“Yes,” Banks said, with slightly more enthusiasm than was necessary. “Yes I would, if you please.”

He followed her through the inner doorway and was able to make out two young boys lounging on fixed bunks in the darkened room. They sat up on his arrival and one he recognised.
 

“Parfrey, isn’t it?” he asked, approaching. The boy went to nod, then instantly stopped as if in sudden pain. Banks noticed that he was unusually fat about the neck and the other, who looked to be a volunteer third class, was very much the same. Banks held up his hand. “Do not try to speak if it pains you.”

“It is fine, sir.” Parfrey replied in a thick voice. “As long as no one makes us talk too much.”

“Or larf,” the other boy added.

“Or laugh,” Parfrey confirmed seriously.

“Well, I promise not to do either,” Banks said. “I imagine you are passing the time well enough. You have books to read, Parfrey? That is, if you wish to stand as a midshipman, and you…”

“Wickes, sir.”
 

“Wickes. Yes, you know the Navy is always looking for young men with a desire to better themselves. Why, Mr Lewis, the master’s mate, was a regular hand not so very long ago.”

The lad looked back at him in the half light; it was clear that he had few thoughts beyond tomorrow, and Banks decided to leave well alone.
 

“Very good, with luck you should not be unwell for long and may return to your duties. I trust you will feel the better soon.” The boys thanked him a little uncertainly, and Banks glanced back to the woman.

“What treatment is being prescribed, Mrs Clarkson?” he asked, following her out of the sick bay and into the dispensary.

“Well, there ain’t none, not really. Mr Clarkson’s recommending a hot sea water gargle for the throat, and they may not eat fruit or too many vegetables.”

“No fruit?” Banks asked.

“Encourages the saliva: makes ‘em dribble,” she grinned. “Besides, they find it too painful to eat.”

The captain remembered King’s words. “Yes, I had heard of the lemon juice.”

“Would you care for a cup, sir?” The question was asked with an air of innocence that was clearly assumed.

“Me?” Banks’s voice rose in surprise.

“You’d be amazed at the number who come here just for that.” Mrs Clarkson laughed. “Word has got about that it is an indication, so men are all but queuing up for the stuff. And an awful lot of them are officers.” Banks looked puzzled and she continued. “Most are frightened of catching mumps, you see. Even though they may have had a dose already, they’ve heard such stories of what it can do, an’ they don’t want no chance of catching it again, bless ‘em.”

“I see,” Banks said crisply. He was also aware of the possible side effects, and could understand that in a predominantly male environment all manner of tattle-tale would be circulating.

“I just tell ‘em not to be so soft, an’ if they’re still worried to come back later an’ I’ll check ‘em out myself.” Even in the poor light Banks could gauge the woman’s expression, and he felt his face flush.

“Indeed. Well I am glad so see that everything is being looked after, Mrs Clarkson,” he turned to go, knowing that her eyes were on him still.
 

Curse the woman; curse them all for that matter. He had never been at ease with the opposite sex, and especially the type who were in any way forward. The surgeon’s wife was clearly of that ilk, and he made up his mind to give her the widest of berths in the future. “Please pass my compliments to Mr Clarkson,” he said heading, rather too eagerly, for the small door.

“Very good, sir. Come and visit whenever you wish, you will always be welcome.”

Banks cleared his throat; there was something in her tone, something that might even be bordering on insubordination. He glanced back; she was smiling at him quite blatantly; he could tell she had guessed at his awkwardness and was either enjoying his discomfort or openly offering a liaison. For a moment he wavered. Or had he misread the situation yet again? Was he just a clumsy lout, one completely devoid of social graces? Why did he have to think that every female must automatically be setting her hat at him, just because he was a post captain and a knight of the realm?

“Thank you, Mrs Clarkson,” he said, a little stiffly perhaps. “You have been most helpful.”

* * *

Crowley and the others had been allotted space on the orlop deck of
Hoche.
It was a dark and unwelcoming place, but it would be their home for the foreseeable future and Crowley, for one, was simply relieved to be there.

“The smell is rich enough to cook your boots,” MacArthur complained, as they slung their ditty bags on the hooks that would later take the hammocks. “Sure it’s even worse than the old
Charlotte
.”

“You’ll never find a British man-of-war scenting sweet,” Doherty agreed. “But I’d have thought a Frenchman might have fared better.”

“Aye, especially with the word that she is such a fine ship; yer man last night was almost cryin’ ‘cause he had to leave her.”

“So maybe she has benefits other than her smell,” Doyle said. “
Wexford
was a barkie sure enough. Sweet sailer and as faithful as a gun dog, yet she ponged from here to Tuesday.” He paused for a moment, then continued, his eyes clearly somewhere else entirely. “She had a manner about her that was pure poetry. Never loved a ship so much in all my life, and neither shall I again, not ever.”
 

“All ships are the same, no matter what they carry, no matter where they go,” Crowley said firmly. “Anyone who tries to say they have personalities or souls, is simply talking so much rot.” Of them all he was the only French speaker, even Walsh having barely a schoolboy’s knowledge of the language. Consequently the last few weeks had been spent with Crowley involved in every conversation and decision, and now that the major problems were either solved or postponed he was starting to feel the strain. But they had finally embarked, and were to sail for Ireland in the next few days. They were heading an expedition that might settle the country’s future. And if her bilges were a mite too fragrant, well he really could not care the less.

“Any sailor-men amongst you, lads?” A man wearing a black lacquered hat with the words
Éirinn go Brách
stencilled on it had emerged from the gloom. He was holding a small ledger and spoke in a light Irish accent. The men looked back at him with blank expressions.

“Never been to sea in my life,” Crowley confirmed and the others agreed.

“You’ll be with the land forces, then; let’s have yer names.” He marked off in his book as each spoke, then looked up.

“Uniforms’ll be provided, though it might be jus’ the hat an’ maybe a jacket. There are arms a plenty, an’ if you take my advice, I’d go for a pike.”

“A pike, you say?”

“Aye, the British are using cavalry.”

“Would not a pistol or a musket be of more use?” Doyle asked.

The man looked at him in mild contempt. “For the first time, maybe, but you’ll find a pike the better weapon, and I’d guess you’ll get the chance to use it more than once. You’ll be shown how during the voyage, but there’ll be precious little time for practice.”

Crowley felt a chill run down his body; this was all becoming horribly real, and he knew that his faith, bolstered by Wolfe Tone and constant tales over the last few weeks, would be easily shaken.

“If you’ve no hand for a ship better stay below and leave it to the experts,” the man continued. “It may not be the most comfortable of berths, but you will be fed whilst on board.” He relaxed slightly. “I’ve had better scran, but it is plentiful, and you’ll be needing all your strength where you’re going.”