The Devil's Own Luck (16 page)

“Hard to tell. Bentley was the only one they really hated.”

“I heard one of the crew call him a murderer. A name was mentioned.”

“Larkin?” asked Outhwaite.

“That’s it. Who was he?”

“He was one of the ship’s boys. He died. Lots do, and it’s no wonder, the way they go on, dashing about in the riggin’.”

“I haven’t observed much of that going on aboard the
Mag-nanime.
“

Outhwaite turned his face away. It was not a subject he wanted to talk about. “Tell me more about Carter. Who are his favourites?”

Outhwaite almost sneered. “He has no favourites that I know of. Why, Bentley even chose his barge crew. The rest he ignores when he is even. They tend to be flogged when he is in a bad humour, though it will be interesting to see how that goes with a new premier.”

The door opened and Harry’s new servant came in. He was carrying clothes that had obviously just been pressed.

“Just put them on the cot, Pender. Thank you.” The man obeyed and left.

“Pender is your servant?” asked Outhwaite, surprised. “He is. Mr Craddock provided him.”

The surgeon poured himself another generous measure. At this rate he would be drunk well before the meal.

“He seems a strange man to be appointing as your servant.” “Why?”

“Best ask Mr Craddock.”

“That would be impolite. I would much rather you told me.” Harry took the bottle and put a drop in his own glass. He did not pass it back to Outhwaite.

“No harm, I suppose. Pender, ‘Pious’ they call him. Came aboard in the draft at Spithead. How he has never received a flog-gin’ I’ll never fathom. Too slippery, I shouldn’t wonder. But he’s one of those coves who can be insulting without the victim really knowin’ it. He’s not really a sailor, yet for all that he managed to stay out of harm’s way.”

“But he’s a volunteer?”

“Aye. But I don’t reckon he’s at sea for a love of King and Country.”

“Pious?”

“On account of the time he spends on his knees, I suppose, pickin’ locks.” Outhwaite put his hand out, and Harry passed him the bottle.

“A thief?” asked Harry, masking his surprise.

Outhwaite nodded. “And by all accounts, a good one.”

Harry said nothing. Was it coincidence? If it wasn’t, such a fact certainly put Craddock in a different light. Perhaps the new premier was not as neutral as he seemed.

“A rare treat this. I don’t suppose it’s the only bottle you brought aboard?” Outhwaite took another generous glassful.

“I think I can guarantee you a drop or two more. Interesting what you say about Pender. Almost as interesting as some of the things he has told me about the ship.”

“He wouldn’t know much. As I said, he only came aboard when we were at Spithead.”

“Yet he seems to have picked up a remarkable amount of information.”

“The hands will talk, and exaggerate.”

“Such an unhappy ship. Damn near a shot-rolling ship I’ve heard?” Harry was bluffing. He had only exchanged a few words with his new servant. But he was implying a crew close to mutiny.

“Stuff and nonsense. As bad as the parson with their superstitions.”

“You’ll never cure a tar of that vice,” said Harry. But the word intrigued him. “Some would say that the whole thing is such a trivial matter. Carter was not always so ready to resort to the cat.”

“That’s true.” Outhwaite was being infuriatingly slow. Harry urged him to drink some more brandy.

“I don’t suppose you would care to speculate on what brought about the change.”

“No, I would not, sir.” The bottle was now half-pointing at Harry, and the surgeon’s face seemed to go a deeper shade of purple. “An’ if you go listening to the hands going on about a young lad goin’ overboard, then you are as daft as they.”

“It’s not only that, surely?”

“That an’ a couple of other unexplained deaths.” Outhwaite was slurring slightly now, and poking the air with his finger. “But that’s common enough at sea, sir, an’ you know it. Trouble is, some of the dafter buggers have got hold of it. The fuss they made about that boy.”

“He went overboard?”

“He did.” The bottle waved towards the sea outside the windows. “An’ you know that it happens all the time. Messing about, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“A calm night?” Harry knew enough about sailors to speculate that no one would think anything amiss about a disappearance during a storm.

Outhwaite just grunted.

“So what exactly are they saying?”

Outhwaite leant forward, finally prepared to confide something. “That the captain feels the curse on himself. That he knows he is going to die, and that he has given up all authority because of it. The boy was well liked.”

“As you say, stuff and nonsense.” Harry reached for another bottle.

The dinner was a success, though not entirely trouble free. Once the wardroom had realized that Harry did not intend raising embarrassing matters, the general reserve of its members had thawed considerably. After a shaky start, and several false sallies by Craddock, the conversation had begun to flow. And Harry made every effort to be pleasant, name-dropping outrageously to leave them in no doubt of his elevated social status. Like all sailors they found they had many mutual friends, as well as the common enemy, a parsimonious government that did not value its naval officers highly enough. Good food and wine did the rest, and it was well set to be a convivial affair.

Turnbull had tried to barb Harry a few times, only to find himself checked by Craddock. The others seemed pleased to see him so treated. Apart from anything else, the officers were having dinner without the overbearing presence of Bentley. From the little that Harry had gleaned, the late premier at the head of the table had been less than amusing. Harry did not truly resent Turn-bull’s remarks. He would naturally be partisan on his uncle’s behalf. The rest of the officers avoided Carter’s name. That was cause for some hope.

The only one who did not seem to relax was a midshipman called Denbigh. A tall young man of about eighteen, he sat stiffly, hardly drinking anything, and staring at Harry all the time. True he was distracted sometimes, being engaged by one of his neighbours. But he always turned back to look at Harry when they had finished speaking.

For the rest, they were a fairly typical set of men, more concerned with their own worries than anyone else’s feud. Naturally they talked of the war and the prospects for advancement and profit. This led to the most unpleasant moment, and the one when Craddock had been particularly severe on poor Turnbull. Heron, the ship’s purser, the portly individual he had pointed out to Prentice, had raised the question of prize-money. That was a subject dear to every sailor’s heart, and would normally have occasioned a lively debate about the value of the
Verite
as a ship, and the members of her crew, who would earn the
Magnanime
’s company head money. Several conversations were started at once to try and cover this potentially embarrassing drift in the purser’s conversation, so many that none of them could be sustained. The brief silence allowed the young marine lieutenant a clear run.

Turnbull, whose face was nearly as red as his marine uniform, due to the tight white stock around his neck, had consumed a great quantity of drink. With the stove going, the wardroom was hot. Everyone was perspiring slightly but Turnbull seemed in worse straits. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He was quite a good-looking young man, but his puffy face betrayed his love of the bottle. His eyes were hooded and his head swayed slightly as he put his question to Harry.

“Being a commercial cove, Ludlow, you probably have a better idea of the value of merchandise than we tars,” he shouted down the table. No one looked in his direction, or Harry’s.

“How much would you say the ‘Frenchie’ will fetch?”

Craddock glared. “First she must be brought in, Mr Turnbull. And that is not certain to happen. The Master Attendant may think her worthless.”

“What! A fine frigate like that, practically undamaged.” He stressed the last word.

No one spoke. Turnbull smiled wolfishly, no doubt feeling that he was doing well. Denbigh briefly desisted from his staring to look at the marine. As he turned back, the boy’s dislike was plain on his face.

“However much she fetches, Mr Turnbull, it will not be enough to cover any loss of reputation.”

“Damn me, sir. You are a fine one to be prattlin’ on about reputation.”

“Mr Turnbull!” snapped Craddock, as the young man leant forward to press home his attack. “Your manners are not of the standard that I expect at this table. Perhaps your tongue would be less free if your hand was somewhat less liberal with the bottle.”

Turnbull’s flushed face reddened even more. He sat back, knowing that he had been formally told to shut up.

“Gentlemen,” said Harry, smiling broadly. “It would be death to conversation if we were to entirely ignore recent events.” Craddock shot him an alarmed glance. “But I for one will draw a veil over certain things. Indeed, I have given your premier an undertaking to do so. But let me say this. The
Medusa
had a very successful cruise. And just so that you will appreciate how much I welcome your hospitality, let me say that nearly everything we have consumed at this table was taken from the enemy.”

“Which makes it all the more pleasant, sir,” said Mangold, his round pink face creasing into a grin.

“This wine, Mr Ludlow. How did you come by this?” Craddock was quick off the mark, keen to get conversation moving again.

“I took that one out of a merchantman carrying sugar. And a fine chase he led us, for he had a sound vessel, and the captain was a proper seaman. He spotted us at sun-up and was already running before we smoked him.”

Harry continued his tale of a long and sometimes dangerous chase. For the merchantman had shifted some guns to fire as stern chasers, and had shown a rare ability to use both them and the sailing qualities of his ship. The rest of the table sat forward listening to the story, for this was the stuff that sailors loved. Chasing prizes, and successfully at that! Turnbull and his remarks were quite forgotten and the mood had been restored by the time Harry neared the end of his tale.

“As you know, a merchant captain will usually strike quickly. Not this fellow. He fired his popguns repeatedly and had he been better armed it would have been a hot engagement. As it was, we had to board her and fight our way to the poop. The crew fought like tigers. Most unusual.”

Several heads nodded, agreeing that it was most uncommon.

“Jacobins?” asked Heron.

“Very likely, though I have to admit I didn’t enquire as to their politics. But their fighting spirit was soon explained. When we searched the ship, and questioned a few of them, I discovered why the crew had been so tenacious. They had run in with a Spanish ship from the ‘Main,’ and engaging in a little piracy, had relieved her of a quantity of gold.”

“Which you, in turn, relieved them of?” asked Parfitt, the master, an exceedingly thin individual with prominent eyes. As a man without money those eyes gleamed at the thought of gold.

“I most certainly did.” Harry smiled, and observed the wistful looks on all of his companions’ faces. Mentally they were all capturing ships full of gold.

“So let’s raise our glasses and drink to the damnation of the French,” cried Harry. Great gulps of claret were consumed.

“And to cargoes of gold,” cried the purser.

“Amen to that,” said Craddock, as he drank deeply. Harry looked down the table to where Crevitt sat. Outhwaite had long since fallen asleep on his hands, dead drunk. The parson sipped his wine, his face registering his disapproval. He probably thought that Harry was debauching the officers. Even Turnbull joined in the toasts, his sour look quite disappeared. Indeed, he seemed positively merry. Harry put it down to excessive consumption.

The cloth was drawn, the loyal toast given, and the decanter passed happily and frequently round the table. The general air of mirth increased as the officers related tales of failures rather than successes. Mostly other people’s mishaps, of course. Harry hoped the sound of merriment was carrying to the cabin above.

He was walking on the quarterdeck, trying to clear his head, when the parson approached him.

“May I?” He indicated he wished to join Harry in his pacing. Harry nodded. “A successful dinner?” Thin and tall, he stooped forward as he walked, making the prominent nose seem even larger than it was.

“You would be as capable of judging that as I, Mr Crevitt.”

“Not so. For I would not be entirely privy to the purpose.” One eyebrow was now raised, giving Crevitt a comical air.

“Purpose?” Harry, stopping, matched the look, before walking on.

“I cannot think that you have any reason to love the
Magnanime
or any of its officers. You could also be said to have other concerns. Yet you choose to throw a dinner. You provide fine wines and food, way above the normal fare, and throughout you behave as though you have not a care in the world.”

“It would hardly have been a pleasant affair if I had aired my problems.”

“You seem to have hit it off with the wardroom. They were very warm in their praise after you came on deck.”

“You sound as though this did not please you.”

“We return to the purpose, Mr Ludlow. For if, as I suspect, the whole thing was arranged to turn the officers against the captain, then I would indeed be displeased.” Crevitt looked at Harry as though he were a poor sinner.

“Not displeased enough to refuse the offer of good food and wine?” Harry stopped pacing again, and smiled.

“You have a failing, Mr Ludlow, one shared by Outhwaite. And that is an inability to let the opportunity of an insult pass by.”

Harry’s smile disappeared. He started his pacing again. Crevitt stayed with him looking towards the sky as if seeking inspiration. “And I wonder if that was not part of the original cause of your dispute with Oliver Carter.”

“I believe you enquired about this before, Mr Crevitt.” Harry made no attempt to disguise his anger. “I advised you to seek such information elsewhere.”