The Devil's Own Luck (6 page)

“I’ll fetch the soup.” He pulled back the canvas curtain and left. Harry’s head hurt abominably. He put his hand up and felt the bandage round his crown.

“Does it hurt?” Harry nodded very slowly. Reaching under the cot Outhwaite produced a bottle. He pulled the cork out and offered it to his patient. Harry took a sip, stifling a cough as the rough brandy hit the back of his throat. The surgeon took the bottle off him, and unfolding several chins as he threw back his head, gave himself a generous mouthful, with no discernible effect on his throat.

“The parson is not one for strong liquor,” snorted Outhwaite, wiping the back of his hand across his unshaven chin. “He believes in the healing power of prayer. Damn fool I say.” He took another generous mouthful and recorking the bottle he replaced it under the cot. Just in time. Crevitt came through the screen with a bowl of steaming soup.

“I have sent to tell the captain,” he said with a defiant look at Outhwaite.

“What an honest fellow you are, Parson.”

“He left instructions. I heard them if you did not. ‘The very minute,’ he said.”

“Well I dare say that if you spend half your life on your knees to something you can’t see, it comes natural to crawl to something you can.”

“Crawl!” Crevitt nearly spilt the soup.

“And bein’ dependent on that bastard for your living don’t assist.”

“God give me the strength,” said Crevitt, closing his eyes and raising his nose to heaven, his long thin face taking on a look of silent prayer.

“If’n you don’t give Mr Ludlow that there soup . . .”

The screen was pulled back sharply. A small boy stood there. He was thin enough, but his midshipman’s uniform, several sizes too big, made him look emaciated.

“Captain’s compliments,” he piped in a high unbroken voice, as he whipped off his hat. “And would Mr Ludlow report to him right away.”

“He will not,” said Outhwaite without turning round. Crevitt’s face registered shock. “He is not fit to report to anyone.”

Was it the parson’s expression that so angered the surgeon? For he addressed him directly.

“And since when did civilians ‘report.’ I seem to recall that the proper form was to request the pleasure of someone’s company.” Outhwaite now spun round to face the door. “Well even if he does request, he still can’t see him. If the captain wants to see Mr Lud-low he can damn well come down here an’ do it. An’ seeing him is all that will be allowed. He is not yet fit to talk to anyone.”

“It is a direct order,” said Crevitt. This fuelled Outhwaite’s anger even further.

“Well I look forward to the day he orders you to jump overboard. ‘Cause you being so wedded to orders, holy or otherwise, you’ll do it.” He turned back to the boy in the doorway. “Compliments to the Captain, Mr Prentice. The patient is not fit to be moved. I will inform him the minute that he is. Mind you say the minute, lad. Carter is very keen on the minute.”

The young face went through several contortions. Harry could not tell if he was silently rehearsing the message to try and memorize it, or was there a trace of fear, a reluctance to carry such a negative response to a man like Carter? Outhwaite had no doubt.

“Just carry the message, boy,” he said kindly. “His bile will be aimed at me, not you.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Crevitt primly, looking at Harry’s pale face. “Perhaps he is not yet ready for an interview with the captain.”

“Good God, Parson,” cried Outhwaite with a loud laugh. “You’ll be denying transubstantiation next.”

The boy dropped the canvas screen. Outhwaite stood up and moved aside to let Crevitt sit down on the edge of the cot. Silently he fed Harry the soup, which though thin, tasted marvellous to a man who had not eaten for over twenty-four hours.

As he swallowed the soup he thought of the events of those last twenty-four hours. Images crossed his mind. He heard the screams of wounded men. The face of his brother James, looking towards him with sudden shock.

“Casualties. There must have been casualties. My brother?”

“Your brother is fine, Mr Ludlow,” said Outhwaite. “It was he who brought you aboard.”

“But what about the men?”

“A heavy bill there, Mr Ludlow,” said Crevitt.

Outhwaite’s hand landed sharply on the parson’s shoulder.

“Just feed him the soup, Mr Crevitt.”

Crevitt continued the silent feeding. Harry could not keep his eyes open. He was asleep before the bowl was empty.

He awoke with a clear head. James sat in a chair by the cot, a lantern above his head, reading a book. Harry lifted his head from the pillow, and immediately realized that movement only exaggerated the pain.

“James.” His brother looked round, dropping the book. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“How long have I been out this time?”

“Only a couple of hours. Outhwaite reckons you were just having a good sleep.”

Harry pulled himself up, his anger at being helpless outweighing the pain in his head.

“He also was most insistent that you rest.”

“Damn Outhwaite,” snapped Harry, wincing with pain.

“He said you would have a sore head.”

“He strikes me as a man who knows a great deal about sore heads.”

“Well, he has been careful with his bottle while tending you,” said James with a laugh. “I threatened him with all manner of punishments if you died.” James stood up as Harry swung his legs over the side of the cot. “Though I think that the offer of a purse full of gold has kept him sober rather than any threats I made.”

Harry decided not to mention the bottle under the cot.

“I asked about the hands, but they wouldn’t say.”

“Ten dead outright,” said James sadly. “And some shocking wounds. Few of those will survive. The
Verite
lacks even an Outh-waite.”

“The
Verite?”

“Carter shipped them all off in the Frenchman as a prize crew. Bound for Plymouth. He wanted me to go too, but I refused to leave you. Harry, this is the man you fought?”

“Oliver Carter. Yes. I’m surprised he didn’t ship me off as well.”

“That wasn’t even suggested. I dare say he didn’t relish the thought of you aboard a warship with your own crew.”

Harry allowed himself a slight smile at the thought.

“He stood off deliberately, didn’t he?”

“Where are we headed?” Harry did not want to discuss the sinking of the
Medusa,
at least not until he had seen Carter.

“The
Magnanime
is bound for the Mediterranean. He intends to land us at Gibraltar.”

The screen was pulled back and Crevitt stood in the doorway.

“Mr Ludlow. Quite recovered I see. Thank the Lord.” He smiled, making his thin lips even thinner, and dropped the screen back in place.

“He’s been looking in here every ten minutes,” said James.

“And now he’s gone to tell Carter I’m up and about.”

The screen was pulled back again and Outhwaite shuffled in. Harry did not feel well, but he hoped that he looked in better condition than the ship’s surgeon. Outhwaite was pale and shaking. His unshaven face was quite grey.

“Thank God you’re awake,” he said, subjecting Harry to a quick examination. Satisfied, Outhwaite reached under the cot and grabbed the brandy bottle. He took a large swig, and stood for a moment, head up and eyes closed, as the spirit assuaged whatever ache he had. Harry watched with fascination as the man seemed slowly to stop shaking, like someone coming out of a fit. It was a steady hand that held out the bottle a minute later.

“This is cause for celebration, gentlemen.” They both declined the offer, so Outhwaite helped himself to another swig. “If you will forgive me, Mr James, I must tend your brother’s wound.”

“Of course.” James made to leave.

“James. Did you manage to rescue any of my kit?” Harry was looking at the dirty and bloodstained clothes he had worn since being brought aboard.

“Oh yes, Harry. We had all the time in the world to clear the ship.” There was a trace of bitterness in James’s voice. “We even had time to bury the dead. Our stores are in the hold, along with the stuff he took out of the
Verite.
Then he had our hands shift a goodly amount of powder on to the decks.”

“James. Later.” Harry looked at his brother, knowing that for him to apologize was unnecessary.

“Of course. I’ve got your sea-chest in my berth. It’s just across the way. Hurriedly packed I’m afraid. I did it myself. I also put in the contents of your desk.” Harry nodded, knowing that James was alluding to a small chest full of gold, plus the ship’s log.

“You’ll want some clean clothes.”

“The very best, James, the very best.”

Harry stood before the cracked mirror examining the growth on his chin. Carter had sent for him within minutes. Poor Prentice, the midshipman, was sent back with a stinging rebuke to the effect that Mr Ludlow would wait upon the captain when he was dressed, and not before.

Warm water was fetched from the galley, and Harry set to, trying to make himself presentable. Outhwaite sat at a desk made up of two sea-chests, attending to his ledgers. Given the size of the accommodation, there was precious little room to move about.

“I dare say that I’m the talk of the ship,” said Harry, stripping off his bloodstained shirt.

“What makes you say that?” The surgeon looked suspiciously at him.

“Come, Mr Outhwaite. If you’ve spent any time in the Navy, you’ll know well what a small world it is. My previous problems with your captain must be common knowledge by now.”

“It’s no secret that you served under him when he was first lieutenant of the
Barfleur.
You were fourth, I believe.”

Harry hid a smile. Outhwaite was trying to be both honest and disingenuous at the same time. If he knew that, then he knew it all.

“Quite friends, I’m told, at one time.”

“Never friends.” Harry spoke more sharply than intended. But the surgeon had a point. An observer could have called his relationship with Carter friendly. Yet for Harry it had not been truly so. He had found it hard to warm to Carter, despite the older man’s attention. They were from different worlds. Harry had been reared to the Navy, safe in the knowledge that with his father’s connections he would be a post captain as soon as it was humanly possible, and barring death, in time he would climb the captain’s list to become an admiral.

Carter was the son of a poor country vicar, with precious few of the naval or political connections so necessary to the advancement of a career. It was a matter of some pride to him that through a combination of tenacity and sheer ability he had reached his present position. The first lieutenant of a flagship could expect to have a very good chance of promotion.

Such a thing could never come quickly enough for any sailor. They were all very conscious of it. But with Carter it was an obsession. He saw what was in fact bad luck as some kind of conspiracy to do him down. His talk was peppered with references to “luck” elevating fools to command. Having no money himself, he claimed to despise wealth, which he saw as the main cause of “corrupt influence,” which advanced the careers of less worthy men.

“Do you know the captain well?” Harry asked.

“Odd that you should ask me that,” said the surgeon, without looking up. He was not to be so easily drawn.

“He and the parson seem cut out of the same mould.”

“Mould,” said Outhwaite, ruminating over the word. “That’s more’n a touch likely, seein’ as how they grew up together.”

“Indeed? I dare say that the parson, like Carter, will welcome the money from the
Verite.”

Outhwaite coughed loudly. His thoughts wandered too easily in that direction for him to be comfortable with the subject.

“Or has your captain been fortunate since I last saw him?”

“Chances of prize-money don’t come that easy, Mr Ludlow, as you well know. And there’s been precious few for anyone these last ten years. And it’s true to say that the
Magnanime
was not favoured on our last commission. Three years on the Leeward Islands, and nowt to show.”

The West Indies again. He cast his mind back to the
Barfleur’s
wardroom, with Carter, as usual, at the head of the table. He could hear the bitter tone in the man’s voice as if it were yesterday, as the premier harped on about slights, real or imagined. Harry should not have aired his opinions quite so freely, pointing out that most people only called influence “corrupt” when it was operating on someone else’s behalf, quite prepared to accept it as their just reward when it favoured them. Perhaps Carter had drunk more than was proper that night. Whatever the reason, the man was at his most venomous. The way he put Harry in his place went beyond the bounds of good manners.

And matters had not improved, despite an apology the following day. At first it seemed as though their relationship would return to its former level. But over the following weeks Carter’s attitude changed. Dinner, never a great pleasure with him at the head of the table, now became a trial as he repeatedly referred to the things he found objectionable in the younger man. Gone were the days when he encouraged Harry to speak. Now his every utterance was torn apart. Worse than that, it seemed he was no longer trusted to watch the ship. The premier now made a point of being on deck to countermand his orders.

To combat this, Harry had assumed an air of studied indifference. This seemed to enrage the older man even more. The insults started to assume a more personal dimension. Before long, every opportunity was taken to make some unpleasant, and public, reference to Harry’s height, indolent manner, lack of abilities, and not least the glittering prospects that awaited him despite all this. Easy going, Harry Ludlow might be. But he could not sit still for ever, to be insulted with impunity. And Carter was such a tempting target.

In service, on a ship at sea, this created problems. But they were not insurmountable ones. Plenty of people sharing the wardroom were not close friends. But the naval tradition of good manners, plus the need to “live and let live” when you could be cooped up with the same people for months on end, usually kept such feelings in check. He and Carter had failed to observe the conventions. It was to land them both in trouble, and Harry on the beach. And the pity was that they had just thumped the French fleet under Admiral de Grasse. Promotions were being handed out all round. Carter, like Harry the object of a court martial, was passed over. He could only blame one person. Harry Ludlow.