The Devil's Own Luck (7 page)

“This should be an interesting interview, Mr Outhwaite.”

“Now don’t you go overtaxing yourself, Mr Ludlow,” said Outhwaite. He stood up to check Harry’s bandage for the tenth time, fussing like a mother hen. “You must remain calm, sir. Or you’ll be back in that cot, for sure.”

Harry could not smile as he peered into the surgeon’s tiny mirror. The cabin was filthy, with various rusty and blood-caked surgical instruments lying around. The mirror was no exception. Outhwaite had abandoned his ledger work. Trying to turn the subject away from Carter, he prattled on about the ship while Harry shaved. From the little the man said that was of any use, Harry gleaned that the
Magnanime
had endured a dull time, with worse to follow. Returning to Spithead at the end of a three-year commission, they had been hurriedly revictualled for the Mediterranean.

“No shore leave, sir, no, not never. And no wives or sweethearts. Gunports shut tight, marine sentries, and guard boats rowing round at all hours. The men weren’t too happy afore that, but they was mad as hell when they found they wasn’t getting ashore. Three years’ pay, and not a penny paid out. And the stuff they’ve put aboard, Mr Ludlow. Some of that beef has been in casks ten years since, by the smell of it. Leastways the water and biscuit is fresh.

“There’s a war on, says they. Bugger the war, says I. And the French, for that matter. Jacobins the lot of them. Some of our lads need Greenwich Hospital. They’re beyond my care. Not that I’m idle, mark you. Beats me how with all them guards I’m still findin’ myself with a dozen cases of the pox to tend. And it’s not the hands that we took aboard at Spithead either, though they have a fine set of diseases of their own. I say to you, Mr Ludlow, and no mistake, if the Frenchies were women, our lads would have them over in a trice. Never known the like. It would be petticoats up and peace in two minutes flat.”

This was followed by a wheezing laugh. “Now that might be the way to fight a war. Mind you, it could be that it’s the Portsmouth doxies who are the sharp ones. Maybe we should set them on the French.”

Harry remained silent throughout, concentrating on the act of shaving, lest in the poor light he give Outhwaite more work to do. The surgeon obviously mistook the reason for his silence.

“Perhaps a drop of brandy to raise your spirits,” said Outh-waite hopefully. He was looking for an excuse for a swig himself, though usually being alone was reason enough.

“I think a clear head would be better, Mr Outhwaite,” he said, turning towards him.

“I have often heard people refer to sobriety and a clear head as though they be directly related. I, myself, have never found it so. Quite the opposite. I have often noticed how a drop of spirits, particularly of a morning, clears the mind of the smaller things, and allows contemplation of nobler ideals . . .”

Harry turned. Outhwaite stopped as he looked into his patient’s eyes. He was babbling, and he could not say why.

“I know of your quarrel, Mr Ludlow,” he said quietly. Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly. “As you observed not a minute ago, it’s a small world. A couple of hands on the ship served with you and Mr Carter before.”

Harry knew that to gain redress for what Carter had done he desperately needed allies. He longed to know what orders had been given on the quarterdeck when the seventy-four hove-to. Was it too soon to commit himself?

“You’re not fond of the Captain, are you?”

“I never said any such thing.”

“You don’t have to.” It would serve no purpose to embarrass the man by saying that he overheard him talking to Crevitt. Outhwaite creased his brow, trying to think what could have given his opinions away.

“I have been known to say that Captain Carter is a strange fellow, Mr Ludlow. And I question his methods, him bein’ a real hard horse commander. And a bloody flogger to boot.”

“I remember him as a taut disciplinarian, but not exceptional with the lash.”

“He’s more than that now. We was in the middle of a floggin’ when we spied your ship. And that’s been a near daily occurrence these last few months. We did have a spot of trouble. The hands got a mite upset. So there’s many who will say he’s right. That you need discipline. And that’s what drives him to flog the men. That’s as maybe. The premier, Mr Bentley, pushes him to it. And him, it is almost as if he enjoys it. They are a strange pair. They don’t see eye to eye, and the hands suffer for it. Not that there’s anything new about that, but with those two it’s different. Mr Bentley seems to bring out the worst in Carter.”

“What are you saying, Mr Outhwaite?”

“I’m sayin’ that drink hasn’t so addled my brain that I don’t know what you’re up against. I’m sayin’ you mind how you go, ‘cause he’d clap you in irons if he could find an excuse to do so.”

“Perhaps, after I have seen Captain Carter, we can talk again.”

From being open and outspoken, the surgeon suddenly seemed to withdraw into himself, as if he’d remembered his obligations.

“I’ll tend your wound, Mr Ludlow, for that is my duty.” His watery bloodshot eyes were steady for once. “I cannot promise to tend your business.”

“I think you will find, Mr Outhwaite, that I am very capable of tending my own business.”

Harry was annoyed with himself. He had been too direct. Yet surely Outhwaite’s earlier remarks, let alone what he’d overheard, showed a hint of sympathy. Would they all be like the surgeon? Common sense told him that he could not look for any real support from the commissioned officers of the
Magnanime.
They might know what Carter had done. They might even be ashamed. But he was a stranger, and this was their ship. Unless Carter was a much worse captain than Harry had heard so far, they would do nothing, individually or collectively. They would examine the events in the light of their own careers and act accordingly.

That was even more true of the standing officers, those who were appointed to the ship by warrant from the various Boards of the Admiralty: pursers, carpenters, and the like, as well as the surgeon. Commissioned officers came and went, but the warrant officers could spend their entire sea-going career in one vessel. To them, Carter was just a passing phase. The name of their ship meant more than any one man’s reputation. Besides, as yet, there was no saying whether the man’s reputation was about to be dented or enhanced.

Nor, regardless of what Outhwaite had just said, could he look with any confidence for assistance from the hands. Never mind their lowly status, which would probably debar their testimony. Sense would tell them to say nothing. They depended on the captain for everything. “A captain is a god on his own quarterdeck” was a well-known expression. And it was true. A certain amount of care had to be taken with the officers, since a means of redress existed for them, should they feel that their captain was going too far. Not so the hands. How could a man on the lower deck go against him, when he alone decided what was a punishable offence, and the level of pain that offence deserved? He couldn’t hang them without a court martial, but short of that, he could do what he liked. Many a man had expired at the grating, to be entered in the ship’s log as having died while receiving punishment.

CHAPTER FOUR

HARRY
was not surprised that Carter kept him waiting. He paced back and forth on the quarterdeck before the entrance to the great cabin, in plain view of a fair proportion of the crew. The captain would want everyone to know how little he cared for the comfort of Harry Ludlow. In another man, Harry might have been amused, laughing at the need for such behaviour. Not Carter. He fought to keep his temper in check. To occupy his mind, he looked around the ship, seeing familiar things, in spite of the years. Eventually the signal came, the marine sentry opened the door, and he was ushered in.

Sitting down, behind a polished table covered with papers, it was even more noticeable that the man had grown fat in the eleven years since Harry had last seen him. Then he had been slight and wiry, like whipcord, his face pinched with a permanent expression of dissatisfaction. Now his face and body showed the effects of command, and the sedentary existence that that brought. But the look of utter disdain was still there, not lessened by a fuller face. He was five years older than Harry but looked twenty. His small fat body seemed stuffed into his uniform. His belly, once so flat, was now a great bulge straining his waistcoat. The dust from his newly powdered wig had settled on his shoulders, taking the gloss off his epaulettes. He did not stand up as Harry entered. At his side stood Crevitt, a Bible very obvious in his hand. A young marine officer stood off to one side by the door of one of the captain’s other cabins.

Harry took in the details of the great cabin at a glance. With the ship on a southerly course, the room was in shadow. How shabby it looked compared to the same room when his father had occupied it. Then it had boasted fine carpets from the East; mirrors, paintings and polished furniture; silver had gleamed on the table, even when, as now, it was being used as a desk.

Carter must still despise wealth by the look of the place now. Chequered canvas covered the planking on the floor. The decor was sparse in the extreme, and the lack of furniture emphasized the emptiness of the cabin. No cabinets or silver ornaments. No pictures. Just the polished bulkheads that separated his sleeping cabin from this room. The lockers which formed seats below the stern windows were covered in worn velvet. The chairs to match the dining table were ranked along the walls. No one, it seemed, was to be invited to sit in the captain’s presence.

“I am curious to know by what right you dare to give commands to a King’s officer, Ludlow?” No preamble, no pleasantries, however false. The years dropped away, and Harry could hear that same voice hurling insults at him from the head of the
Barfleur’s
wardroom table. “I refer, of course, to your flying of Navy signals in the most outrageous manner.”

“They were more in the nature of a request.”

“I did not see any request in your signals.” Carter’s lips were pursed together in disapproval.

“Admiral Kempenfelt, when he laid down the present signals, quite rightly assumed that no officer would need to be requested to attack an enemy warship.”

“You have no right to fly signals from that book at all.”

“I think every Englishman has the right to confound the King’s enemies, just as every officer has a duty to do so.”

“You dare to remind me of my duty, sir?” The captain’s studied demeanour slipped a bit. He was fussy about his duty.

“I do. Since you obviously require to be reminded. By your actions.”

Carter thumped the desk with his fist. “I will not have you questioning my actions in my own cabin.”

Harry longed to challenge him, to force him into another confrontation with weapons. As if Carter read his mind, he rubbed his shoulder at the point where Harry’s bullet had pierced it. Harry fought to control himself. Only a fool would challenge a captain aboard his own ship. Carter would indeed clap him in irons. The only reason that Crevitt and the marine were there was in the hope that they would witness such an event.

“I require an explanation from you, for your failure to support me.”

“Require!” shouted Carter, his face going red. “Who are you to require an explanation of me?”

“You knew that I commanded the
Medusa?”

Carter sat back in his chair. He smiled to himself. The smile chilled the atmosphere rather than warming it.

“Did I? I must consult the ship’s log, for I have no recollection of knowing who commanded the
Medusa,
or indeed the name of your ship before I had to sink her.”

“I know that you are no coward, Carter . . .”

“Captain Carter, Ludlow,” he said sharply.

“Yet you deliberately stood off and allowed my ship to be bombarded.”

“I think my superiors will approve of my actions.” He picked up a paper from the table and looked at it with exaggerated attention. When he spoke his voice had changed. Carter was all softness now. “Have I not captured a fine frigate with the minimum of damage, either to myself or the prize?”

“And the
Medusa?”

“Ah! The
Medusa.
A ship entirely unknown to me, flying signals it had no right to raise. A ship apparently attacking a superior enemy force.”

“Apparently!” Now it was Harry’s turn to shout. Carter leant forward, hoping that Harry’s outburst would continue. Harry checked himself again. Carter sat back, masking his disappointment with that same cold smile.

“Exercising due caution, I hove to, to ensure that my ship was not being lured into some trap. Having established this, I then proceeded to take possession of the
Verite
without sustaining any damage.”

“And my ship?” Harry’s voice conveyed the strain he was under.

“I am sure that you are aware of the dangers that attend the operations of a Letter of Marque, Ludlow, and of the low esteem your profession commands. I really could not endanger a King’s ship for the sake of a privateer.”

“I had thought that the danger was from our enemy.”

“Our enemy?” he said, throwing back his head and laughing. “There are many dangers at sea, Ludlow. You have no right to this, but you may, in the presence of Mr Crevitt here, study the ship’s log. You may even read a copy of the dispatch that I sent to the Admiralty.”

Carter threw the paper in his hand across the table. Harry ignored it. “No, thank you.”

“A pity. For it reads well. It will be seen as a most economical action. And if the capture of a French frigate was insufficient to commend me to their lordships, I have added that I was able to crew my prize from your ship, which, no longer being afloat, had nullified the validity of the crew’s exceptions. As I say, Ludlow, a most economical affair.”

“And all I say is that it is a proper subject for others to enquire into.”

Carter sat forward sharply. He knew that Harry was rich, well connected, and influential, just as he knew that in the end his superiors would support him. “Are you threatening me?”