The Devil's Own Luck (8 page)

“I do not intend to let the matter rest, if that is what you are asking. I shall require more of an explanation than you have so far provided.”

“There you go ‘requiring’ again,” said Carter, sitting back in his chair once more. “It really is unbearable to be talked to in such a fashion. I have a mind to throw you out.”

“But you won’t, Carter.”

“Won’t I indeed?”

“No. You are enjoying this too much. You would not deny yourself the pleasure of observing my discomfort.”

“Anyone overhearing would think that I bore you some ill will.” Carter’s look became one of injured innocence, a look mainly directed at the silent Crevitt. “You flatter yourself, Ludlow. But then you always did carry a high opinion of your own merits. An opinion not shared by many.”

“I look forward to the day when we meet ashore, Carter.”

“Captain Carter!” Crevitt nearly jumped out of his shoes as the man screamed at Harry. “Show some damned respect, sir.”

“If you want to know how much I respect you, Carter,” said Harry softly, “the last time I had the misfortune to meet something like you, I had to use a boot scraper to rid myself of it.”

Carter went purple and shot forward across his desk. The young marine seemed to clutch the hat under his arm more tightly, trying to suppress a laugh. Crevitt’s cry of “gentlemen” was wasted as Harry left the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

A 74-gun ship was a large vessel. But it was not so large that some of the crew, particularly the officers on the quarterdeck, were unable to hear the shouted exchanges from the captain’s cabin, even with the skylight shut. Not everything of course, giving the matters the tantalizing edge of any half-heard conversation. In this case it was in no way difficult to deduce what the row had been about. Each man had his own thoughts on the sinking of the
Medusa,
just as each man also had his eye on the likely benefits which might flow from the taking of the
Verite.

The ship having been in commission at the outbreak of war, the crew were volunteer sailors. Likewise, the hands that had been taken on at Spithead had come from the first rush of those eager for employment at the outbreak of war. The ship had a near full complement. Young or old, they tended to be proper seamen. By the time that Outhwaite had laid the last stitch in Harry’s wound, the whole lower deck, through the good offices of those who had served aboard the
Barfleur
at the time, were apprised of the bad blood that existed between the two men.

The officers were not far behind. Sailors, like any other profession, talked about their occupation extensively. They talked of battles, of near-battles, of success or failure at any number of things, mostly promotion. It took no great feat of memory for them to dust off the details of that well-known quarrel in which Harry Ludlow had put a bullet in Oliver Carter just after the Battle of the Saintes. Nor was it difficult to remember the furore that their duel had caused.

It was expressly forbidden by Royal Command for naval officers to duel. Flouting this rule was considered particularly serious when a junior officer challenged his senior to fight. It took no great sense to see the advisability of this attitude. In a service where almost everyone was concerned with advancing their careers, no one wanted ships to be commanded by men whose only qualification was their ability to shoot straight.

It was also common knowledge that, at the court martial following their duel, Lieutenant Harry Ludlow, given the possibility of saving his career with an apology to Carter through the court, had declined to do so. Indeed, he had defied them by going so far as to state that he was sorry he had missed. This left them with no alternative but to dismiss him from the service. Carter, technically in the right, since he had been challenged by a junior officer, was nevertheless reprimanded. More hurtful, he had been passed over in the general promotions that followed the defeat of De Grasse. He’d had to wait another five years for his step to post rank.

It was a scandalous affair, made more interesting by the fact that the accused was the son of an admiral. People’s curiosity was further aroused by the fact that he had not, at any time, sought the intercession of those powerful friends of his father, who, exerting pressure on his behalf, would ensure his reinstatement in the service. Getting one’s commission back, after dismissal, was fairly common, given influence and money, both of which Harry’s father had in abundance. Why, even one of the
Bounty
mutineers was now serving as an officer in the Navy, and he had been condemned to hang. Putting a bullet in a superior officer was small beer by comparison.

As Harry emerged on to the quarterdeck, the officers, having given the most perfunctory nod, looked the other way. He walked over to the windward side and drew deeply from the fresh westerly breeze that was pushing the
Magnanime
along at a steady eight knots. Somewhere to leeward lay the coast of France. The watch on deck, less constrained by good manners than the officers, were staring at him openly, curious to get a good look at the man who was fully expected to cleave their captain in two at the first opportunity. Typical of the lower deck, the recounting of the argument between Harry and Carter had grown until it had become a Titanic struggle. Harry was now known to have a terrible and uncontrollable temper, given to such fits of rage that ten burly marines would be insufficient to restrain him. That he had emerged from the great cabin with not a speck of Carter’s blood on his clothes had come as a great disappointment. There being no hue and cry, they had to assume that he had not chucked the bastard out of the stern windows either. Those with their rum ration on him doing Carter in made the excuse of his wound, obvious by the thick bandage round his head. Those who had taken their bets, seeing this tyro in the flesh, were content to wait to collect their reward.

James came on deck at that point, carrying a sketch pad, followed by a ship’s servant with a canvas chair. Given his brother’s dress and bearing, Harry would not have been surprised to see another servant in his wake, liveried and bearing a silver tray with a bottle and a crystal glass. He walked over to where Harry stood, his hair flying in the breeze.

“I can’t set up here, Harry, it’s too windy.”

“You can’t set up here at all, James. This is where the captain takes his leisure. As soon as Carter comes on deck, everyone vacates the windward side so that he can walk undisturbed.”

“Where can I go?” The man with the chair stood silently, waiting for a signal.

“Almost anywhere, James. But courtesy demands that you ask the officer of the watch.”

“Since I expect you to join me, perhaps you would be good enough to ask him.”

No fool, James, thought Harry. They had to talk. James would be curious about his interview with Carter, as well as what action he intended to take. But there were precious few places on the ship where they could guarantee not to be overheard. Voices, even whispers, could carry through the canvas screens which separated most of the accommodation. To be seen seeking somewhere to be alone below decks would only excite comment and encourage the more resourceful to eavesdrop. Here on the deck, with James sketching Harry, they could keep those wishing to overhear at a distance, and failing that, stop talking if they came too near.

Harry walked over to the officer of the watch. The man was grey haired and old compared to him. He turned, raising his hat as he did so. His thinning hair, and the thick whiskers that reached down his cheeks, flapped in the breeze. His face had a blank, noncommittal expression.

“Forgive me, sir,” said Harry. “I have yet to be introduced to the officers.”

“Craddock, Mr Ludlow. Second lieutenant, at your service.” Very formal and stiff, neither friendly nor unfriendly. He made no attempt to introduce the midshipman standing by him.

“My brother wishes to try his hand at a few sketches, Mr Craddock. He has not been on this ship since he was a nipper. My father had her once, back in ‘75, and the prospect of executing some drawings excites him. I would request that you direct us to a part of the deck that will occasion you the least inconvenience.”

“Why, anywhere you choose, Mr Ludlow,” said Craddock eagerly, his expression, like the look in his pale blue eyes, softening visibly. Now his round weather-beaten face took on a smile, the grey eyebrows were mobile instead of firmly set. He seemed relieved. He’d probably expected his first encounter with Harry to be the one in which he was required to explain the events of yesterday. He pointed his hat to where James still stood with the servant, patiently waiting. “Though I would be obliged if you could vacate the windward side of the quarterdeck.”

“I wouldn’t dream of occupying that space. I have just explained to my brother the unsuitability of such a notion. Son of an admiral he might be, Mr Craddock, but he is also, I’m afraid, an incorrigible lubber.”

Harry smiled, as much at his own forced bluff and hearty manner, as at the sustained look of relief on Craddock’s face.

“Could you also oblige me with our position?” asked Harry.

“Most readily, sir.” Craddock clapped his hat back over the thinning grey hair and pointed towards the binnacle. “But you would be just as well to cast your eye over the slate.”

Harry turned and looked at the slate hanging by the binnacle. It gave the ship’s position as of noon the day before, with the changes of course listed and the speed of the ship as they had been recorded. They were making a steady eight knots from the spot where they had sunk his ship. If this wind held, not impossible at the time of year, they would easily raise the Rock of Gibraltar within four to five days.

“Most obliged, Mr Craddock.” Harry turned, and collecting James he made his way to the leeward side, still on the quarterdeck, just aft of the gangway. The wardroom servant followed, setting out James’s chair before returning to his duties. Harry stood by the mainmast shrouds, looking over the waist of the ship to the hands working on the forecastle. James sat facing the bowsprit. No one could approach them without being seen.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece, Harry. I half suspected that you might try to kill each other.”

“I feel I shall kill him, James. The first chance I get. He knew that I commanded the
Medusa
though he denies it. He had prepared the most interesting dispatch. He’s so proud of it that he even offered to let me read it.” James raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I declined his invitation.”

“Unwise?”

“Not really, since he took great pains to inform me of its contents. It states that he took what action he felt proper to avoid the possibility of a trap.”

“A trap!” Heads turned towards them and James dropped his voice. “Will he be believed?”

“Few will believe him. Especially when I am finished disseminating the truth.”

“So we will gain redress.” The pad was on James’s lap. He flicked at it casually with his charcoal.

“Not as things stand. At least not from the Navy. They might not believe him, but they will support him. Has he not taken a fine prize at no cost to himself or the Exchequer? To repudiate him would mean compensating us for the
Medusa.”

“So?” James was now sketching away.

“We would require some evidence that he was motivated by personal spite rather than professional caution. Only the ship’s officers would be in a position to confirm that.”

“And if we could get them to say so?”

“Then the case is entirely altered.”

“I almost venture to say that such a thing makes things straightforward. Your face, however, tells me that would not be true.”

“How have you found the officers behaving towards you?”

“That depends on which one. We had the most appalling dinner in the wardroom last night, and it wasn’t just the food, though Heaven knows that was bad enough. Bentley, who is the first lieutenant, was drunk. Worse than that, he was damned unpleasant to everyone. Quite ignored me, mind you, for which I was extremely grateful. I was relieved to hear we’d raise the Rock in four days.”

“What about the other officers?”

“Polite. Sympathetic in a way. Except the marine. He seems cast from the Bentley mould. Drunk as a lord. Captain’s nephew, I’m told.”

“The rest. Friendly?”

“No. Not friendly.” James looked at Harry’s face, as his brother stared intently over the side. “Should they be friendly? After all, we are strangers. And didn’t you advise me yourself of the innate dislike naval officers have for privateers?”

“That’s true, and being ex-Navy myself, I cannot find it in my heart to blame them. They suffer all sorts of constraints in their profession, while we have none. It gives them no pleasure to see us taking prizes, and money, from under their noses. Their only hope of wealth is in prize-taking, unless they reach flag rank. To the average officer, a poor man usually, what we do is robbery. Stealing the bread, or should it be the prospect of cake, from their mouths.”

“It seems superfluous then, to even think they’d be friendly.”

“I speak of extreme cases. Not all officers are so single minded about chasing prizes. Besides, nothing brings out the best in a sailor more than another’s misfortune. The sea is such an unforgiving element, so full of surprises, that each man knows he is a whisker away from such a fate himself. It is almost a superstition, as though they were warding off the evil eye with a show of kindness.”

“The gods are not mocked by a mere show.”

“I used the wrong word.” Harry turned and smiled. “Observe that none of the officers seek out our company. No one enquires after our welfare.”

“Perhaps they fear to displease their captain.” James held up his thumb, measuring some object.

“I think they fear more that I may say something about their captain. About his recent behaviour.”

“And theirs, Harry.”

“I can’t blame the officers for Carter’s actions.” He turned to gaze out over the gentle swell of the sea.

“True. But if you have observed correctly, then by their reticence they are condoning what he has done.”