The Patriot's Fate by Alaric Bond

an expression of smug approval.
     
    “We have also had news of a replacement for Mr Marshall,” Banks continued, oblivious to any affect that mentioning the man was having on at least two of his officers. “We are to receive a captain of marines, a Mr Westwood, in addition to a replacement lieutenant. Also a further fifteen private soldiers and a corporal.”
     
    “That will be quite a force, sir,” Caulfield remarked.
     
    “Indeed,” Banks eyes fell for a moment. “It is possible that Scylla will be involved in operations ashore, and provisions are being made to see that we are properly equipped.” There was a moment’s silence; all were well aware that any land based action was likely to be difficult and deadly; their force of marines, though large compared with the usual frigate’s compliment, was minuscule in military terms. And, if they were deployed, the very fact would be a sign of failure: an indication that the enemy had been allowed a firm stronghold and that every available resource was needed.
     
    “It is indeed strange that Mr Marshall chose to leave so suddenly,” Banks said, collecting his papers together and considering for a moment. “Problems of a family nature, I understand, but still…” He was clearly hoping for some response, some thread of information, but received nothing but blank stares in return. Even Fraiser, usually one with particular concern for his fellow man, showed a remarkable lack of reaction. But then Banks was conscious that Marshall had made very little impression on him, and he supposed the others felt the same. Yes, rather a nonentity, he decided; and, that being the case, it was probably better that he had gone, even if taking on a replacement this close to sailing was inconvenient.
     
    “Very well gentlemen,” he said, bringing himself back to the subject in hand. “I am sure we all have plenty to keep us busy; if no one has any objections we will aim for Wednesday’s morning tide: I will signal to that effect.”
     
    * * *
     
    Egmont had been a decent ship, of a proper size, and with a lower gun deck stuffed full of thirty-two pounders, an armament worth talking about. This Scylla was nothing more than a row boat in comparison, and her eighteen pounders, what they were pleased to call the great guns, were almost an insult to a man accustomed to handling true weaponry. As a quarter gunner Surridge was used to having overall charge of four of those monsters. And he had trained men to use them, trained them in such a way that they did not lose their heads or cry for mother when the shot started flying, or their mates got snuffed about them. He could probably do so again, even on this piss poor little gig, if that was what King George intended: Surridge, or Suggs, as he was known to the men, wasn’t inclined to go against authority as high as that. But he didn’t have to like it, and even now, from what he regarded as a position worthy of respect, Surridge could still cause trouble on the lower levels should he choose to do so.
     
    He’d drawn one of the coveted hammock spaces at the end of a row. It was almost next to the galley, which was convenient, as Surridge hated chewing tobacco but was fond of a night time pipe, and handy for the heads. But in Egmont he had wangled a cabin – not a true one admittedly, it was more a partitioned off pen; the carpenter had made it to house a gentleman’s fag when they were shipping a bunch of gentry coves back to England. Surridge had claimed it as soon as the party left, and it was an indication of his character and position in the social hierarchy of the ship that he had done so over the heads of several petty officers superior to him. He’d liked that cabin, both for its space, and the recognition it gave of his true worth. To go back to sleeping amongst other men, and in a ship that hardly warranted use of the title, was not Surridge’s idea of advancement. Besides, he had been looking forward to a decent