The Patriot's Fate by Alaric Bond Page B

despair of their divisional officers. But by the evening a few were becoming familiar faces; small routines, such as the division of spirits at noon and four, had become established; and at least some semblance of sense and cooperation was starting to appear.
     
    The senior officers were reasonably pleased, in fact, and as they all met in the small ship’s gunroom and ate their first meal together there was quite a convivial atmosphere.
     
    Robert Manning had joined them that afternoon, and was present as a guest of King. By luck he had come down part of the way with Mr Clarkson, and so had had plenty of time to become acquainted. They had yet to work together, of course, but it was clear that the fair haired, slightly hesitant surgeon knew his stuff, and the two had the makings of a good professional relationship.
     
    Captain Westwood had also boarded that day. A pleasant, well educated man of middle years and delicate features, he was far more refined than the bumptious Marshall they had grown uncomfortably used to, and soon became accepted by all. Westwood’s subaltern was Lieutenant Adshead, a considerably younger and almost frail little man, serving his first term at sea. Adshead was not quite so easy; he came across as somewhat nervous, and was inclined to stammer. He also had very fair skin that had already burnt horribly in the English summer and would not serve him well should Scylla ever be sent for tropical service.  
     
    The surgeon’s arrival meant that his wife finally released herself from what had become almost continual occupation of her cabin. Both her self-imposed exclusion and Marshall’s departure was understood by those who knew or guessed the reason, and politely ignored by the rest. In the case of Mr Dudley, the purser, whose life was neatly divided between keeping track of his constantly changing stores and the well being of Sophie, the gunroom tabby, it was possible that neither had even been noticed at all.
     
    But now they were all together; even the cat was surreptitiously present on Dudley’s lap, and they seemed to have the makings of a full and happy gunroom.
     
    “Wine with you, sir!” Westwood raised a half filled glass to Chilton, who had been one of the quieter contributors throughout the meal. “You have served in Scylla before, and shall have a wealth of stories to tell, no doubt?”
     
    Chilton sipped at his wine a little uncertainly. “You are speaking of her sailing manners, sir?”
     
    Westwood laughed. “Lord, no; I have singularly little knowledge of such things, nor the need of it.” He beamed good-naturedly to the company in general. “I was meaning more her history; she has shone in battle, perhaps?”
     
    “I regret not,” Chilton replied. “The occasion never presented itself. Though of course I am sure that she would have, had it done so,” he added clumsily.
     
    “You were with the Channel Fleet, I collect?” Caulfield asked.
     
    “Indeed, and were once ordered to join an escort for an India convoy back to Portsmouth; apart from that we spent much of our time polishing the French coast – without actually touching it, I am thankful to say.”
     
    “Blockade duty can be deadly dull,” Caulfield conceded, amidst the polite laughter. “Let us hope our current role will show a bit more life.”
     
    “It would be good to see a little action,” Chilton mused; then, noticing a faint look of concern in Fraiser’s eyes, he hurriedly added: “Not that I am wishing for bloodshed, of course.”
     
    “On the contrary, it should be the desire of every serving officer,” the young Adshead replied, as if reading from a book. “We are at sea to fight; to do otherwise would be a waste of our talents.”
     
    “Well, I for one have no need for combat,” Clarkson said. “And I think you would feel the same were you to attend the results.”
     
    There was further laughter, and King noticed how Clarkson’s wife, who had been attentive to her