An Ensuing Evil and Others

THE REVENGE OF THE GUNNER’S DAUGHTER

The last French shot had fallen a full quarter-mile aft of the Deerhound as she slipped into the sheltering fog that was rolling down through the Oresund from the Kattegat and across the Kjoge Bight, south of Copenhagen. That had been twenty minutes ago, and since then there had followed an uneasy quiet, free of the noise of battle; the sea’s quiet of creaking wooden spars, the fretful snap of canvas and the whispering waves against the sides of the twenty-two-gun sloop as she became immersed in the thick white mist that now concealed her from her vengeful pursuer.

Captain Richard Roscarrock, captain of His Majesty’s sloop Deerhound, stood head to one side, in a listening attitude on the quarterdeck, hands clasped tightly behind him, lips compressed. Finally he raised his head; his shoulders seemed to relax.

“Hands to shorten sail, Mr. Hart.” He turned to the midshipman next to him, a lad scarcely out of his teenage. “Quietly does it,” he snapped hastily as the youngster raised his hand to his mouth to shout the order. “Quietly all! We don’t want Johnny Frenchman to hear us. We’ll take in the tops’ls and mains’l. Pass the word! And have the hands take a care for the damage on the mainmast; the main topgallant mast seems to be badly splintered. And for heaven’s sake, get a couple of hands to secure the mainstay; it’ll cause damage if it swings loose for much longer.”

Midshipman Hart brought his hand to his forehead so that his original motion ended in a cursory salute. He went forward to gather the hands.

Gervaise, the first lieutenant, moved closer to his captain. His voice was quiet. “I don’t think the Frenchman has followed us, sir,” he observed. “He’s probably beating back into the Baltic now that he has discovered we are in these waters.”

Roscarrock agreed mentally but gave a noncommittal grunt by way of response. He had been long enough in command to realize that it was not politic to discuss his thoughts with his juniors.

Unstead, the second officer, joined them. “Did you see the cut of her, sir? I’ll bet ten guineas on that being the Epervier of Rambert’s squadron.”

“Will we try to rejoin Admiral Gambier, sir?” pressed Gervaise.

Roscarrock sniffed to indicate his irritation. “In good time, Mr. Gervaise. And I am well aware of what ship it was, Mr. Unstead. We’ll haul to and will use the cover of this fog to assess our situation. The French gunners were good, and we have sustained some damage. Look at our mainmast.”

The sloop had encountered the French seventy-four-gun man-o’-war by accident, sailing around the headland of Stevns Klint and running abruptly under her guns before Roscarrock could wear the ship, turning the helm to windward. The Frenchman had opened fire almost immediately on the smaller vessel. The French guns had inflicted a lot of damage on the English sloop before her swifter sailing ability, good seamanship, and the descending fog across the bight had allowed a means of escape.

Roscarrock knew that he must have sustained several casualties. He could see for himself that the main topgallant mast had been splintered, the rigging and spars still hanging dangerously. The last shots the French had fired had been high and chain shot, which had ripped into the rigging. Captain Roscarrock also knew there had been at least one, probably two shots landed on the gun deck. However, his first concern was whether the Deerhound had been holed below the waterline, and his second concern was whether the damage to his masts was irreparable and would prevent him returning quickly to the main British fleet of Sir James Gambier to warn him of the presence of the French.

Lieutenant Gervaise had already read his mind and passed word for the masters mate, bosun, purser, cooper, chief gunnery officer, and doctor: all the heads of the various departments that ran a ship-of-war.

The group of men came after in ones and twos and gathered before the captain on the quarterdeck. They were tired but wore that look of relief at finding themselves still alive. Faces were blackened by powder burns; clothes were torn and stained with blood.

“Has the word been passed for the gunnery officer?” Captain Roscarrock asked, looking round and not seeing the third lieutenant who fulfilled this role.

An elderly sailor, with petty officer insignia, touched his forehead briefly. “Beg pardon, sir. Gunnery officers dead. I’ll make his report.”

The first lieutenant blinked a moment. The second officer, Unstead, whistled tactlessly. Roscarrock broke in harshly as if he had not noticed their reactions.

“And where’s the bosun?”

“Dead, sir,” replied the masters mate dryly.

“Then his mate should be here.”

“Dead as well, sir. I’ll attend to the report,” the man replied.

“Very well. Damage?”

“No shots below the waterline. Main topgallant mast splintered and upper rigging tangled and dangerous. There is no way we can replace topmast shrouds nor the futtock shrouds. She should be able to take the mainsl and we can run without tops’ls, though it will slow us down.”

“What about the mizzentop mast?”

“We were lucky there. A chain shot went through the sheet, but it can be patched. That was the shot that impacted against the mainmast.”

Roscarrock nodded swiftly. “Do your best. Well attempt to rejoin the fleet as soon as this fog bank clears. Then we’ll effect proper repairs. If our main fleet have already captured Copenhagen, we should have no problem.” Roscarrock turned back to a grizzled petty officer. “What’s the situation with the guns?”

The elderly man raised a finger to his forelock. “Four guns and their crews out of action, Cap’n. Three guns totally destroyed.”

Not as bad as Roscarrock expected-still eighteen guns remaining in action. “Purser? What’s our status?”

“Most of the stores are safe, sir. Only two water casks were smashed by shot, but we can replace them. The biggest loss is one of the rum casks.”

“The men will have to lose their rum ration until we can replenish the cask. Cooper, how about replacing the water casks?”

“I’ll have new casks made by tomorrow if we have easy sailing.”

Roscarrock was coming to the report that he disliked most of all. “Mr. Smithers, what’s the total casualties?”

The sloop was lucky in that it carried a surgeon. Sloops of His Britannic Majesty’s navy did not usually have the luxury of carrying a surgeon and had to rely on the cook-cum-barber to double in that capacity.

“Thirteen dead, twenty-four wounded, five seriously,” intoned the florid-faced surgeon with an enthusiasm that seemed to indicate he relished his work.

Roscarrock’s mouth thinned. “How seriously injured?”

“Three will be dead before nightfall, sir.”

Roscarrock’s jaw tightened for a moment. Then he asked, “What ranks among the dead?”

“Two midshipmen and… and Lieutenant Jardine; four petty officers, and the rest”-the surgeon shrugged-”the rest were other ranks. Of the wounded, all are seamen, sir.”

Roscarrock glanced quickly at the surgeon. “Jardine was killed, you say?”

It was the petty officer gunner who answered. “Beg pardon, sir. Lieutenant Jardine was on the gun deck, laying the guns, when he-”

Roscarrock interrupted with a frown. Lieutenant Jardine was the chief gunnery officer. There was no need for an explanation as to where his station had been during the action. “We’ll get the details later. And the midshipmen who were killed?”

“Little Jack Kenny and Tom Merritt,” the surgeon replied.

“Very well,” Roscarrock said after a moments silence. “Very well, I want this ship cleared and ready for action again within the hour.”

There was a chorus of “aye ayes,” and the petty officers dispersed to their jobs. The surgeon went with them to take charge of the wounded.

Lieutenant Gervaise was shaking his head. “Jardine, eh? There’ll be a lot of ladies at Chatham who will shed a tear, no doubt.” He did not sound grief-stricken.

Lieutenant Unstead was positively smug. “And there’ll be a lot of husbands who will sleep more comfortably at night,” he added sarcastically.

Jardine had been third officer on the sloop. He had been a youthful, handsome, and vain man with a reputation for the ladies, especially for other men’s wives. Roscarrock did not rebuke Unstead, because he was aware that, before they had left the port of Chatham, Unstead had actually challenged Jardine to a duel: something to do with his wife, Phoebe. The duel had been prevented by the provost marshal on shore, and both officers were severely reprimanded.

Roscarrock did not bother to comment. He knew that most of the officers and men would not be sorry to hear of Jardine’s sudden demise. His handsome looks disguised a cruel temperament. He had been too fond of inflicting discipline with a rope’s end. Roscarrock had tried to keep Jardine in check, but the man was possessed of a brutal nature that enjoyed imposing pain on those who could not retaliate. It was not good for discipline for a ship’s company to see their officers in conflict, and so Roscarrock was unable to show his disapproval of Jardine before the men. He had to support the punishments that his junior gave out and reprimand him only in private. No, there would be no false grieving in the Deerhound over Jardine.

“Mr. Hart!”

The young midshipman came running forward, touching his hat to his captain.

“Lieutenant Jardine is dead. As senior midshipman, you are now acting third lieutenant. I want you to go round and make a list of all casualties. The surgeon will have his hands full tending the wounded.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Report back to me within the hour.”

Roscarrock swung round, dismissing the youthful officer with a curt salute, and turned to his first officer.

“Make sure that the men know the urgency of our situation, Mr. Gervaise. I shall be below in my cabin for a while.”

In a sloop, a captain’s quarters were small, dark, and stuffy. A small curtain separated his sleeping quarters, a single bunk, a cupboard, and space for a chest, from his day cabin, in which there was space for a desk and a couple of chairs. Roscarrock went to the desk and pulled out a half-filled bottle of brandy. He uncorked it and poured out a glass. For a moment he held it up to the light that permeated through the cabin, seeing the amber liquid reflecting in the dull gray light. Then his features broke into a smile and he raised the glass, as if in silent toast, before swallowing in one mouthful.

He replaced the bottle, sat down, and drew out the ship’s log. Then he took out pen and ink.

Kjoge Bight, 2 September 1807, he wrote at the top of his entry, and then sat back to consider how, in brief form, he should address the events of the brief but fierce engagement.

He had just finished the details and realized that Midshipman Hart had not returned with the list of names to enter in the log. But at that moment there was an urgent tap on the door.

Frowning, he uttered the word: “Come!”

Midshipman Hart stood flush-faced in the doorway. He seemed in a state of great excitement.

Roscarrock frowned irritably. “You’re late! Do you have the casualty list?”

Midshipman Hart placed a piece of paper on the captains desk but continued to stand in a state of some agitation.

Roscarrock suppressed a sigh. “What is it?”

“Beg to report, sir,” he began, “concerning the death of Lieutenant Jardine-”

“What about the death of Jardine?” Roscarrock demanded sharply, causing the young man to pause awkwardly again as if trying to find the right phrases.

“There are some… some curiosities about the manner of his death, sir. I–I don’t know quite how to put it.”

Roscarrock sat back with a frown, placing his hands before him, fingertips together. “Curiosities?” He savored the word softly. “Perhaps you would explain what you mean by that word?”

“It would be better if you would come to the gun deck, sir. Begging your pardon, it would be easier to show you rather than to tell you.”

The young man was clearly embarrassed. He added quickly, “I’ve asked the surgeon to join us there.”

Roscarrock sat quietly for a moment or two. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his hat and stood up. “This is highly unusual, Mr. Hart, but I will come, as you seem to set such store by my attendance.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you.” Midshipman Hart seemed greatly relieved.

As Roscarrock followed the young man up onto the deck and allowed him to lead the way toward the gun deck, his expression was bleak. “I cannot see what is curious about a death in battle that needs a captain in attendance when a report is made of the fact, Mr. Hart. I presume you have a good reason for dragging me to look at a corpse?”

Midshipman Hart jerked his head nervously. “I think you will understand when I show you, sir.”

They descended on to the gun deck. The Deerhound mounted eleven cannon on either side. The first thing that struck one in that confined space, which had a clearing of only five feet between decks so that often the men crouched to perform their fighting duties, was the stench. The acrid gunpowder and smoke predominated, but it mingled with the smell of burnt wood, recent fires that had been doused where French shot had ignited combustible materials. There, too, was that odor of charred flesh, that indescribable nauseous combination of the reek of the wounded and the stench of urine.

Captain Roscarrock drew out a square of lavender-soaked linen, which he always carried, and held it to his nose, glancing around him distastefully.

The deck was a shambles where the French shot had hit. Wood was splintered. Ropes and tackle lay in chaotic profusion. There was blood everywhere, and canvas covered several bodies that had not yet been cleared away.

Roscarrock saw at once that the French shot had blown away part of the first four gunports on the starboard side, which had been the side of the ship he had presented to the enemy in his attempt to turn. Three guns were mangled heaps of metal, almost unrecognizable. A fourth, as the gunner had reported, was damaged but not so badly as the first three.

Yet it was not to that scene of chaos that the young midshipman led him but to a gun that was listed in the gunnery chart as number six portside, the central gun position of the eleven-gunport broadside. There was no damage here, but an isolated body was lying just behind the gun, which was being lashed into its position by two sailors.

The florid-faced surgeon, Smithers, was standing by the body, over which a canvas tarpaulin had been placed.

Midshipman Hart came to a halt by it and turned to his captain. “Lieutenant Jardine, sir,” he said, pointing almost dramatically at the body.

Roscarrock’s eyes narrowed. “I think I presumed as much,” he said without humor. “Now, Mr. Hart, what exactly demands my presence here?”

Hart strained forward like an eager dog trying to please its owner. “Well, sir, this position here, behind number six gun, was where the gunnery lieutenant was positioned to direct our broadsides.”

Roscarrock tried not to sound irritated. “I am aware, Mr. Hart, of the battle stations of my officers,” he replied.

The boy actually winced, and Roscarrock felt almost sorry for his sharpness. However, a ship-of-war in His Majesty’s navy was not the place to deal in polite manners.

“Get on with it, Mr. Hart.”

Midshipman Hart swallowed nervously. “Well, sir, Lieutenant Jardine was not killed by French shot nor collateral damage from its fall.”

The midshipman turned to the doctor. He was smiling as if amused by something.

“Lieutenant Jardine sustained his fatal injuries having been struck by that gun when in recoil.” He indicated the cannon being lashed back to its bulkhead moorings.

Roscarrock stared at him for a moment. “I see,” he said slowly. “Are you telling me that when number six gun was fired, it recoiled into Jardine and killed him? That Jardine was standing too near the gun when it was fired?”

Smithers actually chuckled. “Precisely so, Captain. Precisely so.”

Roscarrock knew there was no love lost between the surgeon and the late third lieutenant. He decided to ignore the man’s humor.

“If he was so close behind the gun when it recoiled, then it would seem that this was an accident but that the fault lay with him. We will give his family the benefit of hearing he died in action and not by an accident that could have been avoided.”

Midshipman Hart cleared his throat. “It was not exactly an accident, sir,” he ventured.

Roscarrock turned quickly to him with a frown. “What’s that you say?” he snapped.

Midshipman Hart blanched at his captain’s disapproving tone but stood his ground. “I do not think this was an accident, sir.”

There was a moments silence.

“Then, pray, sir, how else do you explain it?” Roscarrock allowed a little sarcasm to enter into his voice. “Jardine is standing behind the gun; when it is fired, the gun recoils and slams into him, causing injuries from which he dies. Do I have the right of it, Surgeon Smithers?” he demanded of the doctor without turning to him.

“You do, sir; you do, indeed,” echoed the smiling surgeon.

“Then we are agreed so far. Now, Mr. Hart, if, as you claim, this was no accident, are you saying that Lieutenant Jardine deliberately stood in a position where he, as gunnery officer, knew the gun would recoil on him?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Then what are you saying,” Roscarrock demanded harshly, “for I am at a loss to understand your argument?”

“I am saying that murder may have been committed, sir.”

There was an awkward silence.

The young midshipman stood defiantly under the close scrutiny of his captain.

When Roscarrock spoke, his voice was quiet. “Murder, Mr. Hart? Murder? That is a most serious accusation.”

Midshipman Hart raised his jaw defensively. “I have considered the implications of my accusation, sir.”

“Then, perhaps, you would be good enough to take me through the facts which would lead me to follow your line of thinking.”

Hart was eager now to demonstrate his arguments. “I have accepted that Lieutenant Jardine was an experienced gunnery officer. His station in any battle was to stand amidships behind guns number six on both port and starboard, a position where he could command the broadsides on both sides of the ship. His usual position was center ship, where no gun could recoil back if properly secured.”

Roscarrock said nothing. All this was common knowledge that was shared by even the young powder monkeys aboard. The boys who carried powder and shot to the cannon learned immediately they came aboard to avoid accidents such as getting caught in gun recoil.

Hart paused, and when his captain made no further comment, he went on quickly. “Each cannon is secured to its position by stay ropes which allow for recoil but control the extent of the recoil. Therefore, a gun can only jump back a yard or so at most.”

Roscarrock was still silent.

“In the case of number-six gun-” Hart turned to where members of the crew had now finished lashing the gun back into its position. “-the gun recoiled back across the deck and struck Lieutenant Jardine without being halted by the stay ropes.”

Roscarrock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you telling me that the gun was not secured?”

“That is correct, sir. It was not secured. I believe that this was a deliberate act and no accident.”

“Deliberate? It could have been caused by a frayed stay rope which had not been picked up during an inspection.”

Midshipman Hart shook his head vehemently. “Two main ropes secure the gun. Both ropes would have had to be frayed and have snapped asunder at precisely the same moment. A frayed rope breaking on one side would not cause a straight recoil. The gun would have swung at an angle on its side as the stay rope on the other side would have pulled it to a halt there.”

“What are you saying, then?”

Midshipman Hart turned to the gun and picked up a couple of rope’s ends. “These are the ropes that attached the gun to the bulkhead to limit its recoil.” He held them out for Roscarrock’s inspection. “If you will observe, sir, you will see that both ropes were cut almost through by a sharp implement, a knife, to the point where the force of pressure from the first recoil would have snapped the remaining strands.”

Roscarrock examined the rope ends in silence before handing them back to the young midshipman. “Very well, Mr. Hart. Suppose we accept that someone did this in order to kill Lieutenant Jardine; we must then assume that whoever did it knew that in a battle Jardine would be standing behind that gun. His battle station was well known. But how would they been so sure as to the moment the gun was to be fired? They would have had to sever the ropes only when they were certain of an engagement, for tackle is inspected every three days on this ship.”

Midshipman Hart inclined his head thoughtfully. “You are quite right, sir.”

“Exactly so. You will agree that to achieve this purpose, the severing of the ropes had to be done just before we engaged the French. In those seconds during the very call to battle stations. There would surely have been witnesses to the deed.”

“Lieutenant Jardine was not popular with the men, sir.” It was Surgeon Smithers who made the deadpan comment.

There was no argument in that.

Roscarrock turned as if irritated to find Smithers still there, grinning broadly. “Very well, Doctor. I am sure that you have other duties to fulfill. I would ask you not to comment to any other person about this matter until we have cleared it up.”

Thus dismissed, the surgeon left to attend to those injured who needed his skills.

Roscarrock turned back to the young man. “Accepting the stay ropes on the cannon were tampered with in the way you suggest and for the purpose of causing the death of Lieutenant Jardine, and leaving aside the opportunity of that action, the surgeon is right-Lieutenant Jardine was not a popular officer on this ship. Any member of the crew could have done this. Even one of your fellow midshipmen.”

Hart raised his eyebrows in protest.

“Yes,” went on Roscarrock, before he could speak. “I know all about the punishments that Lieutenant Jardine handed out.”

One of the spiteful punishments that Jardine liked to order was having the master-of-arms inflict floggings on midshipmen who fell foul of his temper. They were made to “kiss the gunners daughter”: that was, they were stretched over the barrel of a cannon and beaten with a birch stick. “The gunners daughter” was naval slang for a cannon.

Roscarrock modulated his tone to speak in a friendly, reasonable fashion. “Look, Hart, most of the ship’s company will not shed a tear when Jardine”-he gestured to the body under the tarpaulin-”is tipped over the side. One-fifth of the ship’s company are pressed men. Jardine was commander of the press-gang at Chatham. There’s vengeance in their minds. And, as for the rest…” Roscarrock shrugged. “Better to forget the reason why; his family will rest more comfortably knowing that he died doing his duty.”

Midshipman Hart stood his ground. A look of stubbornness seemed to fill the features of the young midshipman. “Sir, my father is a parson, and I was raised to believe in truth and justice. I cannot agree to such a subterfuge. If a man has been murdered, then his killer must be found.”

Roscarrock sighed wearily. “If you must, pursue this matter, Mr. Hart. I see no purpose in it when there are a dozen other dead and dying to be accounted for in this engagement and probably more of us will die before we reach our home port again.”

“I would like to pursue my inquiry, sir,” the young man insisted stubbornly.

“Who is the gun captain of number six, portside?” Roscarrock demanded ominously after a short pause. “Pass the word for him. Perhaps we can settle the matter now.”

The gun captain was a muscular seaman in his late thirties. He stood nervously before them.

“How do you explain this, Evans?” demanded Roscarrock, a hand encompassing the gun and the body.

Evans shrugged slightly. “Ain’t got no explanation, sir,” he muttered. “The stay ropes jest snapped, and the cannon went straight back into the lieutenant. Broke the rammer’s foot as it jolted over it.”

The rammer was the man who stood by ready to ram wad and shot into the barrel.

“Did anyone notice that the stay ropes were frayed before you put your match to the gun?”

Evans shook his head vehemently. “The Frenchie was upon us and firing, sir. We just loaded with shot and waited for the order to fire.”

“Please, sir…,” Midshipman Hart intervened, indicating that he wished to ask a question.

Roscarrock nodded his assent.

“Where were you when we beat to quarters, Evans?”

The gun captain shifted his weight from one foot to another. “We were already on our way up from the lower deck. We’d heard the first cry that a Frenchie had been sighted, and so we came running for the gun deck, knowing a fight was in the offing. While we were running up, we heard the drum start beating to quarters.”

“And when did Lieutenant Jardine arrive?”

“Why, he was already at his station and cursing us for our slowness, though ‘twas unfair, as we were one of the first guns ready and run out, begging your pardon, sir. However, I do swear he was on the gun deck before we sighted the Frenchie.”

“You are sure about that? There was no time for anyone else to be on the gun deck at your gun between the sighting of the Frenchman and the arrival of Lieutenant Jardine?”

“The master’s mate was with him, sir.”

“Pass the word for the masters mate,” called Roscarrock to a passing seaman. Then he turned back to the gun captain. “What happened then?”

“There came the command from yourself, sir.” Evans glanced nervously at Roscarrock. “Lieutenant Jardine relayed your order to fire when our guns began to bear. The Frenchje got in a first shot that smashed number-two gun and killed the crew ‘fore they had time to fire. Then we fired and… well, you know what happened.”

Roscarrock dismissed the man with a wave of his hand just as the master’s mate arrived. “Were you on the gun deck before we beat to quarters?”

The grizzled veteran frowned at his captain. “That I was. I accompanied Lieutenant Jardine, who wanted to inspect the readiness of the gun deck. We were here a full ten minutes before we beat to quarters. Then I went directly to my station, leaving the lieutenant here.”

“That is all,” dismissed Roscarrock, turning to the midshipman. “Well, Mr. Hart, your theory seems to be flawed. If Lieutenant Jardine was already on the gun deck when we sighted the Frenchman, how could anyone have cut the stay ropes with the intent to kill him before the gun crews came into action?”

Midshipman Hart was evidently trying to fathom this out. His face brightened. “Unless the stay ropes were cut beforehand.”

Roscarrock chuckled cynically. “Are you telling me that whoever cut them was foresighted? A fortune-teller? That he cut the ropes with the premonition that we would shortly be in action and Jardine would be standing in that position? Why, we might have gone this entire voyage without firing a shot in anger-”

“That’s it! cried the young man excitedly. “Not in anger, not firing a shot in anger…”

Roscarrock regarded him with perplexity. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you recall last night, sir? You called all officers to your cabin and said that there would be a gunnery drill some time this morning to check our efficiency. That explains why Lieutenant Jardine was already on the gun deck before we sighted the Frenchman. He was ensuring his guns were in readiness.”

“I don’t follow.”

“All the officers knew that gunnery drill would take place. And every officer was told to ensure no crew member knew this so that it was to be a good measure of their efficiency. Even Surgeon Smithers was at the officers’ call when you announced the drill.”

“Are you now saying that one of my officers is responsible for Jardine’s death? That knowing the gunnery drill was ordered and also knowing where Jardine’s station was, they cut through the stay ropes and waited for the drill?”

“I am saying that one of the officers on this ship is responsible for his murder, sir. Only the officers knew of the impending gunnery drill and had time to tamper with the ropes.”

Roscarrock pursed his lips. “I think that your argument is rather far-fetched. But”-he raised a hand to interrupt the midshipman’s protest-”I’ll not gainsay your wish to make further inquiries. Remember that you are making serious charges, Mr. Hart. I will not record our conversations in the log until you come to me with evidence. Now, I am afraid that I have other pressing matters to attend to.”

Returning to the quarterdeck, Roscarrock found his first lieutenant, Gervaise, issuing orders to the ship’s carpenter.

He stiffened slightly as the captain approached, and dismissed the craftsman. “There’s still some rigging tackle in a dangerous condition on the mainmast by the crow’s nest. We won’t be able to clear it until we get in port waters. The Frenchie was using some chain shot to try to dismast us. It’s still lodged up there. We’ll have to use the mizzentop lookout position.”

“Very well. What about the foremast?”

“The master’s mate is overseeing the jury rig now. It’ll mean a new sail there. We can be under way within half an hour.”

Roscarrock glanced around at the enshrouding fog. “Unless it’s my imagination, this fog is thinning. Lets hope the Frenchie hasn’t stuck around to find out what has happened to us. We won’t have the speed to outrun him without full sails.”

Gervaise did not seem unduly worried. “Rambert’s a cautious cove, sir. Remember how his squadron failed to support Admiral de Villeneuve off Cape Finisterre a few years back? It was Rambert then who ran for a fog bank to escape our squadron rather than engage us. I think he’ll keep his ship back and not venture after us.”

“Let’s hope you are right, Mr. Gervaise.”

Gervaise hesitated awkwardly. “Sir, what’s this Surgeon Smithers was chortling about Lieutenant Jardine’s death?”

Roscarrock swung round in annoyance. Damn the loose-mouthed doctor to hell! “What was Smithers saying?” he demanded.

“Oh, he seemed amused by the fact Jardine killed himself by accident and won’t get the glory of dying in battle. Is it true?”

“Lieutenant Jardine was killed by a gun recoiling into him, that’s all,” Roscarrock said shortly.

Gervaise abruptly began to chuckle. “Rless me! It’s really true? Not killed in action? No fame and glory in death for Jardine?”

Roscarrock’s eyes narrowed. “I am fully aware that you didn’t like Jardine, Mr. Gervaise.”

Gervaise stopped chuckling, and his mouth suddenly hardened. “Didn’t like him? That is an understatement. I hated him, and if I had been a better man with sword or pistol, like young Unstead, I would have called out the bastard long ago. Ask Smithers, as well. He once tried to foist his attentions on Smithers’s daughter Prudence.” The words were spoken softly, but there was vehemence in them.

Roscarrock turned away in embarrassment. He pretended to examine the drifting fog again. “Hands on deck for the committal of the dead to the sea in half an hour. I want to be under way immediately afterwards if this clears.” He made to turn down the companionway but then paused and added, “Make sure we can muster a fighting trim if Johnny Frenchman suddenly appears again.”

Lieutenant Gervaise raised a hand to his hat.

In his cabin, Roscarrock sat for a while absently drumming his fingers on his desktop while listening to the faint sounds of shouted orders and answering cry of the hands as they performed their various tasks to return the ship to readiness.

Little time seemed to pass before there was a sharp tap on the door.

It was Midshipman Hart. His face wore a satisfied expression. He seemed bursting with news.

“Come in, Mr. Hart,” Roscarrock invited. “From your expression, I presume that you have solved your mystery?”

“I believe that I now know the means whereby it can be solved.”

Roscarrock raised his eyebrows for a moment and then sat back, relaxing as far as his small wooden chair would allow. “So what is your conclusion?”

“Exactly as I said, sir. Lieutenant Jardine’s death was accomplished with malice aforethought. Knowing the gun drill was going to be held this morning, one of the officers of this ship cut the stay ropes some time during the night so that number-six gun would recoil back and strike the lieutenant. However, before the gun drill was due to take place, a real engagement ensued when we sighted the Frenchman. The result was just the same. The gun killed the lieutenant.”

“That much you have claimed before. You were going to report to me when you could sustain your hypothesis. Can you do so?”

Hart smiled broadly. “As you gave me permission to pursue the task, sir, I took the liberty of searching Lieutenant Jardine’s dunnage.”

“You searched his personal possessions?”

“I did so, sir. I believe that given what I have found, I can demonstrate the reality of my theory and present a prima facie case against an officer.”

Roscarrock leaned forward quickly. “How so?”

“It is well known that Lieutenant Jardine had innumerable affairs, that he was a ladies’ man, a seducer of women.”

Roscarrock spread his hands, palm downward on his desk. “Go on,” he instructed.

“There were several letters in his locker all written to him by the same female hand and signature together with a small portrait. A portrait of a young lady. A rather attractive young lady.”

“Well?”

“The letters were signed each time ‘your own adoring P.’ In one letter, dated on the very evening we left Chatham, this lady, P, writes to Jardine that she fears for his life while on board the Deerhound. She suspects that her husband has discovered the affair and means to find an excuse to kill him. She begs him to find an excuse to absent himself from the ship at the earliest opportunity. There is some emotional material about them eloping to some foreign place together.”

Roscarrock drew his finger along the side of his nose thoughtfully. “The letters signed with the initial P, you say? I don’t think that will get you far. By coincidence, I know the names of the wives of three officers begins with P. Midshipman Hope is married to a young lady named Penelope. Lieutenant Gervaise’s wife is named Peggy, and Lieutenant Unstead’s wife is Phoebe….” Roscarrock suddenly paused as if a thought had struck him.

Midshipman Hart was nodding excitedly. “Lieutenant Unstead already challenged Lieutenant Jardine to a duel in Chatham. It was stopped by the Provost Marshal. The cause of the duel was that Lieutenant Jardine had insulted Lieutenant Unstead’s wife. Lieutenant Unstead’s wife is named, as you say, Phoebe.”

Roscarrock inclined his head as though unwilling to admit the possibility. “It is still a theory. How can you prove it?”

“By the miniature portrait, sir.”

“So far as I recall, no one on board, except Jardine, ever met Mrs. Unstead, so we have no knowledge of her features.”

“Then all we have to do is wait until we return to Chatham and then compare the portrait with the features of those of the officers’ ladies whose names begin with P. I will wager, however, that the features match those of Mrs. Unstead. Then we will have our assassin.”

Captain Roscarrock regarded the eager young midshipman with a serious expression. “Mr. Hart, I think you have done well. However, we cannot let a word of this slip out, because if it was thought that you had this evidence, your own life would not be worth that of a weevil in a ship’s biscuit. Do you have these letters and the portrait?”

Midshipman Hart reached into his uniform jacket and drew out a sheaf of papers and a small silver-framed oval object.

“I was going to give them to you, sir, so that you could lock them away until we return to Chatham.”

He handed them across.

Roscarrock gave them a cursory glance. “One thing, Mr. Hart.” He smiled softly. “Although you suspect Lieutenant Unstead, would it not be more appropriate to suspect all officers, for you might be doing him an injustice?”

“Indeed, sir. I am trying to keep an open mind in case I am wrong.”

“Why, then, am I not among your suspects? I could well play the part of a jealous husband.”

Midshipman Hart smiled and shook his head. “I did entertain the notion, sir, but then I dismissed it.”

“Dismissed it? On what grounds, pray?” demanded Roscarrock in amusement.

“I found out from your steward, sir, that your wife’s name begins with the letter M and not P.”

Roscarrock’s smile broadened. “You believe in attending to minutiae, Mr. Hart. You are right. My wife’s name is Mary. You will go far in the service. Very well. I shall keep these letters and the miniature portrait under lock and key until we are safely home in Chatham. Do not mention a word of such a find. Until we reach our home port, it might be wise to let it be known that your inquiries have been resolved and there is nothing suspicious about Jardine’s death.”

“Aye, sir.”

Roscarrock turned and placed the letters in his locker with the miniature portrait.

There came the sound of a ship’s bell.

“Nearly time for the burial service,” sighed Roscarrock. “Ask Mr. Gervaise to pass the word.”

Captain Roscarrock had been wrong. The fog was patchy and did not thin immediately. It lay around the Deerhound for two hours more after the committal of the bodies to the sea. Roscarrock impatiently paced the quarterdeck for a while, awaiting its clearance, but it hung with persistence. Now and then, Roscarrock heard officers exchanging a whisper and a chuckle. Crewmen passed to their duties, smirking. The reason was obvious. The news that Lieutenant Jardine had been killed in an accident was spreading round the ship. No glory for Lieutenant Jardine, just a casualty of bad fortune. It seemed that Midshipman Hart had spread the word that there was no more to the curious manner of the gunnery lieutenant’s death than ill fate.

Eventually, Roscarrock returned to his cabin and set himself to wait for the fog to clear. It was another hour before Midshipman Hart knocked on the door and touched his hat. “Mr. Gervaise’s compliments, sir. The fog is clearing rapidly now. There is a nor’-northwesterly wind beginning to blow.”

Roscarrock stood up. “Excellent. Take a run up aloft and scan the horizon. I don’t think the Frenchman has remained nearby, but we don’t want any surprises. I will come on deck immediately.”

Hart touched his hat again and turned out of the cabin.

Roscarrock reached for the brandy bottle and poured a generous glass from its amber contents.

Time seemed to pass interminably.

There was a sudden commotion on deck.

He raised his glass and swallowed quickly.

There was a cry: “Pass the word for the captain!”

Almost immediately one of the youngest midshipmen knocked at his door, a lad no more than fourteen years old.

“Mr. Gervaises compliments, sir,” came his childish piping treble. “Would you come on deck immediately, sir?”

Roscarrock grabbed his hat and followed the boy on to the quarterdeck.

He glanced around as he came out of the companionway. “What is it, Gervaise? Is it the Frenchman?”

Gervaises face was pale. “Young Hart, sir. He came on deck, sprang into the stays, and went scrambling up the mainmast to the crow’s nest. He was up there before I could warn him! Didn’t I mention earlier that the chain shot had frayed the rigging and splintered the spars there? All above the mains’1 was unstable. Young Hart just slipped, lost his footing, and came crashing down to the main deck.”

He indicated toward where a group of sailors were gathered around something that looked like a bundle of clothes.

Surgeon Smithers rose from his knees by it and glanced upward toward the captain. He stood his head in a studied fashion. “Neck clean broke, Cap’n,” he called.

Roscarrock turned back to Gervaise. “Was there no way the boy could have been warned before he went up the main rigging?” he demanded.

Gervaise shook his head. “What was the boy climbing up there for anyway?”

“I told him to go aloft,” replied Roscarrock. “I wanted a sweep around with the fog clearing to see if the Frenchman was anywhere in sight. I didn’t realize that he would go for the mainmast. I thought everyone had been warned that it was unstable. I presumed that he would use the mizzenmast crow’s nest, which would give a good clearance of the horizon, but…”

“Poor little sod,” muttered Lieutenant Unstead roughly. He had been standing behind Lieutenant Gervaise. “One more body to go over the side, I suppose. Fll get the sail-maker to stitch up another canvas and shot.”

An hour later the sloop was tacking across the wind, moving painfully slowly north-northwest across the bight toward the waiting British fleet.

Captain Richard Roscarrock sat at his desk and unlocked the cupboard, drawing forth the small miniature. He gazed down at the young, soft face, with the golden ringlets and pert red lips that smiled out from it. He stared in disapproval for a moment and then returned it, taking out the sheaf of letters that had been so emotionally addressed to Lieutenant Jardine and signed “your own adoring P.”

They were outpourings of a desperate and naive love. Hart had been right. The last letter had alerted Jardine to the young woman’s suspicion that her husband had found out about their affair and was a threat to Jardine’s life. It was clear that the husband, whose name was not indicated in the letter, was a fellow officer on board the Deerhound.

Roscarrock gave a low sigh, folded them up, and returned them to the locker.

He drew some clean sheets of paper toward him and reached for the pen and ink.

He addressed his letter to Mrs. Mary Roscarrock, care of the Rat and Raven Inn, Chatham. Then he paused a few moments for thought before beginning: My dearest wife, Polly… He paused and smiled grimly to himself. It was a good thing young Hart’s education had been lacking in that he had not realized Polly was used as a diminutive of Mary.