HMS Nightingale (Alexis Carew Book 4) Page 6

  “They’re dancing a bloody maypole on my hull,” Alexis muttered.

  Her compartment’s hatch was barely closed behind her before Alexis was stripping off her uniform and flinging the pieces toward her cot.

  “Of all the cack-handed, cunny-thumbed, bloody lubberly bits of —”

  She stormed into her head and slid the hatch shut with a loud thump, then turned her shower on with the water set as hot as she could stand it. As commander, she had a much larger water ration than the crew or even the midshipmen. It was still limited aboard a ship as small as Nightingale, but it was a luxury she intended to make full use of.

  She let the pounding of the water and the heat work on her until she could feel her muscles relax a bit. She’d likely go over her water ration, generous as it might be, with this shower, but it was either that or strangle someone, and she felt that might set the wrong tone this early in her command.

  “Or it might be just what’s needed,” she muttered.

  She’d managed to stay on the quarterdeck until Nightingale transitioned to darkspace. And managed to remain silent throughout. Through the bit where a pair of hands had rushed in from the hull to retrieve new lines when it was discovered that fully half the running rigging for the mainsail was missing from the sail locker. Then again through the bit where those same hands returned the lines as the missing rigging was discovered to be, inexplicably, bound up in the headsail itself.

  Through it all, the helmsman — Alexis didn’t yet know his name and hadn’t asked, as she’d have not a single encouraging word for the man after watching that display — had continued to adjust and readjust both the ship’s acceleration and course.

  The final straw, which had sent Alexis to her quarters with a terse, “Set us a course out of system toward Dalthus,” had been the transition itself.

  A full twenty minutes of work by the helmsman to position and keep them within the Lagrangian point long enough to trigger the transition to darkspace. The ship’s safety overrides were tripped time and again as it was determined Nightingale was drifting too much to make transition — or not entirely within the Lagrangian point to begin with.

  Alexis had never seen those overrides trip aboard a Naval vessel. They were there to keep a ship from attempting to transition outside of a Lagrangian point, something which would have dire results. Whether from darkspace or to it, ships that tried to transition outside of a Lagrangian point simply disappeared and were neither seen nor heard from again. There were a multitude of superstitions built up in spacers’ lore about the fate of such ships, but no scientific data, as there’d never been any trace of them found.

  Finished with the shower and feeling at least somewhat more relaxed and human than when she’d entered, Alexis returned to her compartment. Isom had been in while she showered and tidied up the bits of uniform she’d flung around, leaving them neatly folded on her cot.

  She grimaced. She hated that she’d let her temper get the better of her and made extra work for him with her tantrum. That was happening more and more lately. She regretted it after, but seemed to have little control in the moment. She dressed, this time in a worn ship’s jumpsuit, as she planned to tour the nether reaches of Nightingale while they sailed toward the system’s edge and the more variable darkspace winds there.

  While the winds were sometimes unpredictable far between star systems, they rather consistently blew directly toward a system the nearer one got to it. This was what made the dark energy the winds consisted of drive those systems, and even galaxies, faster and faster as part of the ever expanding universe.

  Alexis sat down on the cot’s edge and picked up a boot. She froze as it seemed to shudder in her hand, then a small, bewhiskered face appeared in the boot top, which explained its unexpected weight.

  Before she could draw breath to yell for Isom, the creature was out of her boot and streaking across the floor for whatever cover it could find, leaving behind an unmistakable scent wafting from Alexis’ boot.

  Eight

  13 September, aboard HMS Nightingale, darkspace near Zariah System

  Nightingale’s quarterdeck was silent save for the occasional rustling of the crew’s jumpsuits as they shifted positions at their stations.

  Alexis’ jaw muscles ached more than before. She’d returned to the quarterdeck to observe the simple act of sailing from their entry into darkspace at Zariah toward the system’s outer edges, and found even that simple task quite beyond her new crew’s ability to perform satisfactorily. As the darkspace winds blew directly toward the system’s center here, leaving meant either a series of long tacks or an ever growing spiral to keep Nightingale as close to the winds as she could sail.

  Or as close as this crew can put her.

  Nightingale was a fore-and-aft rig, simpler than the larger, square-rigged frigates or ships of the line, and also able to sail closer to the wind than those other ships. Or should have been. As it was, the helmsman and crew seemed unable to keep a course and set a sail trim which would allow that. The ship was now sailing a full point to windward less than the typical frigate could, zagging and bobbing about to such a degree that the far off features of darkspace storms visible on the plot’s monitors were in constant motion as the helmsman constantly adjusted his course in one way or another.

  Alexis glanced at Villar for perhaps the thousandth time and the midshipman flushed and swallowed hard.

  “Steady on, Busbey,” Villar murmured to the helmsman.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alexis closed her eyes and tried to keep her composure — as well as her stomach in the face of the swirling images from outside. She wanted to offer some words of encouragement or advice, but could think of nothing to say, neither to Villar, nor Busbey, nor the rest of the crew, most of whom were back on the main deck at their midday meal after hours of hauling sail and pulling lines outside the hull.

  There’s not even a joke to be made of this nightmare.

  The soft chimes of the ship’s bell sounded over the speakers, interrupting her thoughts. The men would be nearly finished with their meal and ready for their daily tot, not that she thought they deserved it after this performance. Another captain might stop the spirits ration altogether until the crew improved, but she’d just come aboard and didn’t want to be thought a Tartar before she understood the reason for their seeming incompetence.

  Surely, there must be a reason …

  She sighed. “Pipe Up Spirits, Mister Ousley.”

  The bosun straightened in his position at the hatch to the main deck and pulled out his tablet. “Aye, sir.”

  The trill of bosun’s pipes replaced the ship’s bell on the speakers.

  “Mister Villar, you have the deck,” Alexis said quietly. “I believe I’ll observe the spirits issue and gain some feel for the crew.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Nightingale’s main deck was mostly her only deck, given her size. Just aft of the quarterdeck, which took up a quarter of the ship’s length forward, it was where the men ate, slept, sat at leisure, and fought the guns. The only other deck, below, held Alexis’ quarters, the gunroom where the midshipmen and warrants berthed, as well as the purser’s and carpenter’s compartments, and below that was the hold, full of stores, the ship’s magazine, and the well-protected fusion plant fully aft.

  Alexis found the main deck gloomy and oppressive. It was crowded, obviously, with all of Nightingale’s crew, as well as the Marine complement, berthed in the one space. Their bunks were folded up against the bulkheads now, but when they came down at night there’d be barely room to walk sideways between them.

  The guns were tightly clamped to the deck, crystalline barrels covered with protective shrouds, and the crew’s mess tables lowered from overhead to sit atop them. Unlike the rest of the ship, which maintained the naturally light color of the thermoplastic from which the ship was constructed, the main deck was darkly colored, the better to absorb and not reflect enemy shot during an action.

  Alexis
took a place near the hatch back to the quarterdeck and settled in to observe. The compartment echoed with the clatter of dishes and cutlery as the crew cleared away their meals.

  Shortly the purser appeared with his spirits barrel and there were some muted cheers. Less, she suspected, than there would have been if she had not been present.

  One man from each mess lined up before the barrel and Wileman, the purser, began doling out the portions. Each mess’ representative took the ration back to their messmates where it was further divided.

  Alexis’ brow furrowed as she watched the crew. This was the first time she’d really had the chance to look at them all assembled in one place. They’d been present when she’d read herself in, but the confrontation with Villar and her own nervousness at a first real command had kept her from really noticing the men. Now she did, and she was growing more and more perplexed at what she saw.

  All ships might have a man or two who seemed unsuited to the life and work aboard ship, whether too old or too unfit, especially with the war on and the Impressment Service growing ever less discerning in their quest to feed the Navy’s ever growing demand for more crews. Isom had been one of those — a legal clerk with neither the strength nor temperament to survive in the Navy for long, but still taken up by the Press and sent aboard ship before he could protest.

  Nightingale, though, seemed to have a greatly disproportionate number of these sorts. Most of her crew, in fact, were not men Alexis would think suitable for service aboard ship. Old, clearly unfit, and in some cases even too young. Those who were fit had the look about them of men who’d gone to the Navy as the alternative to the gallows on some world, and, more so, looked as though the near miss hadn’t led them to consider changing their ways.

  Four of these drew Alexis’ attention immediately. One of them was first in line at the spirits barrel and once he returned to his messmates the four stood and left their rum ration on their table. They began circulating around the room from mess to mess collecting a bit more in the way of rum from each.

  This wasn’t unusual in itself. With the men paid so little, they generally had nothing in the way of coin to use in commerce amongst themselves, so Up Spirits was the time when debts for gaming or services were settled by giving the man owed ‘sippers’ or ‘gulpers’ from the rum ration, depending on the size of the debt. No, it was not unusual for men to circulate amongst the other messes settling such things at this time.

  It was, however, for there to seemingly be so much owed to one mess.

  “Mister Ousley?” Alexis called, just loudly enough for the bosun to hear in his position near the cask. She waited until he approached her before continuing, then low enough that she felt no one could overhear, “Without being too obvious in my pointing them out, but those four men there, now approaching the number three gun?” She paused, wondering now how best to ask her question.

  “I’ve no need of a look to know who it is you’re asking after, sir,” Ousley said, also keeping his voice low. “It’ll be Scarborough, Carras, Chivington, and Monks, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Alexis frowned. “There is something, then?”

  Ousley nodded. “Oh, aye, something.” He took a deep breath and raised an eyebrow toward the quarterdeck hatch. “Perhaps?”

  “Yes, let’s do.”

  Alexis led the way back to the quarterdeck and then down to her quarters.

  “Isom, a glass for Mister Ousley, if you please. Wine, Mister Ousley? Or will you take a bit of rum yourself?”

  “Beer, thank you, sir, if you’ve a bit. It sits better with me.”

  Alexis caught Isom’s nod that he did store a bit of beer in her pantry. Marie caught Alexis’ look as well and took Ferrau into the quarter gallery to offer her some privacy.

  “Of course. Wine for me, Isom.”

  Once they were settled and Isom had filled the glasses, Alexis took a sip.

  “So, these four men?”

  Ousley drained half his mug.

  “Scarborough, Carras, Chivington, and Monks,” he repeated their names. “Come aboard, oh, it’ll be three or more weeks now, I think. Off of Cambrian … forty guns, out of Pavv on her way to the border in escort to a convoy.”

  Alexis nodded. “I had noticed in reading Nightingale’s muster book a remarkable number of transfers from other ships.”

  “Aye, remarkable’s a word for it, I’d say.” Ousley drained the rest of his beer and Alexis nodded for Isom to refill the mug. “Seems every frigate and liner what crosses our path has a man or two to trade, ‘for the good of the Service’.”

  “I see,” Alexis said, and she thought she did. The reason for a captain to trade a man could only be that the man was trouble or incompetent in some way. “A great many of these trades, you say?”

  “Oh, aye. There’s only us as have warrants left of Nightingale’s original crew. All the rest been taken off by some ship or another, and us left with those what can’t pull a line nor wipe their own …” He paused. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mister Ousley.”

  “Well, there’s those that ain’t proper fit for the Navy, see, then there’s those that are trouble no matter where they go.”

  Ousley raised his mug, then set it down when he found it empty. Alexis nodded to Isom. If more beer might put Ousley in a talkative mood, she’d empty her pantry of it. The more she could learn of Nightingale and her new crew, the better.

  “I’m saying not a word against Mister Villar nor Lieutenant Bensley before him, you understand,” Ousley went on. “A full post-captain says, ‘This man for that man,’ and a lieutenant’s to say no? A midshipman’s to say no?” He snorted. “Not if he wants a commission or to be made post himself one day — not in this Navy.”

  Alexis nodded, both in agreement and to keep Ousley talking. She could well see his point, though. Technically one captain could not loot the crew of another as seemed to have occurred with Nightingale, but in reality the positions of a lieutenant versus a full post captain were so different that who would oppose the senior officer? Such a slight would be remembered and the senior officer would always be senior, and often in a position to do damage to a junior’s career and prospects.

  Still if other captains were unloading the old and unfit onto her ship, why had these four been sent? They were young and strong. Were they such troublemakers that their former captain would truly rather take a chance on random replacements off Nightingale?

  “So what is it these four are up to?” Alexis asked.

  “Oh, it’s outright extortion, sir,” Ousley said. “Nothing clever about it.”

  “What?”

  She’d suspected some sort of gambling operation for them to be collecting from so many of the others, but this?

  Ousley nodded. “Aye. There’s nary a man who’ll complain or call it what it is, mind you. Ask and it’s payment for this debt or that favor, you’ll be told, but the favor’s the foregoing of a beating, I’ve no doubt.”

  Alexis frowned.

  “I know what you’ll ask next, sir,” Ousley said, “but there’s little me and my mates can do without someone coming forward to complain.” He shrugged. “They’re careful — leave alone those who might fight them for their own bits. Most ships’d have a few among the crew who’ll stand up for their mates, but Nightingale … hadn’t been any aboard with that heart for months. They’re careful, as I said — give no cause to be sent to a captain’s mast, nor really any cause for complaint from me or my mates. They get a man alone, though, and he’s moving stiff the next day — ask him, and it’s a terrible fall he took, being as clumsy as he is and all.”

  “I see,” Alexis said.

  Ousley frowned. “I’d not have you thinking I can’t keep order, sir.” He raised a hand and scratched at his neck. “But my mates and I … well, if we see nothing and there’s no complaint — we can’t beat the men for no reason. The crew’d not stand for it.”

  “No, I see that.”

&nb
sp; Even if the four men were hated, the bosun — or Alexis and the other officers — would need some proof before acting, else the rest of the crew would feel the punishments were unfair. It might seem an odd thing, but the men would often see their own troubles with someone as secondary to fair treatment by the officers. After all, if one man could be punished without proof then anyone could be, and they’d not stand for that.

  “Very well, Mister Ousley. Do keep an eye out, though. I’d like it dealt with as soon as we do have some sort of proof — or anyone to step forward as an accuser, whether that be to you or at mast.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Ousley rose and made his way to the hatch.

  “Isom,” Alexis said after the hatch shut behind Ousley, “have you heard any rumblings amongst the crew about all this?”

  “A bit,” Isom said.

  Alexis raised an eyebrow.

  “And did you not feel it prudent to pass the information on to me?” she asked. A captain’s clerk, after all, was her ears amongst the crew.

  “Not ‘til there’s need, no,” Isom said, moving to refill her glass. “Nor a thing you can do about it, and with all the rest you’ve to deal with.” He nodded toward her desktop, where the myriad reports required by Admiralty seemed to be continuously displayed and updated, then sighed. “But now it’s out … you might as well know the whole of it. There’s more than spirits those four are taking from the other hands.”

  Alexis raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why didn’t Ousley mention that, do you suppose?”

  “He doesn’t know.” Isom glanced at the hatchway. “The bosun only knows what he can see or hear, and those four have the crew so scared there’s nary a peep as to what’s happening. Ousley can see the spirits well enough, as it happens right in front of him, no matter the excuses the men might make, but the coin those four take from the hands each port call’s done in secret. Then there’s the gambling — none of it straight, mind you. Those four could fleece a bald sheep, it seems.”