скачать книгу бесплатно
‘No, sir.’ She forced the voice as a low rumble, and shook her head.
‘Want to give that lass a kiss?’
Georgiana looked at the floor and shook her head. ‘No, sir.’
The third sailor spoke up at last. ‘Leave the lad alone, Jack. He’s still wet behind the ears, just a young ‘un. Let’s get some sleep on this bloody coach while we can.’
‘I was only ‘avin’ a laugh,’ Jack protested, ‘weren’t I, lad?’
The journey seemed long in the extreme, although it took little more than three hours. By the time they arrived in Fareham, close by Portsmouth, Georgiana was cold, hungry and tired, having been exhausted by excitement and nerves. And she had yet to travel to Havant from where she could catch the mail in the direction of Petersfield, thus allowing her to make her way to Collingborne. To make matters worse, the first stagecoach to Havant did not leave until early the next morning. After all this she could only hope that at the end of her travels, she would not be turned away from Collingborne House and that Mirabelle Farleigh would offer her the help she so desperately needed. Pray God that it would be so.
Captain Nathaniel Hawke stood on the quarterdeck of the Pallas and surveyed the busy commotion on his ship. The Pallas was a frigate, a long, low sailing ship, the eyes and ears of the navy. Before the quarterdeck a chain of men were hauling spare spars, placing them down beside the rowing boats on the open deck beams. Others scoured water casks ready for refilling. Shouts sounded from those up high checking the rigging, climbing barefoot and confident, white trousers and blue jackets billowing in the strong sea breeze. The smell of fresh paint drifted to the captain’s nose, as the men dangling over the bulwark on their roped seats, brushes in hands, applied the last few strokes of black across the gunport lids of the broadside. The black coloration contrasted starkly with the ochre yellow banding around the gunports themselves, setting up the smart so-called ‘Nelson’s Chequer’. In the distance, beyond the forecastle, the finely carved lion figurehead glinted proudly in the sunlight. ‘How fares Mr Hutton with his repairs?’
‘He’s completed all of the gunports on the starboard broadside and is halfway through those on the larboard. Mr Longley is continuing with caulking the hull and estimates that the job will be complete by this evening.’ First Lieutenant John Anderson faced his captain, resplendent in the full naval uniform that he had so recently purchased. He held himself with pride and eyed Captain Hawke with a mixture of respect and admiration. ‘The men are working hard, Captain, and all should be ready in two days. We’ll meet the sailing time.’ There was a strength and enthusiasm in his voice.
Nathaniel turned from his view of a chaotic Portsmouth Point and faced his second-in-command. The lad had everything that it took to make a good first lieutenant except experience. And that was something that would not be long in coming if Nathaniel had his way. ‘Indeed, Lieutenant, they’ve worked like Trojans, we all have. You’re right in your estimation of the work. But it’s not the repairs that threaten to postpone our departure.’ He glanced away, out to where the open sea beckoned. ‘We both know the real problem—our lack of manpower. We’ve not enough crew to properly man this ship and I cannot take her out as we currently stand. The men that we have are good and true, all came forward willingly to serve on the Pallas because she’s widely known to be a fair and lucky ship.’
Don’t be misled, sir. The men are here because Captain Nathaniel Hawke is reputed to be one of the best post captains to sail under and all that have sailed with him previously have been made rich with the prizes he captured. But the lieutenant knew better than to speak his thoughts.
Nathaniel’s face had grown grim. ‘But for all that, we’ve insufficient numbers to sail. It seems that we’re forced once more to turn to Captain Bodmin to supply the extra men needed.’ The knowledge curled his top lip.
Lieutenant Anderson sensed the captain’s reticence in the matter. ‘Most of the ships that sail from here require Captain Bodmin’s services and a good proportion of their crews comprise pressed men. It’s no reflection on you, Captain. Be assured of that.’
‘Thank you, Mr Anderson.’ He clasped his fingers together. ‘It seems that we’ve no choice, for if we’re to sail we must have men, even pressed men who’ve never set foot off land before and lack any seafaring skills. Not that that is what presents the biggest problem. They’ve no desire to be on board and so will cause any manner of trouble to illustrate the point. Little wonder when they’ve been forcibly deprived of their freedom. God knows, Mr Anderson, the Press Gang is very much a last resort. Better one volunteer than three pressed men.’
Both men turned and looked once more out across the crowded harbour of Portsmouth.
Georgiana was not feeling at her best as she huddled in the yard of the Red Lion. She felt as stiff as an old woman and she’d long since eaten any vestige of food contained within the bag pressed against her chest. The delicious aroma of hot mutton pies wafted from the pie seller just beyond the courtyard gates.
‘George, fancy a pie?’ The gruff voice surprised her.
Georgiana looked down and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, sir,’ she uttered in as manly a tone as she could manage. Her stomach protested with a fierce growl.
Burly Jack, as she’d taken to calling him, although not to his face, whispered to Tom, ‘Lad’s not the full shilling, but he’s ‘armless enough. Reminds me of me nephew.’ He straightened up and raised his voice in Georgiana’s direction. ‘Come on, now, boy, don’t be too proud for your own good. You must be starvin'. I ‘aven’t seen you eat nothin’ all night.’ Jack advanced, carrying three steaming pies, and thrust one towards her.
An audible rumbling erupted from Georgiana’s stomach.
Tom laughed. ‘Don’t try tellin’ us you ain’t hungry. They must have heard that stomach growl in the streets of London!’
The pie loomed before Georgiana, all hot and aromatic. She felt her mouth fill with saliva and could not help but lick her lips.
‘Come on, lad.’
The pie danced closer, calling to Georgiana with an allure that she had never experienced before. Her hand reached out and enclosed around the vision of temptation.
Burly Jack delivered an affectionate blow to her arm before the trio headed off towards the closest tavern.
Georgiana slumped against the wall. She bit through the pastry until delicious gravy spurted into her mouth, so hot that she could see the wisps of steam escape into the coolness of the surrounding air. Squatting down, she leaned her back against the rough-hewn stone behind her and chewed upon the heavenly chunks of mutton. It was strange just how contenting the simple act of filling one’s empty belly could be. Gravy trickled down her chin and she lapped it back up. She was just wiping the grease from her fingers down Francis’s brown woollen breeches when it happened.
Yells. Thuds. The sound of Burly Jack’s voice raised in anger and fear.
Georgiana started up like a scared rabbit, peering all around. The voices came from the other side of the wall. Darting through the gate she ran round and into the narrow alleyway. ‘Jack!’ Her voice rang out clear and true.
In the gloom of the alley her travelling companions had been set upon by several men. There was much flying of fists and kicking of legs, but Georgiana could just see that Burly Jack was being thoroughly bested. Without pausing to consider her own position, she launched herself upon Jack’s attacker, ripping at his hair and boxing his ears for all she was worth.
‘Run, lad!’ Jack’s voice echoed in her ear. It was the last thing she heard before she was felled by a hefty blow to the back of her head. And then there was nothing.
Georgiana awoke to a giddy nauseous feeling. There was an undoubted sensation of swaying that would not still whether she opened her eyes or closed them. Not that it made any difference to what she could see within the dense blackness of where she now found herself.
She tried to sit up, but the throbbing of her head increased so dramatically that she thought the remnants of the mutton pie would leap from her stomach.
‘George, is you awake yet?’ The unmistakable tone of Burly Jack’s voice sounded.
‘Yes, sir.’ She groaned. ‘Where are we? I can’t see anythin'.’
A hand landed on her thigh and she let out a squeak.
‘There you are, lad. Did them bastards ‘urt you? Looked like they landed you a right good ‘un on the ‘ead.’ Jack’s hand moved up to her arm. She prayed it would stray no further.
‘I’ll mend,’ she uttered, trying to quell the queasiness rising in her stomach, and struggled to a sitting position.
Jack’s hand patted her arm. ‘That’s the spirit. Tom and Bill’s ‘ere too. Bastards got us all, and two others by the name of Jim and Rad.’
‘The lad sounds young.’ Rad’s voice came out of the gloom. ‘Voice ain’t broken yet.’
‘He is young, so don’t be startin’ nothin’ with ‘im or you’ll ‘ave me to answer to.’ Burly Jack’s voice had lost its soft edge.
It seemed that Georgiana had found something of a protector within the smelly dark hovel. Would he remain so if he fathomed her secret? It was not a question that she wished to test. The rocking motion seemed to be getting worse, just as her eyes had adjusted to see grey shapes within the surrounding darkness. And with it grew her nausea. ‘Dear Lord!’ The curse escaped her as the retching began.
‘Easy, lad.’ Burly Jack’s voice sounded close. ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough and then it won’t never come back. Seasickness ain’t a pleasant feeling, but there ain’t nothin’ can be done about it.’
‘Seasickness?’ Georgiana questioned with a feeble tone.
‘Oh, aye, lad. What d’you think them fellows wanted with us? They’re the bloody Press Gang and you’re aboard ship now.’ Jack’s words had a horrible nightmarish quality about them.
She blinked her eyes into the darkness. ‘You must be wrong, sir.’
‘Nope,’ Jack replied with a definite cheery tone. ‘You’re a ship’s boy on the Pallas now, young George, whether you like it or not. Best get used to the idea before the bosun comes to fetch us.’
Georgiana let out a load groan and dropped her head into her hands. She was once again in a diabolical situation as the result of her own foolhardy actions. But this time there would be no handsome Lord Nathaniel Hawke to jump headlong in and save her.
‘You’ve interviewed them all, Mr Anderson. So what do we have?’ Nathaniel continued in his stride towards the small group of men standing at the far end of the main deck.
Lieutenant Anderson walked briskly alongside. ‘Good news, Captain Hawke, sir. There are five men, three of whom have plenty of experience at sea. I’ve rated them as able seamen, sir. The other two are landsmen, never set foot on a ship before, but I estimate that they’ll be quick to learn. All are now registered on the Pallas’ books.’
Nathaniel’s face was grim. ‘It sickens me to the pit of my stomach that I’m forced to resort to such a thing. I’d rather have them here willingly or not at all.’
‘You’re only following orders, Captain,’ the first lieutenant pointed out. ‘And I fancy that they’ll soon change their minds as to a life at sea once they’ve sailed on the Pallas.’
Nathaniel remained unconvinced, but he had a job to do and he had best get on with it, no matter that having pressed men aboard his ship left a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘Three able seamen, you say?’
‘Oh, and there’s a lad of fourteen as well. It seems that he was with the sailors when they were taken by Captain Bodmin’s men. We’re still short on ship’s boys, so I’ve rated him as a third class. Mr Adams is under the impression that the boy is dim-witted; indeed, I did notice that he keeps his head down and mumbles when spoken to. But I thought…well, with the need to leave port that …’ John Anderson struggled to find the words.
Nathaniel came to the rescue. ‘Given the right instruction I’m sure that the boy will learn. You did right, Mr Anderson. Better that he ends up here with his friends than alone aboard another ship.’ He pushed the stories of what had happened to lone youngsters on certain other ships out of his head. Not while Nathaniel Hawke had breath in his body would any such depravity take place on the Pallas.
The pressed men stood separately from the rest of the crew, forming a small distinct group. As Nathaniel and John Anderson approached, the group stiffened and stood to attention.
‘Stand at ease, men,’ Lieutenant Anderson commanded.
The men responded.
Nathaniel stood before his crew and surveyed the latest additions. ‘Welcome to the Pallas. Some of you may not be here by your own free choice, but you’re here to serve your king and country nevertheless. Our voyage may be long and difficult. Indeed, we will be exposed to many perils and threats. But as men of England I know that you will fight, as we all fight, to retain our freedom. For if our great navy does not fight, we may as well collect Bonaparte ourselves and deliver him to London’s door.’
He looked into each man’s eyes in turn.
‘This voyage is not an easy walk. I demand your obedience, your loyalty and your diligence.’
The first two faces in the line were pale, their skin tinged with a greenish hue—the landsmen, no doubt. They were listening despite their rancid stomachs.
‘In return I offer you adventure, and the chance of wealth. There are prizes out there, gentlemen, and they are ours for the taking.’
The next three were ruddy and vigorous. Two fellows of medium build and one large bear of a man. All were intent on his words.
‘But with the biggest prizes come the biggest dangers. And only the best crews will win them in the end. With drilling, with perseverance, with determination, gentlemen, we can be the best of crews; we can win the best of prizes.’
He swung his arms in a wide encompassing gesture to the massed crew. ‘Gentlemen, I give you the best of me, and I demand the very best of you, each and every one of you. We sailed yesterday under sealed orders. We have reached the specified longitude and latitude and I can reveal to you all that the Pallas will proceed to the Azores and cruise there to capture any enemy vessels encountered. The pickings will be rich indeed. What say you, men, will you give me your best?’
The deck resounded to raucous cheering. Even Burly Jack, Bill and Tom clapped one another on the back and raised their voices. Jack laughed down at Georgiana and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘This is much better than the poxy vessel we were bound for. We’ll be rich, lad, rich!’
Nathaniel’s voice sounded above the din, and an immediate hush spread. ‘Then let us commence our voyage as we mean to finish it.’ As the crowd dispersed, Nathaniel glanced at the boy hovering by the elbow of the large man. Lieutenant Anderson had been accurate in his description, for the lad’s gaze was trained firmly on the wooden floor, his head bent low. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
The boy’s head bent lower, as if he wished the deck to open and swallow him up. ‘George, Captain, sir.’
Nathaniel had to strain to catch the low-pitched mumble. ‘And your family name?’
The small boots standing before him shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Robertson, Captain, sir.’
‘Well then, Master Robertson, my first command to you is that you stand up straight at all times and look whoever may be talking to you directly in the eye. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Captain, sir,’ the faint reply came back.
The boy’s head remained averted.
Perhaps Mr Adams had been right in his estimation of the boy’s wits. Nathaniel frowned. ‘Master Robertson,’ he said somewhat more forcefully.
The large sailor nudged the boy and hissed between blackened teeth, ‘Do as the Captain says, George. Stand up straight. Look up.’ He turned back to the captain. ‘Sorry, Captain, he’s a bit slow, but he’s a good lad.’
Nathaniel’s gaze drifted back to the stooped figure.
Slowly but surely Georgiana straightened her shoulders and raised her face to look directly at Captain Hawke.
Nathaniel blinked. There was something familiar about the dirt-smeared little face that looked up at him. A memory stirred far in the recesses of his mind, but escaped capture. Surely he must be mistaken? The boy was clearly no one he had ever seen before. He tried to shrug the feeling off. And all the while George Robertson’s youthful grey-blue eyes were wide with shock. ‘That’s how I prefer to see you at all times, Master Robertson. A seaman should be proud of himself, and as a boy aboard my ship, you’ve much to be proud of.’ Captain Nathaniel Hawke returned to his cabin with a faint glimmer of unease that could not quite be fathomed.
Georgiana’s knees set up a tremor and she pressed her hand to her mouth. She thought that her nausea had subsided with the fresh sea air of the open deck. The sight of the gentleman striding purposefully towards them brought it back in an instant. Dear Lord, but he bore an uncanny resemblance to Lord Nathaniel Hawke. It was a complete impossibility, of course, or so she told herself. Many men were tall with dark hair that glowed red in the sunlight. But as he came closer, and Georgiana was able to look upon those brown expressive eyes, fine straight nose and chiselled jaw line, she knew that her first impression had not been mistaken.
Her sudden gasp went unnoticed as Lord Nathaniel addressed the surrounding men. Shock gave way to relief. Providence, in the guise of Nathaniel Hawke, had helped her before and was about to do so again, or so it seemed. Even as her spirit leapt, the stark reality of her circumstance made itself known to her. Only two kinds of women came aboard ships, the wives of officers, and those who belonged to what she had heard termed the oldest profession in the world. Georgiana belonged to neither group. Yet the Pallas had sailed from Portsmouth two days since. Her position was precarious in the extreme. The very presence of an unmarried lady aboard Nathaniel Hawke’s ship was likely to place him in a difficult situation. Her own reputation no longer mattered, but she had no wish to cause trouble for the man who had saved her life. There seemed to be no other alternative than to continue with her deception as the simple-minded boy. She dropped her gaze to the spotless wooden decking and played her part well, hoping all the time that Nathaniel Hawke would not recognise any trace of Miss Georgiana Raithwaite.
‘Oi, dopey!’ The rough-edged voice sounded across the deck. ‘Have you got cabbage for brains or what?’ The fat gunner’s mate delivered a hefty slap to Georgiana’s ear. ‘Get this bloody place cleaned up before Mr Pensenby arrives. If he sees it in this state, you’ll be on reduced rations again. Now get a bloody move on.’
In the two weeks that had passed since the Pallas’ departure from Portsmouth harbour, Georgiana had managed to avoid the worst of trouble and had retained her disguise. All trace of seasickness had vanished thanks to her daily consumption of grog. It might have tasted foul, but it had settled her stomach when she thought it would never be settled again. Her hands still bore some open blisters, although most had healed to calluses upon her palms. Her hair was matted and itchy beneath the dirty black woollen cap that she permanently wore and her feet were rubbed and sore from clambering barefoot over the slippery decks. As if that were not bad enough, she seemed to be covered from head to toe in a layer of filth from her newly appointed position of gunroom servant. Heaven only knew quite how scrubbing floors and tables, washing plates and glasses, and being at the beck and call of every officer and young midshipman, as well as waiting at their dining table, could have got her into such a state! It was not an easy job, but it was infinitely preferable to that of the ‘Captain of the Head', young Sam Wilson, who had the unenviable task of cleaning the lavatories at the head of the ship. Sam was only eight years old and she had taken the little lad under her wing.
She saw little of Jack and the others except at the odd meal time, when his hearty laughter allowed her to find him amidst the rows of rough wooden tables and benches set between the guns that transformed the upper deck into a mess each mealtime. As Georgiana grew accustomed to daily routine on board ship, she began to think that perhaps she might just survive the voyage in the guise of George Robertson, but she had reckoned without the interference of the second lieutenant, Cyril Pensenby.
‘Lieutenant Pensenby, sir!’ The gunner’s mate straightened and saluted the poker-faced young gentleman who had just strolled into the room.
‘Holmes.’ Georgiana watched as the officer’s snowy white breeches brushed inadvertently against one of the narrow wooden benches. The lieutenant glanced down and stopped dead still. He raised his eyes and looked accusingly at Georgiana, whose own gaze remained riveted to the discoloured smear that now sullied the material stretched across the gentleman’s leg. ‘Master Robertson,’ his cultured voice lisped, ‘you will scrub this room from top to bottom until it has not one grain of dust, not one smear of dirt. And when you’ve finished you shall scrub yourself clean in a similar fashion. There is a bathing cask up on deck. See that you make use of it. I shall return before the first dog watch to inspect the work you’ve undertaken. I hope for your sake, boy, that it meets with my approval.’
Georgiana stared wordlessly at the retreating figure.
The gunner’s mate eased his corpulent frame on to the bench. ‘Best get started, lad. The lieutenant ain’t a man to be trifled with and he won’t cut you no slack on account of your simple-minded ways. Gunner won’t be best pleased either.’
Three hours later the gunroom was shining like a new pin. Please don’t let anyone mess it up before he sees it, Georgiana prayed, before setting about cleaning the worst of the ingrained muck from her face and hands in a small wooden basin. Most of the dirt had been brushed out of her blue culottes and jacket before Lieutenant Pensenby returned.
He perused the gunroom down the end of his long thin nose, saying nothing, before turning his scrutiny to Georgiana herself. ‘Roll up your sleeve, Robertson,’ the curt voice commanded.
Georgiana did as she was told, holding one grubby arm up for inspection.
‘You have not bathed.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, sir, but I cleaned myself just as you told me.’ Georgiana tried to retrieve her arm from beneath the gentleman’s fingers.
Cyril Pensenby’s thumbnail scraped against her skin, releasing a layer of blackened grime. ‘The evidence speaks for itself, boy.’
‘No, sir, you’re mistaken, sir,’ Georgiana mumbled in as low a tone as she could muster.
Mr Pensenby’s brows lowered and he thrust Georgiana’s arm angrily away. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Robertson?’
What had started as a small matter was rapidly escalating out of control. ‘No, Lieutenant, sir.’ She bit at her bottom lip and focused on the decking around Mr Pensenby’s feet.
Pensenby turned to the gunner’s mate. ‘See that this boy is scrubbed clean in a cask bath. Immediately, Holmes.’
‘Aye, Lieutenant Pensenby, I’ll see to it personally, sir.’
Georgiana’s eyes widened in terror as she realised what was about to happen. ‘No!’ She made to run past the two men, but fat fingers closed cruelly over her wrist and dragged her back.
‘Come along, Master Robertson, ain’t nothin’ so very bad about havin’ a bath. Let’s be havin’ you up on deck, lad.’
Georgiana wriggled and squirmed, but nothing, it seemed, could dislodge the gunner’s mate’s firm grasp. By the time they had reached the deck she could scarcely catch her breath.
