Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

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.”