STO'B 5-2 Captain Fitton

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By the time Phillip returned to the sloop that was barely still his, he was pale and shaking. He made the sketchiest of salutes as he was piped aboard, told the master (the officer of the watch) to make all steam for Malta, and retreated to his cabins, refraining only with difficulty from slamming the door.

He barely had time to order coffee before the Marine sentry announce Mr South. “Yes,” Phillip said, then rather less forcefully, “how may I help you, Mister South?”

The master coughed apologetically, but steam was not up. The wind served, however, if Philip wished to start under sail.

“Yes,” said Philip. “Whatever combination of steam and sail will get us there the quickest, in your professional judgement.”

“Yes, sir. And the Chasseur, sir, shall we signal her to follow?”

Philip nodded, not too curtly, he hoped. The master left, and Philip sat down on one of the stern lockers. Badger would probably need some weeks in the yard at Malta, more than enough time for Admiral Whyte’s orders to arrive in Gibraltar and for the lucky commander to sail back to Mahon to claim Philip’s sloop. And the Chasseur - even if the old dog refused to believe him on the Spaniard and the merchantmen, the Chasseur was tangibly true, but here Simkin brought in coffee on a steel tray. Philip poured himself a cup, wonderfully hot and strong, and stared through the stern windows at the tangible Chasseur, floating at single anchor.

Badger’s capstan gave a few preparatory clunks that echoed through the sloop. In his mind’s eye Philip saw the Marines assembling at the capstan bars, with the usual pushing and shoving as the men distributed themselves. Perhaps if he color-coded the bars, each with a matching colored dot on the capstan head, the Marines would have less trouble; perhaps he could find paint in Malta.

The Chasseur began to glide from left to right across his stern windows as Badger crept over to her anchor. “Up and down, sir,” he heard a seaman report; Wight, by the sound of the voice; and Mister South’s reply, “thick and dry for weighing.” In the window, Chasseur settled in the last pane on the right, rising and falling in the swell.

The fife laid in, and in his mind’s eye Philip could see the Marines straining at the capstan, Wight and the party at the cathead, the men in the hold coiling the anchor cable.

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next| last episode with Dr M’Mullen GLOSSARY