The Patriot's Fate Read Online Free Page B

yard, and with plenty more serviceable years in her. Still, whoever came would have much to do before she saw the open sea again. There was nigh on a full crew to find, as well as a good few junior officers, and a fair amount of sorting of stores and equipment. She would be a clean ship, though; that was certain, at least for as long as Lieutenant Chilton had command.
     
    “Another fine day.”
     
    Chilton brought himself back to the real world to find Marshall addressing him from the starboard bulwark.
     
    “Indeed.” The lieutenant was about to take a step forward but stopped himself. He was of superior rank; it was Marshall’s duty to approach him. Consequently the two remained a good ten feet apart, and shouting slightly in the morning sunshine.
     
    “I trust all is now well with you?” Chilton asked. “There has been no relapse?” Marshall had claimed to be poorly for over a week, and had spent much of that time lounging in his cot.  
     
    “Very fine fettle, thank you,” the marine replied, “though at the time I was a little concerned.” Marshall’s symptoms had been rather vague and mysterious. Mr Clarkson, the surgeon, was in London and unable to attend him, so no diagnosis had been possible; but from the fuss the marine made it was thought to be something between consumption and the plague.
     
    “You have plans for today?” Marshall asked; Chilton shook his head.
     
    “There is plenty of routine maintenance,” he replied. “And I would like to take advantage of this sun to air the sails.”
     
    “Would that I were as busy. My sergeant keeps the men occupied, and we will no doubt be transferred to the shore if the ship remains at ease for very long. But there is precious little for me to attend to until then.”
     
    Chilton felt scant sympathy for the man. Presumably he had been detailed to stay in the ship, possibly it was even some form of mild and private punishment; but Chilton refused to believe that a professional officer could remain idle and apparently bored for very long.
     
    Marshall had turned back and was once more watching the anchored shipping. As junior lieutenant it was amongst Chilton’s duties to instruct the men in the use of small arms. He had minimal experience of hand-to-hand fighting, and was just about to suggest that Marshall held a drill that afternoon when Betsy Clarkson appeared on the deck below.
     
    Chilton watched her as she made her way towards him, avoiding the caulking team and their comments with a quick and easy response that drew respectful laughter from the men. Then she nimbly mounted the short ladder and greeted the quarterdeck in general with a vibrant beam that was equal to any salute in the young lieutenant’s mind. She could only be twenty-five at the most, a good fifteen years younger than her husband, although her golden hair and fresh, clear complexion made her appear even younger. He cleared his throat as she approached, but it was Marshall who spoke with her first.
     
    “Splendid morning, Mrs Clarkson.” Marshall was not wearing a hat, but had he been so, Chilton felt certain he would have doffed it in a ridiculously flamboyant manner. The woman stopped on her way to Chilton and regarded the marine with obvious approval.
     
    “Why yes it is, Mr Marshall. We are having a fine summer.”
     
    Chilton felt somewhat piqued at being denied his conversation, but would be damned if he was going to move now.
     
    She turned and addressed Marshall. “I was wondering,” she said, seemingly forgetting all about the naval lieutenant standing alone on his part of the quarterdeck, “my husband has sent word that he will be in London a while longer. I thought it might be a good time to spring clean our quarters; there is linen to wash, and the floor deserves a proper scrub.”
     
    Chilton winced as he heard the deck of the gunroom being referred to as a floor, but remained silent as she continued.
     
    “Would it be so very much of an