Free The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) by Alaric Bond Page B

the action. But they were all but promised a run ashore on two previous occasions, and even dropped anchor at Spithead, only to be left swinging for the best part of a month, before sailing south.”
    “So, perhaps a little frivolity will ease the mood,” he chanced. “Cheer them up somewhat.” He glanced at his wife surreptitiously; if anyone could do with being cheered up it was her.
    “ Scylla is currently tinderbox dry,” Kate continued firmly, her attention still ostensibly set on the bandages. “A bit of light heartiness is fine, but things can so easily go the other way. In fact it might equally provide the necessary spark to set her ablaze.”
    * * *
    “I t will just be a few japes in the afternoon.” On the berth deck Flint was unknowingly repeating the surgeon's words. “And I reckons that as a topman, and one who can handle himself, you'll be getting off light. It's the lads what 'as to watch theirselves: them and any women what might be about.”
    “Who are they choosing as King Neptune?” Jameson asked, even though there only seemed to be one possible candidate.
    “That would be Mitchell,” Dixon, the oldest member of the mess, replied. “Though I don't believe he were chosen,” he continued. “I think he chose himself.”
    “He's got the build for it,” Flint conceded. “And the muzzle.”
    Certainly there was little doubting that the holder's massive frame, which was almost entirely bone and muscle, made him the ideal candidate to play a king of the ocean, and the man even sported the only beard aboard Scylla . Facial hair of any sort was not officially approved of but Mitchell's station, in the darker regions of the ship, kept such minor infringements far from official notice, while his temper, which was as legendary as his strength, was enough to dissuade most from taking the matter further.
    “That fribble from the governor's party is going to be queen,” Dixon continued. “Can't say I cares for him much m'self, but there's a few of that persuasion who do and, you got to admit, he comes up well enough in a frock.”
    “Have they chosen a Davy Jones?” Flint asked.
    “Hind,” Dixon told them. “He may be a painter but working so much with turpentine means he's got the cleanest hands of all, even if he don't always smell so good. There are no end of volunteers for bears. Captain was asked for a sail to be slung over the side, but that weren't allowed apparently. The ship ain't stoppin' neither.”
    “There's a good chance the French are still over the horizon,” Flint reminded them. “An' this will be no more than a bit of fun.”
    “Aye, but you can't work up much excitement,” Dixon grumbled. “Not in a couple of hours and with us still under sail.”
    “Any real women takin' part?” Flint asked: Dixon shook his head.
    “None can get near the lady's maid and the only one that might have been sporting enough is Mrs Manning. But she's already a shellback several times over: anyways, she's been a cross old cat for most of this voyage, an' her husband would never agree.”
    “Can't say as I blame him,” Jameson commented dryly.
    “Nor I,” Flint agreed. “Things are liable to get out of hand.”
    “We had a prime doxie one time,” Dixon told them, sparking suddenly into life and apparently shedding several years. “In 'eighty-nine, when we was headin' for New South Wales in a transport. We'd got the wench suitably drenched, an' was starting on the shaving when her dress just started comin' adrift in our 'ands. The drab was almost fully unrigged before her flash man stepped in. It were a pity,” he added sadly. “She was more'n willing.”
    “When do we start?” Jameson, who was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, asked.
    “Four bells in the afternoon watch,” Flint told him. “An' all has to be shipshape again by 'Up Spirits'.”
    “So, there won't be much time for the trials,” Dixon mused then, fixing his gaze on Jameson, winked broadly. “Nor the