Poissons d'Avril by Ruth W.

“This practice is abominable!” Captain Sir Edward paced about his cabin, scowling.  “It is disrespectful, childish and above all, FRENCH!”  He fired the last word at them with the moral force of 24-pound shot, making them want to step instinctively back. 

The three midshipmen did not dare glance at one another to express the sheepish remorse they felt.  The Old Man was irascible, but he rarely got his shirt tails in a twist like this. 

“I won’t have vile, Gallic habits in my ship!” he growled, his lips thin with disgust.  “Mr. Eccles is not aboard this vessel to be held up to ridicule, gentlemen!” 

Seeing that he was truly angered by what the three miscreants still thought of as a harmless prank, Kennedy decided to take it upon himself to confess that he had been the instigator, whereupon Hornblower and Bracegirdle jumped to his defence.  They had agreed eagerly, they told the captain, and had spent all afternoon with a hook and line over the stern, catching the fish. 

“Very well,” Captain Sir Edward decided, with an air of iron finality, still glowering fit to turn milk to cheese.  “Since you are all so remorseful, perhaps you will enjoy a period of penance in the topmast.” 

This time the miscreants could not resist a brief exchange of dismay.  It was a filthy night, and it was going to be a long one… 

*          *          * 

Hornblower sat back in his chair, watching Polwheal detach the dead fish from the back of Mr. Bush’s coat, remembering bygone days and trying not to smile.  Not that they had made a habit of holding the officers of the Indy up to ridicule.  There had been, after all, a war to be fought, but occasionally, on dates when the Lord of Misrule held sway, they had felt justified in peppering the ship with a little anarchy.  It had made the treadmill of Channel Service bearable. 

They had caught Mr. Eccles a treat all those years ago, aboard the old Indefatigable, as his own young gentlemen had caught Bush here in the Sutherland.  For the life of him, though, he was unable to understand how any man could allow his jacket to be abused in this way and not notice.  The smell alone would surely be a powerful sign that mischief was afoot. 

In truth, he was not surprised.  Bush was a fine seaman, and a good, solid officer, but he was hardly sensitive nor even fully aware, where the young gentlemen were concerned.  To Bush, boys only existed when there was a signal to be hoisted or an order to be passed, or a backside to be tanned.  He was kind to them – probably too kind, Hornblower thought dryly - but the little nuances of their lives, the minutiae of their intercourse, their constant comings and goings about the ship, were of no more account to him than the wheeling of the gulls above the t’gallants or the passing of the whales below the keel. 

“Shall I send for the likely culprits, sir?”  Bush asked, perhaps unwisely.   

It was a natural enough question, but Hornblower glowered.  The application of April Fish was not a capital offence.  He had once been amused by Maria’s story, only half-remembered now, of how she had been berated by her mother for coming home from the school where she worked with no fewer than thirty-seven paper fish attached to the back of her gown.  Now he held the exalted position of captain, he was obliged to join Captain Pellew in considering the All Fool’s Day rites abhorrently French, but knew well enough that it was innocent fun, and to make a fuss about it would only cause delight in the midshipmens’ mess, and would do nothing for discipline.  And a part of him was secretly pleased that they had chosen sturdy, socially blind Bush and not himself.  But he pushed that sentiment to the back of his mind before it brought on an attack of guilt for its very unworthiness.  With the enemy only a step over the horizon and the ship standing sentinel here just off the coast of Spain, he had enough to think about without wrestling his own conscience. 

“No, dammit!” he snapped, his good humour gone.  “Let them be!  You wouldn’t have me grace their japes with an admonition, would you, Mr. Bush?” 

“Indeed not, sir.”  Bush opened the stern window a crack to let out the smell.  Had he caught them doing it, he might have hailed for the rattan, but now the moment had passed, it would not do to appear offended.  He grinned awkwardly.  “Boys will be boys, sir.” 

“Yes.”  Hornblower had been a boy once - oh, such a long time ago.  But he had never been that kind of boy – the one who would cheerfully court his father’s disapproval for a prank – until he had come to sea in Justinian, and fallen in with daredevil Bracegirdle and comedian Kennedy.  The former had the wicked spirit for such things, and the latter the cheeky wit and acting ability to pull them off.  And Hornblower himself had been the thinker, the planner, the organiser, brought in as third man.  All equally culpable – and equally chagrined when things went wrong, and they had found themselves sitting down very carefully after a session with the bosun.  But even a sore bottom was nothing when it paid the price in full for a true misdeed.  At home, punishment stood for rather more, each incident an instalment in some running account - another entry in the ongoing ledger – the balance between his own failings and his father’s disappointment. 

Who were the culprits in his escapade, Hornblower wondered, noting absently how the sky was clearing outside the window?  Who would instigate such devilry under his very nose?  It might be useful to know that, even if he chose to ignore it.  Longley and Savage, certainly.  Those two were a pair of monkeys.  Longley even looked like a monkey, with his ugly little face and his simian scrambling about the rigging.  His thoughts flickered over the other midshipmen aboard.  Not Grey, he was sure.  That boy was above that sort of thing, as he himself had once been before Kennedy and Bracegirdle had corrupted him.  He suspected Hooker was too old to concern himself with childish japes.  Perhaps he would take a stroll about the deck  - or better still, the cockpit - and look them all over.  Sometimes iniquity leaves a telltale signature on manner and expression, which a good ship’s captain should be able to read like a book. 

            As he was helped into his coat by Polwheal, he sniffed the air theatrically.  “You have checked it for fish, I hope!” he jested, but the joke fell, as Hornblower’s often did, on deaf ears. 

“Oh yes, sir, and brushed it down, and polished the salt off the buttons, captain.”  The words were matter-of-fact, with no hint of sycophancy, but they still made Hornblower uneasy.  He enjoyed being treated with deference far too much.  Any pleasure he took in his exalted position was constantly at war with his egalitarian nature and upbringing. 

“Get rid of those damned fish, will you!” he growled gracelessly as he quit the cabin. 

            The cockpit, where the midshipmen carried out their daily social rites, was as dark, damp and redolent of sweat and unwashed stockings as any other place inhabited by youthful males recently cast adrift from their wonted domestic comforts.  The captain rarely had occasion to come down here.  There was very little in the way of urgent business which would bring him into so low a hole, and the denizens of the place knew it. 

There was untramelled conversation here and much lounging about with feet on the table or on the sea-chests.  At his appearance around the partition, someone let out a muffled oath, and the four young gentlemen fell abruptly to their feet and came to attention, pulling their clothing into a semblance of smartness. 

He could just make out Grey in the gloom, and Savage and Hooker.  And was that Vincent over in the far corner?  And yes indeed, the smell of dead fish was stronger here than anywhere else in the ship.  He was, then, at the centre of the operation. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted mildly. 

“Good morning, captain,” echoed around the timbered cave, all present trying to put as much sincerity and goodwill into the greeting as they could. 

Hornblower sniffed at the air.  “A very strong smell in here, gentlemen,” he observed.  “Can you explain it?” 

Hesitation – such telltale hesitation, and then Hooker smiled nervously.  “I fear it could be our clothes, Captain.  We were caught in the squall this morning, and we have yet to take our things up on deck to dry.” 

Well might they appear embarrassed.  Having wet clothing below decks was an offence, and they might all expect the rattan for it.  But Hornblower was not deceived.  He pierced the boy with a gimlet glare.  “Fish, Mr. Hooker.  I smell fish.” 

Silence.  Even Hooker was not prepared for this.  Finally it fell to master’s mate Grey to attempt a rescue.  “Oh yes, sir, we’ve been fishing, from the main chains.  It’s good sport in this weather, sir!” 

Hornblower eyed him, wearing now the neutral expression he usually reserved for the whist table and dancing with other men’s wives. 

“Were you lucky?” he asked equably. 

“Oh aye, sir!  We copped a bucketful!” Savage piped up, but Hooker gave him a look which inspired silence. 

“Well done!  Show me!”  The captain seemed genuinely pleased at the success of his young gentlemen and wanted to share their pleasure. 

Reluctantly Grey reached behind the partition and produced a leather bucket, at the bottom of which languished three or four dead fish.  Horblower feigned a look of disappointment and disapproval.  “Hardly a bucketful, Mr. Savage.  Hardly more than a mouthful!  Boasting is not becoming in a young gentleman, sir.” 

Savage appeared suitably contrite.  “No, sir,” he agreed. 

“And what do you intend doing with your ‘catch’?” 

“We hope Cook will fry ‘em up for our supper, sir.”  It was Vincent’s turn to take up the façade.  “They’re only tiddlers, but they make good eating, sir.  Better than rats.” 

Hornblower nodded sagely.  The day any Englishman at sea would be happy to eat fish would see the Admiralty rejoicing as Hell froze over.  Though fish would have been the perfect answer to the shortage of fresh meat at sea, no British seaman in a ship of war would ever condescend to eat it. 

“Well, if you enjoy it, perhaps you will spread the word to the men on the gundecks,” the captain suggested, absolutely determined not to smile. 

As he was about to withdraw, confident that they would now cease and desist their cabalistic practices, there was a clatter along the deck, and here came Longley, breathless and flushed with victory.  “Done it!” he cried, blind to the covert and desperate signals from his peers.  “Bagged Mr. Gerard… TWICE!” he added exultantly. 

Then his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and widened when the captain – the Almighty – stepped out of the shadows. 

“How very alarming, Mr. Longley,” he said, still with a commendably straight face.  “In what manner has the ship’s master been ‘bagged’?” 

Longley gaped at him, blinking, his wits deserting him, and he might have been a long time finding them sufficiently to give a straight answer, had there not been another clatter along the deck.  Before anyone had the chance to make things worse, Midshipman Simmons arrived, breathless, having gone to the captain’s cabin and been redirected here. 

“Mr. Rayner’s compliments, Captain… Captain Bolton is coming aboard.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons.  Please tell Mr. Rayner I shall come on deck." 

As Simmons turned to go back with his message, Hornblower could not fail to notice the dead fish pinned to his back… 

Dear God… Simmons and Gerard, and how many others?  How many of his officers were cheerfully standing on his quarterdeck at this very moment, carrying behind them the pungent evidence of iniquity! 

“We will talk more of this later!” The words he threw back into the cockpit hit the miscreants’ ears like an unexploded shell, and gloom descended upon them.  They would be standing up all day tomorrow.  Captain Hornblower turned on his heel to make his way swiftly to the open deck.

            On the quarterdeck, his worst fears were realised.  Captain Bolton’s barge was skimming across the water towards them, and everywhere he looked aboard the Sutherland, dead fish seemed to be leering back at him.  In fact the young gentlemen had only had moderate success, and no more than three or four of his officers wore posterior piscean adornments, but that was three or four too many for Captain Hornblower. 

“Get these filthy things off my ship, Mr. Bush,” he growled, noting with disgust that Bush had been ‘bagged’ for the third time that morning.  “Any man still wearing dead fish when Bolton comes aboard will be turned before the mast!” 

“Aye sir!”  There was much scanning of shoulders and fumbling as the gentlemen on the quarterdeck checked one another and removed dead fish as necessary, tearing the wool of perfectly good jackets and getting wire hooks in fingers in the process.  Then Bush sent the word about the ship that all ranks were to check their shipmates for ‘non-regulation items’ and remove such abominations as necessary, whereupon there was much smirking from the hands, and for a short while it seemed as if discipline would fall apart.  But ‘Old Horny’ ran a tight ship, and it was not long before order was restored. 

Captain Bolton was impressed as the pipes twittered him aboard.  “Very smart, Captain Hornblower,” he greeted jovially.  “Nice to see a ship run properly, even on All Fool’s Day.” 

Hornblower bowed stiffly, still too anxious to enjoy the compliment.  “Thank you, sir.” 

Bolton looked about him, enjoying the change of scene of being on someone else’s ship.  “You haven’t been plagued with these bally fish, then?” he asked cheerfully. 

Hornblower stared at him.  “Ha-hm…” he responded while he thought about his answer.  “No, sir, it would not appear so.” 

“Quite right, sir!  Nasty French habit, but it seems to amuse the boys.  Poor old Caligula has been thoroughly infested with the damned things all morning!

“Allow me, sir,” Bush interjected, solicitously unhooking a juvenile sea bass from the back of Bolton’s left shoulder.  The genial captain let out a loud laugh and shook his head.  “Thank you, Mr. Bush.  It would not do to sit down to lunch with that hanging down one’s back!  You are going to ask me for lunch, aren’t you, Captain Hornblower?” 

Hornblower’s thoughts spun until he remembered that his steward was Polwheal…

           The April Fish experience should have angered Hornblower, but once the fright of being boarded by a superior officer in the middle of it all had dissipated, he actually felt rather smug.  Even Bolton, it seemed, could be caught by these little devils with their hooks and nasty Gallic fishes.  Even Gerard… even Bush, not once, not twice, but three times!  Yet in Hornblower’s opinion, a man must be very weak-minded to allow a midshipman or master’s mate to approach him from behind and assault his person with something so strong-smelling and unpleasant.  He was glad that he, at least, had had the guile and dignity and presence of mind to avoid their evil advances. 

As he entered his cabin, with Bolton ahead of him, Polwheal was in the doorway to take his coat.  Hornblower was too glad to be relieved of it and too busy with his guest to notice that the steward folded it quickly and carefully, and removed it with speed from the cabin, so that nobody would see him removing the dead fish… 

The End.

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