The Flying Squadron by Richard Woodman

Metcalfe has impressed his generallyunpleasant character upon the ship.
    Resolved not to return to the wardroom, Frey decided instead to visit Midshipman Belchambers in the gunroom on the pretext of giving him some instruction. Immediately upon descending to the gloom of the orlop he realized his mistake. The surprised and furtive looks of men about him, the quick evasive slinking away and the whispered warning of a commissioned presence seemed to Frey’s overwrought nerves to echo into the dark recesses of the ship with a sinister significance. Off-duty marines in their berth just forward of the midshipmen’s den stopped polishing boots and bayonets. The midshipmen themselves wore expressions of guilt and Frey was just in time to see a book snapped shut, a pencil hurriedly concealed and a stack of promissory notes swept out of sight. He caught Mr Midshipman Porter’s eye.
    â€˜What are you running a book on, Mr Porter?’
    â€˜Er, a book, sir? Er, nothing, sir . . .’
    Frey looked about him. The collusion of the midshipmen argued against anything serious being wrong. He had not disturbed a mutinous assembly and would be best advised to turn a blind eye to the matter.
    â€˜Mr Belchambers?’ he said, affecting a disinterested tone, ‘Is he here?’
    â€˜First Lieutenant sent for him, sir.’
    â€˜Ah . . .’ Frey cast a final look round the dark hole. The stale air was thick with the stink of crowded humanity, stores, bilge-water, rust, rot and rat-droppings. He retreated to the ladder.
    â€˜Pass word for Sergeant Hudson, will you,’ he called mildly to the marine sentry at the companionway. Frey dawdled in the berth deck, wandering forward. Hudson caught up with him as he stood surveying the surviving pigs in the extempore manger just forward of the breakwater set across the ship to stop sea sloshing aft from the plugged hawse-holes.
    â€˜Sir, Mr Frey, sir?’ The marine sergeant puffed up, buttoning his tunic and jerking his head. Men in the adjacent messes, alerted to something unusual by Frey’s presence so far forward, made themselves scarce.
    â€˜Hudson, what the devil’s going on below?’ Frey pretendedinterest in the pigs and spoke in a low but insistent voice.
    â€˜Below, sir? Nothing, sir . . .’
    â€˜Don’t take me for a fool, Hudson. Something is, or has been going on. When the officers were dining with the captain, I suspect.’
    â€˜Ah, well, er, yes, sir . . .’
    â€˜Go on.’
    â€˜Well, sir, weren’t nothing much, sir, only a bit o’ fun, like.’
    â€˜Gaming, you mean?’
    Hudson shrugged. ‘Well, a few side bets, sir, you know how it is.’
    â€˜On what? Baiting? A fight, a wrestle?’
    â€˜Bit of wrestling, sir. Nothing to worry about, sir. If it were I’d be down on it like a cauldron o’ coal.’
    Frey looked hard at the man. ‘If I get wind of an assembly, Hudson, I’ll have your hide. We want no combinations aboard here.’
    Hudson shook his head and Frey noticed the man had no neck, for his whole body swung, adding emphasis to his indignant refutation of the suggestion. ‘No fear o’ that, sir, not while Josiah Hudson is sergeant aboard this here man-o’-war.’
    â€˜I hope you’re right, Hudson.’
    â€˜O’ course I’m right, sir. ’Tis against regulations in the strictest sense but, well, why don’t you place a bet, sir? Won’t do no harm and I’ll do it for you. You won’t be the only officer . . .’ Hudson paused, aware he was being indiscreet.
    â€˜Really? Who else?’ Frey disguised his curiosity.
    â€˜Oh,
I
don’t know that, sir, but one or two o’ the young gennelmen seems to have enough money to be acting as agents.’
    The information robbed Frey of the initiative. He turned aft. At the wardroom door he met Mr Belchambers in