Nelson's Wake

by M. C. Muir

  After scratching his brow with the tip of his quill, the captain returned his pen to the well and exchanged his position for the velvet upholstered wing-back chair. Though elegant, the piece of furniture, bequeathed by Captain Chilcott, showed signs of stain and wear especially in the places where the previous captain’s weary head had often rested. Not intending to allow himself the luxury of sleep at this hour of the day, Oliver’s thoughts drifted and inevitably his eyes closed. Sleep was an insidious temptress.

  How long his mind swirled in a dream-like state, he did not know, probably only a matter of minutes, but his senses were not dulled enough to block out the sounds from the ship that surrounded him. The thump of feet running around the deck and along the gangways reverberated through the very timbers of the hull. That sound spoke of urgency and usually meant only one thing.

  Shaking his head, Oliver berated himself. Had he slept through the call? He had not heard the beat of drums or shrilling of the whistles? Had the officer of the Watch not thought to call him to the deck? Why had he not been informed? Was the ship in danger? Were they under fire?

  ‘Casson,’ he called, jumping to his feet. Not waiting for an answer nor reaching for his coat, he bounded out through the dining cabin to the quarterdeck.

  On opening the door, he was met by a scene of apparent calm. The officer of the watch was standing beside the binnacle, the schoolmaster relaxing beside him. From the rail, stretching to the far horizon, the sea had a glassy surface that rolled with the smooth and gentle undulations of a woman’s body. The slow moving wash, curling from the bow, clung to the hull but could not be seen unless standing by the rail. With the canvas begging to luff, the sailors were gazing upwards and waiting.

  That brief moment of peace was quickly shattered when a stream of boys, aged nine to thirteen, thundered down the larboard gangboards. Elbowing, pushing and shoving each other for position, they turned onto the quarterdeck and headed across it to the starboard gangway and then headed aft. The herd of over twenty-five stampeded around the deck like the Hounds of Hell were on their tails. With heads down, they did not notice the captain when he appeared on deck.

  One of the middies, balanced on the ratlines, immediately saw him and interpreted the expression on his face. Attempting to draw the attention of the officer of the watch, he coughed loudly into his hand, but he could not distract the young officer and the two warrant officers from the conversation they were deeply engaged in.

  Stepping forward three paces, Oliver stopped dead in the centre of the quarterdeck.

  Having run around the forward deck, the pack was now stretched out with the stragglers unable to keep up. They rounded to the quarterdeck from the gangway, with those at the front running full tilt into the ship’s captain. The older and taller boys in the lead pulled up abruptly, but those making up the bulk of the mob failed to see any reason to slow and ran into the backs of their mates, several falling in a heap and being trampled on. As the pile disentangled itself, some of the boys moaned as they rubbed their bruised ankles or knees. The squeals emitted by some of youngsters resembled the cries of a back-alley cat fight.

  Only then did the spill attract the attention of the officer of the watch and the others standing by the binnacle.

  ‘Apologies, Captain,’ the sailing master said, hurrying to assist, when he saw the captain surrounded by flailing arms and legs.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Captain Quintrell demanded. ‘Are we under attack?’

  ‘Begging the captain’s pardon,’ Mr Brannagh said. ‘I considered the young gentlemen needed some exercise to burn off a little of their excess energy.’

  ‘You,’ Oliver said, calling to the tallest youth who had been leading the throng.

  Tossing his head back and allowing a stream of blonde curls to flow across his shoulders, the boy looked straight at the captain. The cherubim like pink cheeks and wide blue eyes were at odds with the resentful expression on his face. As he stepped up, a smirk quickly developed on the downturned lips.

  ‘Name?’ Oliver demanded.

  ‘Angus Dorrington, Captain. My grandfather is Admiral Dorrington.’

  ‘I am not concerned with your heritage, sir. Your father may be King Neptune for all it matters at this moment.’

  Turning his attention back to the sailing master: ‘Mr Brannagh,’ he said, ‘in my opinion, there is little to be gained by running these precocious gentlemen across a flat deck. Let us see how agile they are in the rigging.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘Line them up in an orderly fashion. Let Mr Dorrington lead them off – up the port rigging to the main topgallant, across the yard and down the starboard side – no sliding down the stays, I might add. Double around the foredeck, then up and across the foremast t’gallant yard and down; along the gangway and back to the quarterdeck. Mr Holland, kindly keep a tally to ensure all the boys complete a full dozen.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘Mr Dorrington, you will report to the sailing master when you have completed that exercise by which time he will have decided on your next exercise.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’ The reply was mumbled. The bravado was diminished but the arrogant expression had not been extinguished.

  Despite the undercurrent of complaints, the sailing master shuffled the boys into single file with Dorrington at the head. ‘You heard the Captain,’ Mr Brannagh said. ‘One at a time. No pushing. And silence. Off you go. Fast as you can. A dozen times around the ship.’

  Within seconds the ratlines were swaying, as the young gentlemen reached for a hand-hold, scurried up, pulling and pushing for position, behaving more like Barbary Apes than members of the gentry. The ones in the lead set the pace, eager to impress both their superiors and inferiors. Climbing down proved slower and after half a dozen laps the speed of the leading group had slowed noticeably. It was further obstructed by the smaller, weaker and less confident youngsters who they had overtaken after only three laps. Elbows again came into play, as the bigger bullies barged through anyone obstructing their passages almost dislodging a couple of the weaker ones.

  When Dorrington and three of his immediate mates dropped to the deck after completing the required twelve rounds, their cheeks were ruddy; sweat trickled down their faces and forearms; and their white shirts were stuck to their backs.

  ‘Finished!’ Dorrington announced triumphantly, to anyone who might be listening. After bouncing from the rail back to the deck, Dorrington glanced around the ship to the youngsters who were struggling to complete the sixth, seventh or eighth lap. His mates, however, had gathered around him and they were eagerly congratulating each other.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the captain called quietly.

  The boys expected praise.

  ‘On a fighting ship,’ he said, ‘seamen work together as a team. You haul together, you furl together, you mess together, and, if you are unlucky, you die together. One thing you do not do is sit back and relax when your mate is still working. Get up there now and continue climbing until the last of the boys has completed his final round.’ Oliver ignored the murmurs and a growl from one of the throats.

  ‘Did I not make myself clear?’

  Several boys nodded. ‘Yes, Captain,’ Dorrington murmured, glancing at his companions.

  ‘Then go.’

  It took another turn of the half-hour glass before the last of the small boys finished the exercise and the deck was littered with sweaty bodies.

  ‘Mr Holland, have a pump brought up on deck. These boys are not fit to return to their quarters in their present state. Hose them down before they go below.’

  ‘With pleasure, Captain.’

  It was an extra duty the deck hands would enjoy. The Captain did not remain on deck to witness the event.

  The knock on the door of the great cabin was hardly audible.

  ‘Come,’ Oliver called.

  The sailing master entered and closed the door.

  ‘It does not pay to be soft with these young coves b
e they lords or gentlemen or whatever they wish to call themselves,’ the captain said.

  The experienced officer merely nodded.

  ‘They will deserve my respect, when I witness them showing courage in the face of danger. But not until then. There is no title that will equip them against an enemy, either on land or sea. In the smoke and noise of a sea battle, a strong arm on a line or a steady hand on a length of quick-match, can belong to anyone.’ He paused, realising the warrant officer did not merit any rebuke.

  ‘So, tell me, Mr Brannagh, how many of these young men has the Admiralty blessed us with on this vessel?’

  ‘Thirty, Captain.’

  Oliver shook the revelation from his head. ‘And what program have you set for them?’

  ‘Apart from the formal class-room tuition in mathematics and navigation with the schoolmaster, they spend an allocated time with each of the petty officers. The boatswain instructs them in knots and splicing, the sail maker in palming and stitching. From the quarterdeck, the midshipmen instruct them in use of the sextant. They take the noon reading daily. From the topmen they learn how to make and reduce sail, heave to, and handle clews and bunts. The first lieutenant endeavours to imprint the Articles of War into their brains. And I introduce them to maps and charts.’

  ‘I don’t doubt most of them have brains, but most are lacking in common sense?’ the captain said.

  The sailing master did not comment but continued. ‘Then there are the domestic duties to tackle, if they are placed with an officer – laundering, pressing, sewing, polishing shoe buckles, and the bright work around the ship.’

  ‘Bright work – a daily chore usually undertaken by the hands is it not?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘And do they all participate in these chores?’

  ‘Yes, sir, though grudgingly. Not all are eager to partake in menial tasks. Much also depends on the nature of the officer each young gentleman has been assigned to. Those allocated to the warrant officers also spend time learning the manual trades.’

  ‘And what are your thoughts on this current group aboard Royal Standard?’

  The sailing master hesitated.

  ‘Come along, that is not such a difficult question. I want your honest opinion.’

  ‘I think, before stepping on the ship, a few of the boys were molly-coddled by their own servants to such an extent they could not even tie their own neck-cloths, and certainly could not thread a needle or sew on a button or shine a shoe-buckle. As you know, there is much for them to learn regarding the demands of seamanship.’

  ‘And life itself, it seems. And how many servants was Captain Chilcott personally allocated?’

  ‘Twelve, captain. As you probably know, the Admiralty allows four servants to every one hundred crew; therefore with a crew of three hundred, you have twelve young gentlemen at your disposal.’

  ‘I wish to see a list of all the boys on board with names, ages and details of which officer each boy has been assigned to.’

  The sailing master nodded.

  ‘In the meantime, I advise you keep a watchful eye on Mr Dorrington. I fear he could stir up trouble amongst the more vulnerable souls.’

  ‘There’s always at least a couple of bad apples in a batch, but I hope you are wrong, Captain.’

  Chapter 12

  Gun practice

  Two days later, with the hands called on deck, only the gun crews from five of the guns on the upper deck were needed. The other hands were allowed to stand down.

  There was an undercurrent of grumbles from those who were called, as they were not sent to their usual stations – to the guns they always stood to. Every gun crew was familiar with a particular gun, with its faults and foibles. The gun captains knew just how much priming powder his particular gun needed; exactly how long it would take for the flame to carry down the quill to ignite the cartridge. And each man in the team knew his job and his position near the barrel. Above all, he knew how hard his gun would kick, and exactly where to stand to keep well out of its way. On this occasion, they were ordered to man five of the 24-pounders on the upper deck – guns they were not familiar with.

  ‘Quiet,’ Mr Holland called. ‘Stand to your gun and wait.

  They didn’t have to wait long until Mr Keath came down the companionway ladder from the quarterdeck. Behind him were three of the young gentlemen also known as volunteers, boys – third class or officers’ servants. The group was resented and despised by the regular hands for their aristocratic breeding, educated, arrogant behaviour and general uselessness aboard a king’s ship. They were regarded as young snobs who still needed their own servants to wipe their arses for them.

  Of the thirty volunteers who had joined Royal Standard in Cork, they were aged between ten to fourteen years but having been fed on the finest foods since birth, they were already as tall as, if not taller than, most of the regular hands. To add to the sailor’s frustrations, they were told to teach these boys who, one day, would be walking the quarterdeck and giving them orders.

  Conversely, the young gentlemen had no time for the types of riff-raff who made up most of the crews on his Majesty’s ships.

  Having been disappointed with the boys’ behaviour earlier, Captain Quintrell had decided to give three of them the opportunity to redeem themselves and prove their capabilities.

  Mr Keath directed them to their stations. ‘Mr Dorrington, you will serve on that gun. Mr Price is the gun captain. You will follow his orders. Do you have gloves or mittens?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  The midshipman moved on to the next gun also on the starboard side of the deck.

  ‘Mr Witcher and Mr Chittenden, you will take orders from Mr Marsh – he is the gun captain here and won’t stand any messing.’

  They were interrupted by raised voices on the previous cannon.

  ‘What is going on, Mr Price?’ the midshipman asked the captain of that gun.

  ‘This ’ere whipper-snapper says he don’t want to stand at the back of the gun. He says he wants to stand where Albert stands and load the shot into the barrel.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him, if he doesn’t stand where he’s put he can sling his hook. He’s not going to mess up my crew and I’ve no time to argue.’

  ‘Mr Dorrington. Stand where you are stationed. Do not grumble or object. Take a look around at the pock marks and dents in the bulwarks and beams. Some of those are from shots that came through with a man’s head or arm caught on it – a man who had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now go where you are put and stay there. One more word from you and you are off the deck.’

  Stepping around the bare capstan which was situated amidships, the midshipman headed across the deck to the three 24s on the larboard side. The crews of six men were standing in silence by their guns – their expressions spoke of not looking forward to receiving their quota of young lubbers but only three had come down with the middie.

  With the sound of footsteps coming up from the deck below, the crews looked and waited. Appearing from the companionway coming from the lower gun deck, two marines stepped up first and positioned themselves at either side of the stairs. They were followed by Mr Holland then by seven men wearing prison grey uniforms indelibly stamped in black ink with the broad arrow. Another pair of marines, with muskets in hand, followed behind. Everyone aboard Royal Standard had heard of the mob of felons being held below on the orlop deck, but very few had seen them.

  After lining the convicts up, the midshipman ordered six of the men to go to the three larboard guns. The one who remained was sent to the starboard side to work alongside Mr Dorrington.

  ‘Now listen, and listen well.’ The midshipman’s voice carried easily the full width of the deck. ‘You will receive your instructions from your gun captain. You will ignore everyone else. Do as you are told, learn and remember. You are here for gun practice. This morning we will be firing cannon filled with rags. Tomorrow we will fire 24-po
und round shot. I trust you understand the difference. If you are to survive on a gundeck you must keep you eye on the gun at all times – it has a kick far worse than an angry mule, and keep your hands off it if you value your skin. Don’t interfere with the man next to you, or ask for help. In fact do not utter a word once the practice begins. After tomorrow, the next time you are called to Royal Standard’s gun deck, the ship may be under fire.

  ‘Gun Captains give your orders clearly. You have fifteen minutes. And if any man is injured, I will hold you responsible.’

  When Mr Holland stood back, the crews followed the routines they knew. The gun ports were flung open and secured in place. The openings on the starboard side allowed beams of morning sun to shine across the full width of the deck. The tompions were withdrawn from the muzzles. The inclination of the barrel was adjusted, the barrel given a quick swab, though the gun had not been fired and was clean inside. There was no cartridge on this occasion. Then a wad was rammed home and after that an extra large wad of rags in place of a cannon ball. Finally the contents of the barrel were rammed home ready to be fired.

  The breeching lines and preventer lines were released, the order given for the gun to be moved forward on its wooden trucks till its muzzle was poking out through the side of the ship.

  The men then waited for the order to fire while the gunner followed his oft repeated ritual. On Royal Standard, some of the guns had been fitted with flintlocks while others still needed a linstock or a length of slowmatch to ignite the powder in the bowl.

  ‘Keep clear,’ a voice called from one of the starboard gun. The young gentleman working opposite the convict quickly stepped back a pace, only just in time as the gun fired. Had a cartridge, full of powder been lit, the gun would have bounced off the deck and be held by the preventer braces to stop it from careering across the deck and into another gun on the larboard side.

  ‘Reload,’ Mr Holland ordered.

  While the regular hands from the gun crews treated the exercise with distain, the practice of saving gun powder during gun practice was recommended by the Admiralty. Royal Standard, however, was not short of that commodity.