by David Starr
* * *
Within the hour I reach the borough of Newham. This is definitely Elizabeth Fry’s neighbourhood. Mrs. Fry is very well known in this part of London, and more than a few know where she lives.
The elegant, three-storey home isn’t hard to locate. Fry’s home is called Plashet House. I approach the front door, gather my nerves and knock. I don’t know what Elizabeth Fry looks like, or how she will react when she sees me, but she is my best hope of finding Libby.
A moment later the door opens. “Yes? What do you want?” It is a maid, a pinch-faced young woman who sneers down her nose at me.
“Guid evening,” I say politely. “I’m wondering if I may have a word with Mrs. Fry.”
“The missus don’t see prisoners at her home, released or otherwise.”
“Ye misunderstand,” I say. “I’m nae a prisoner nor a criminal.”
“Then who are you and what do you want with the missus?” the maid demands, no less contemptuous of me than before.
What do I say? I could tell her I’m Libby Scott’s brother, but that would be a most foolhardy thing to do. Duncan Scott is supposed to be dead along with the other poor souls on the Leopard. “Mrs. Fry and myself have a mutual acquaintance,” I say after racking my brains.
“Well, you’re out of luck,” the maid says, slightly less suspicious of my intentions. “The missus and her husband are on their way back from Bristol; they’ve been visiting family there. She’ll be back in two days, maybe three. May I have your name so I can tell her you called?”
“John Stuart,” I tell her, deciding not to use McTavish but the name of my old travelling companion in New Caledonia. I tip my hat at her and leave. “My thanks to ye,” I say. “I’ll return in three days.”
Chapter 6
I need an inexpensive place to stay until Elizabeth Fry returns, and The Gun is just the place. It is less than two hours’ walk back to The Gun from the Quaker woman’s house, so I return to the inn on the banks of the Thames, book a room for three nights and go to the common room for supper.
I feel more comfortable now amongst the crowd who frequent The Gun. Many, I notice, are from all over the world by the looks of them. I must have the look of the traveller about me myself, as I’m not given a second glance by any of them.
“Are you wanting to sign on with a ship, lad?” asks a sailor who comes up to me as I eat. He’s a bluff man, bald with skin burned brown as a nut by salt and tropical sun. “You know your way around a ship, I wager. I can tell a mariner when I see one.”
“Aye. I sailed with Captain Smith on the Sylph, a migrant ship out of Liverpool.” It isn’t a lie, exactly. Mostly I worked in the galley alongside Francis, the ship’s cook on that crossing, but I have learned the basics of sailing well enough. I also discovered how treacherous the oceans can be, how storms can boil up from nowhere to kill crew and passenger alike.
My friend Francis was one of them, his life taken by a spar that fell on him during a wicked tempest. He wasn’t the only one to die on the crossing that took me from Liverpool to Quebec, however. Migrants young and old perished in the hold of the ship from disease. Yes. I know my way around a ship and I have no desire to return to one — at least without my sister. “My sailing days are behind me,” I tell him.
He doesn’t give up. “We could always use a good hand on board the Pelican. Name’s Robert, I’m her mate. We carry goods, bound for Valetta. Are you sure, lad? The Mediterranean is a good bit warmer than England this time of year. It’s worth it, to feel the heat of the sun on your face, even with Napoleon’s fleet out there!”
“Nae, but thank ye,” I say, “though if I ever do want to sail again I know who…”
“The press gang! Run for it!”
The sailor’s words are cut off abruptly by the cry. Chaos erupts in the pub. Men flee, upturning tables in their hurry to escape. The sailor I’d been talking to not five seconds ago is gone, vanished in the throng of seamen running for the exits.
I join them in the panic. I know what press gangs are. They work for the Royal Navy, recruiting men by force to serve on the warships of the fleet. We are at war with France after all; the Royal Navy is in desperate need of sailors and will find them anyway they can.
The Royal Navy patrols all the oceans of the world, with ships and bases as far as Africa, South America and New Zealand. If I’m captured by the group of large men who’ve barged into the pub, swinging large clubs, knocking men out then slapping them in manacles, it could be years before I get to search for my sister.
If I ever do.
I’m a fast runner, surely able to outrun any of the press gang, but in the tight space of the pub, with tables, chairs and frightened sailors blocking my way, my speed serves me no good at all as I slowly fight my way towards the door. Soon I’m twenty feet from freedom, then ten as the entry-way looms into view.
The door is five feet away, and wide open. In less than a second I’ll be through it, out onto the open street where I’ll be able to speed away. I cross through the threshold, about to stretch out my legs and sprint to safety, when I see a sudden flash of movement from the corner of my eye.
“I’ve got you now!” a man yells triumphantly. There are more of the pressers here, waiting in ambush as the rest of the gang herds us right towards them.
I try vainly to change direction. Perhaps if the cobbles were dry I would have made it, but a light spring rain is falling, making the road slippery. I stumble and slip on the wet stones, lose my balance and fall heavily to the street.
I struggle to get to my feet, to scrabble up off the cobbles but before I can stand up, the press gang is upon me. “Fair pay for your service,” a man says, flipping what looks like a piece of silver onto my chest. Beside him another man raises a club.
“Welcome to the Royal Navy,” he says and the last thing I see before my world goes black is his grinning face and the club that flies through the air towards me.
Chapter 7
“Good heavens! Duncan Scott! I never thought I’d see you again, especially in these circumstances.” My eyes reluctantly flutter open at the sound, head throbbing painfully from the blow. I know that voice, have heard it before, but in my fog I can’t place it until the blurred face leaning over me slowly comes into focus.
“Tom?” I say, recognizing the man but not quite believing who I’m seeing. Tom Jenkins, a large bear of a man with thick curly black hair, was a sailor on the ship that carried me across the Atlantic to Canada.
At first Tom was not terribly impressed by my presence on the Sylph. “Stowaway” he called me with disdain, but that changed during the storm, a terrible gale on the Atlantic that nearly sank us, and claimed the life of Francis, the ship’s cook. It would have killed Tom as well, had I not saved him from being swept off the deck of the ship.
“What am I doing back on the Sylph?” The last thing I remember is the press gang. Now I’m climbing slowly up from the rough wooden deck of a ship’s hold, my head throbbing from a solid whack of a billy club.
“You ain’t on the Sylph, I’m afraid to tell you.”
“Och. So where am I? A dinnae ken what happened.”
“You, my friend, are locked up on the gun deck of a fifth-rate Royal Navy frigate. His Majesty’s Ship Cerberus, to be exact. We’re currently tied up at the Deptford Dockyard, but we’ll be makin’ our way down the Thames at the turn of the tide, if the scuttlebutt is right.”
“Nae! I cannae be! This is a mistake! There must be some way off!” I’m so close to finding Libby after all this time. I can’t believe this has happened.
“Steady yourself, mate,” Tom whispers. “You don’t want to bring attention to yourself. You’re a pressed man, a waister, as far as everyone else on board is concerned, the lowest of the low on a naval vessel. Your life will be miserable if you get on the bad side of the officers, and even worse if the men don’t like you.”
I take a breath to compose myself. No doubt Tom is right; to mark myself as a troublemak
er will cause me no end of grief. “How did ye end up here, Tom?” I ask.
“I took the King’s Shillin’, much the same way you did.”
“The King’s what?” I’m not sure if I heard him correctly as I run my hand through my blood-crusted hair and feel an egg-sized lump on the back of my throbbing skull.
Fair pay for your service. I remember now what the presser said before clubbing me, the piece of silver I saw.
“The coin he gave me before knocking me out. That was the King’s Shilling?”
“Aye,” says Tom ruefully. “Some pressmen club sailors on the head and drag ’em aboard, like what happened to you. Not subtle but effective. Others slip the coin into a sailor’s ale. When he drinks it? There’s that damned piece of silver at the bottom of the mug. The King’s Shillin’, an acceptance of pay to serve in the Royal Navy, though no such trick was needed to get me.
“After you left us in Quebec, we picked up a load of sugar in Jamaica, just as Cap’n Smith said we would. We were on route back to Liverpool, but before we made port, Cerberus pulled up alongside.
“‘King George needs sailors’, they said, pointing their muskets at us. Before you know it, me and several of the other lads are in the Royal Navy, in exchange for a handful of pressed men from the Cerberus and a few coins. Cap’n Smith got the worse end of that trade, I can tell you. I’ve been here ever since.”
“Why haven’t ye left?” I ask. “Surely ye’ve had opportunity to do so?”
“For a while I thought about jumpin’ ship,” Tom admits. “But I have to say that I was getting a little tired of the Atlantic trade. Besides, we’ve had many grand adventures on Cerberus, my seamanship’s improved beyond measure, and though the pay’s not as good as it is in the merchant navy, we get a share in any French ship we take as a prize. In a year or two I’ll leave and be more’n ready to master my own boat.”
Then Tom says something unexpected. “Besides, I never much thought about it before, but there’s somethin’ to be said about doin’ one’s duty for King and Empire. If Boney has his way, he’ll overrun England. I’m protectin’ the country from him and glad to do it.”
“Do ye ken where this ship is sailing to?” With my Scottish background, I don’t share my friend’s same patriotic stirrings and am praying we aren’t about to embark to the Spanish Main or the South Pacific. If we do, it will be years until I return to England, if at all. After so long, to have come this close to finding my sister and have my hopes dashed like this? I want to scream.
“Not for sure,” Tom says. “Officers don’t tell us regular sailors much, but I was talkin’ to the bosun before you and the others came on board last night, and he seems to think we’re heading for the Baltic to fight the Russians. They’ve signed a peace treaty with Napoleon and have declared war on us.”
“Where’s the Baltic?” I’ve not heard of this sea, and am struggling to keep my calm, to keep my wits about me until I can find a way to get off this ship.
“The Baltic’s a sea by Sweden. A week or two sailin’ north. From what I hear, there’s been a rash of attacks against English shippin’ by the Russians. It may not have been what you were expectin’, Duncan, but you’re off to do battle with the largest country on earth!”
Chapter 8
It is then I realize I’ve lost some very important things. “Tom, I was wearing a black cloak when the pressers took me. Do ye ken were it is?” I’m not concerned about the cloak but rather with the money I’ve sewed within it.
“Sorry, Duncan. I was on watch when they brought you and the other unfortunate fellows below decks last night. All you had is what you’re wearin’ now.”
“And my knife? The one ye gave me?” It’s no longer on my waist.
“Knife? What knife are you on about?”
“Dinnae ye remember?” I say. “Back on the Sylph. Ye gave me some gear of an old shipmate of yers who died, including his knife.”
“You still had that knife? After all this time?” Tom sounds very surprised to learn that.
“Aye,” I say glumly, “until last night. I carried that blade across an entire continent. All the way to the Pacific. I killed a man with it as well,” I say. “I had no choice. He was about to kill me and a companion.”
“You have had some adventures, haven’t you?” says Tom. He is sympathetic to my plight. “That old knife is gone as well, no doubt. The pressers get paid well for their work, but they always like to collect a little bonus. You’ll never see it again, I’m afraid. Speaking of bonuses, check your pockets while you’re at it. I’m curious to know if that shilling is still in your possession.”
I stick my hands into my pockets, turning the lining inside out to reveal nothing. “They took that back as well. Does that mean I don’t have to join the Navy?”
Tom laughs ruefully. “That’s rubbing salt into a wound for certain. Sorry, Duncan, that ain’t how it works. You’re stuck on board for now.” Tom reaches for his waist. “Take this instead,” he says, passing me another knife, one with a hand-carved bone handle in a leather scabbard.
“Nae, ’tis yers. I had the last one ye gave me stolen.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve another. Remember what I told you last time? ‘A sharp blade is good to have on board a ship. There are things out here other than waves that can kill you.’”
I take the knife, pull it out of the scabbard and check the blade. The metal is dull grey but as sharp as a razor. “Thank ye, Tom. Again.”
Then I run my hands along the waist of my trousers and feel the comforting shapes of the coins. Tom sees me do it. He is no fool and quickly realizes why I am so upset about losing my cloak.
“You had coins sewn in it as well as your trousers, didn’t you?”
“My wages fer three years of work in the North West Company. Half was in my cloak.” I’m angry beyond words. I’ve been kidnapped, turned over to the Royal Navy, been robbed, and worst of all, my chance of finding Libby has been taken from me as well.
“But you’re still alive and half remains, so I’d be quiet about it or you’ll lose that too,” Tom advises. “You’ll be gettin’ your uniform soon enough. When you do, move your money to your new trousers.”
“Uniform?”
“You’re in the Royal Navy now. Look at me.” Tom wears white canvas trousers held up with a braided rope belt, a grey-and-blue striped shirt and a blue jacket.
“It’s quite the proper outfit, ain’t it? Red vest, black kerchief, and tarred straw hat as well. Regular sailor’s clothes ain’t as fancy as an officer’s, but Captain Whitby does like us looking smart.”
* * *
“All hands!” yells someone as Tom and the other sailors snap smartly to attention.
“Stand straight, Duncan,” Tom whispers. “Lieutenant Murray is comin’ into the hold to inspect his new crew. He won’t have much good to say about pressed men if experience means anythin’, so mind yourself — and your tongue — or you’ll likely to get the lash.”
“Bloody landsmen,” snorts First Lieutenant George Murray, second in command of HMS Cerberus, as he inspects the two dozen of us pressed into reluctant service.
The lieutenant wears a uniform much more impressive than the men’s. His blue coat is longer, adorned with brass buttons and on his head is a black, three-pointed hat.
“What’s your name, lubber?” Murray asks me, his face mere inches from my own.
“Stuart, Sir,” I reply, keeping enough wits to remember the name I’ve been travelling under. “John Stuart, from Scotland.”
“I can bloody well tell where you’re from by the way you butcher the King’s English, Stuart,” Murray says sharply.
“Sir?” says Tom politely. He’d looked confused when I called myself John Stuart, but my friend knows why I left England in the first place and plays along.
“What is it, Jenkins?”
“If I may, Sir, John here’s no lubber. We sailed together on the Atlantic crossing. He’s not spent time in the
riggin’, but he’s a good cook, and a half-decent deckhand as well.”
The scowl leaves Murray’s face, if only for a minute. “Well then,” he says with some satisfaction, “the rest of this lot may be a waste of skin, but the pressers have done something right with him by the sounds of things. We’ve no use for another bloody cook, but an experienced deckhand always has a place on board.”
“If it pleases you, Sir,” Tom continues, “put Stuart on my watch. We’ve worked together before. I would be happy to show him the ropes, as it were.”
Murray nods in agreement then moves on to the other pressed men, asking them each questions about their prior experience. Judging by the foul language that flies from his lips, none seem to meet his standard of seamanship. Inspection over, Murray turns on his heels and leaves the hold, back to whatever tasks he has above decks.
“Thank ye,” I tell Tom, well aware of the huge service he’s done me.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “Just learn as much as you can, and do it quickly. You’re a half-decent deckhand after all, no matter what name you’re going by. You don’t want anyone to think otherwise.”
Chapter 9
“This cannae be happening to me, Tom,” I lament after changing into my ship’s uniform. I am so close to finding my sister that to have been captured and handed over to the Royal Navy infuriates me nearly to tears.
Tom tries to console me. “It ain’t that bad, Duncan. Most likely we’ll be in the Baltic for only a month or two. The real danger to the Empire is what’s left of Napoleon’s fleet, and they sail in the Mediterranean and the North Sea. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to slip off the ship and find your sister later.”
“And be declared a traitor, then be hanged fer my troubles if caught? Nae, thank ye very much. I’m already a fugitive, if ye recall.”