by Grant, D C
The cook had told me that my first job in the morning was to stoke up the fire and feed it with wood to get it going again after it had been dampened down overnight. I set to work and had the fire going before he came in.
“Right, lad,” he said as he came in. “First thing is to brew coffee for the commodore.”
I boiled the water for the coffee and then carried the dixie to the commodore’s cabin. This was my chance, I thought, to get the watch back but, while the cabin door was open, the sentry stood outside and he blocked my way as I walked forward.
“Where are you going?” the sentry asked.
“To take the commodore his coffee.”
“Take it to the steward.”
A man appeared by my side, dressed in a uniform. He took the dixie from me, carrying it to a cabin to my right where there was a sideboard and a tray with a coffee jug and cups. He poured the coffee from the dixie into the jug and then handed me back the empty pail. As I left, I glanced over my shoulder into the open cabin and could see the desk in which my watch was kept. I knew I could not get past the sentry. Disappointed, I made my way back to the galley.
After breakfast I had to clean out the pots and start again for the main meal at midday. I saw Fred when I delivered the midday meal. The men were divided into two watches, a starboard watch and a larboard watch and they alternated on deck. Fred was in the larboard watch.
“The food’s good on this ship,” Fred said as I placed the mess pail on the table.
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah, it’s fresh, not like on a long voyage when all you get is salt meat and hard tack. It’s because we’re on a short hop to New Zealand, you see, and don’t have the inconveniences of a long voyage. Are you getting your fill?”
I nodded. While I still had to get used to the taste of the ship’s food, there was plenty of it and I could have as much as I liked. My appetite had returned and I took advantage of the free fodder.
“Good, maybe you’ll start to put some flesh on those bones of yours.”
But I had other concerns besides eating. “Fred,” I whispered to him. “I need to get into the captain’s cabin to get the watch back.”
Fred looked at me, startled. “You’ll not get into the commodore’s cabin, not unless you’re ordered. It’s mutiny otherwise and for that you’ll be flogged … or hanged.”
The cook’s shout pulled me away from the table and I returned to the galley, despondent. It would not be easy to get into the commodore’s cabin and I could not rely on Fred’s help.
The evening meal was served a mere four hours later but was a lighter one and did not require as much preparation as the midday meal. Even so, it was well after seven o’clock before I put away the last scoured pot, fed the slops to the pigs in the sty and dried my cracked and bleeding hands. Wearily, I climbed the gangway to the deck and the cool evening air. It was halfway through the second dog watch and the starboard watch was at leisure. Some had gathered towards the bow and I hesitantly made my way towards them.
“Here’s the lubber,” said Pat.
“Leave him be, mate, can’t you see he’s fair worn out?” It was the boy again. “Come here, lad, let’s see your hands.”
“Those are landlubber’s hands, John,” said Pat. “Not yet toughened up.”
“Goose fat will see those hands right; I’ve got some in my kit. Wait here.”
John disappeared down the hatch and returned a few minutes later with a pot that he opened and held out to me. I took some and worked the greasy substance into my hands. It stung at first and then soothed the cracks in the skin at the knuckles and tips.
I sat down on the deck and leant back against a gun. The sun was just setting but there was enough light to see the masts and rigging above me. John, having returned the pot back down below, sat down next to me and said, “You have a funny way of joining the British Navy.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
John laughed. “That’s what we all say.”
I watched as Fred climbed the ropes in a lattice framework at the side of one of the masts and swung onto the platform at the top. His movements were fast and precise, yet I could not imagine myself going that high while the ship rolled and swayed beneath me.
“I hope they don’t send me up the mast,” I said.
“No, not a little one like you; besides, you’ll never get up the shrouds.”
“The shrouds?” I repeated, thinking of the sheet in which they wrapped the dead. My mother’s shroud had been her blanket.
“Yes, the netting at the side of the masts,” Pat said. “And them’s sheets,” he said, pointing at ropes close by that ran through pulleys.
“That’s a rope,” I said.
John laughed again. “The only thing called a rope on a ship is one that’s not attached to something.”
“What about them?” I asked, indicating the many lines of rope that spread from each mast to the deck.
“That’s the standing rigging, the fore and aft lines are called stays, because they make the masts stay in place.”
“He don’t know much about boats, do he, John?” one of the men shouted out.
“Take no notice, Sam,” said John. “Here, I’ll give you a quick lesson, just so’s you know where everything is and don’t end up being where you shouldn’t.”
He pointed to the front of the ship.
“That’s the bow and the stick that pokes out from it is called the bowsprit. The mast at the front is called the foremast. The one in the middle is the mainmast and the one at the stern is the mizzenmast. This is the forecastle and it’s the domain of the seamen, and officers don’t come here unless they have to. The side we’re sitting on is the starboard side, or right side to you landlubbers, and the other is the larboard, or left.”
John pointed towards the back of the boat.
“Now the quarterdeck at the stern there is the domain of the officers, see, and you don’t want to go back there unless you’ve been ordered to. No further than the wheel.” I glanced down the deck towards where a man was at the helm, his hands firmly on the spokes of the wheel.
“Why are there two wheels?” I asked.
“You need two or even three helmsmen on the wheel in rough weather. A following sea can soon turn a rudder and then you’ll be broadside to the wave. Two men on each wheel should keep the rudder in place, although I’ve been in seas that have thrown men from the wheel, even the strongest.”
“Who is the officer behind the helmsmen?”
“That’s the quartermaster. He makes sure the ship is taking the right course and he takes his orders from the lieutenant on duty. Your mate Fred used to be a quartermaster on the Harrier.”
I wondered why Fred had deserted if he had such an important position. Now he was just another crewman.
“What’s that bridge called over the deck?” I asked, pointing to the metal framework that ran from one side to the other.
John smiled and said, “Funny enough, that is called the bridge and that’s where the senior officers go. Now you don’t go up there at all – don’t even try because the commodore will have you flogged for it.”
“He ain’t afraid of doing that,” I said.
“No, he keeps a tight ship and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”
“I think I already have.”
John nodded. “Aye, I don’t think a stowaway was on his manifest.”
4 February 1863
When I delivered the coffee to the commodore’s cabin the following morning, the steward was not there, and neither was the sentry. The door of the commodore’s cabin was closed but when I tried the handle, it opened inwards so, looking over my shoulder, I left the dixie in the steward’s cabin and crept into the commodore’s. There was no one in the cabin so I closed the door softly and crept forward. I could not believe this would be so easy.
I stood still for a moment, listening, but I could hear no voices. I made my way around the desk and slowly opened the
drawer. The watch lay there on top of some papers and I reached for it.
Just then the main cabin door opened and the commodore walked in, closely followed by the sentry.
“What are you doing?” the commodore demanded while the sentry moved forward to grab my arms and drag me away from the desk.
“I … I … want my watch.”
“Do you not realise that being in here without my knowledge or permission is a mutinous offence?”
Tears sprung up in my eyes. “I only want my father’s watch. I must take it to my aunt.”
“The watch is still to be proven to belong to you and I have yet to believe any of your stories.”
“But …” I started to say but the commodore slapped my face and cut off my words.
“You may only answer when I command you.” The watch dangled from his fingers, so tantalizingly close. “I thought this was just a trinket, of little value, but I obviously thought wrong and it should be locked away from thieves such as yourself.”
He produced a key from his pocket, opened a locker with it, put the watch inside and locked it.
“That should keep it away from your light fingers. I will not have ill-disciplined stowaways on my ship. You must learn your place, boy.” He looked at the marine holding me. “Take him on deck, Private Heard, and form a punishment party.”
I thought of the red blood that had seeped from Private Gardner’s wounds and struggled against the sentry as he pulled me towards the door, through it and past the steward who stood in the companionway with a look of surprise on his face.
Word must have spread quickly, for, as soon as I was topsides, the men on watch had assembled and lined up on the deck. Fred was amongst them and I stared at him, silently appealing to him but he lowered his eyes and would not look at me. John, too, kept his head averted and I knew then that I had no friends in the crew.
I hardly listened as the charge was made, the words snatched away by the wind, and no one stepped forward to speak up for me. I was pronounced guilty. They did not bother with the grating but ripped off the remains of my tattered shirt and laid me over one of the guns like I was embracing it with my hands tied underneath so I could not move.
“A dozen lashes,” the commodore announced and I stiffened. Private Gardner had also received twelve lashes and I remembered how his back had bled. I was still little more than skin and bone; how was I to survive?
I looked over my shoulder as the bosun drew out the lash.
“It’s the pussy for you,” he hissed into my ear. “Not the cat.”
The lash had only five strands and no knots in it, and yet I knew that this would sting and, at the end of twelve lashes, would draw blood.
The drum started to beat while I tensed for the first blow. I heard it before I felt it – a swish through the air a second before the leather thongs sliced across my back. It did not sting at first but, as he lifted the lashes away and the air blew across the welts, the skin smarted.
“One,” the bosun counted.
I could not believe that I would have another eleven to endure. After another five, tears had welled in my eyes and my back felt like it was on fire. I gasped as a bucket of salt water was thrown over my back.
“Change,” a voice ordered.
I wondered what that meant and risked a peek over my shoulder. The bosun had changed sides and was now on my right. As I watched he handed over the lash to another man: Private Gardner, who smiled as he took the handle in his left hand. I had not realised that the marine was left-handed and I groaned and looked away, determined not to see the look of satisfaction in the man’s eyes.
The private made sure that I felt every single one of the remaining six lashes.
5th February 1863
I woke before the bell sounded and knew it was time to get out of the hammock. I moved slowly, feeling each one of the welts and open wounds on my skin. They were not deep but stung whenever I moved. If I had expected to be let off my duties the previous day because of my punishment, I had been mistaken. Breakfast, dinner and supper had to be prepared, dished up to the men and the pots and utensils cleaned and the swill fed to the pigs. I had remained shirtless all day, letting the salt-laden air harden the scabs on my back but in the evening, John gave me a shirt to wear and I had put it on before I rolled into the hammock, wincing, and, exhausted, fallen into a deep sleep.
I pulled my shirt about me. My wounds had oozed in the night and the shirt stuck to my skin in places, but at least I was not stuck to the hammock. I rolled it up, stored it away and went to the galley to begin my duties.
I was not allowed to take the coffee to the commodore’s cabin. Another cabin boy took it and instead I took the porridge to the men at the mess tables.
“How are you?” Fred asked me as he took a spoonful.
“Pained.”
“You’ll not get any sympathy from me. I warned you.”
“I’ll get the watch back,” I said. “You’ll see.”
I walked away. I sounded more confident than I felt, for I knew getting the watch back was going to be all the more difficult because of my first attempt. I had no doubt the commodore would flog me a second time, or even worse, have me hanged if he caught me in his cabin again.
I struggled with it all day, my thoughts not on my tasks but on all the ways in which I could get into the cabin. I tripped, burnt things, forgot pails, utensils, even the pig swill bucket, and the cook’s blows added to my sting of the wounds on my back, but still I could not concentrate on my work.
Later that evening, I sat in the forecastle with the other men, silent while my mind went round and round, testing and rejecting each half-formed plan. The men ignored me. Fred was not among them. I huddled amongst the stores on the deck, out of the cool breeze while above me the sky was cloudy and neither the moon nor stars could be seen.
A seaman was playing a mouth organ while others tapped their feet. Eventually one jumped up and started dancing while the men clapped in time. I knew this type of dancing, the kind the Irish had brought out with them, with back straight, arms rigid by his sides as the legs moved in a blur. The dancing and clapping became faster until it suddenly finished leaving the dancer panting but smiling.
“Well done, Tom,” said one of the men and the dancer took an exaggerated bow.
“Give us a song, Billy,” another shouted.
“Aye, give us your song about the ship,” the men called out.
A man stood up, cleared his throat and began to sing a sea shanty that he must have made up himself.
We started in Portsmouth’s fitting basin
The ugliest place we ever been based in
With a ship to rig and stores to stow
And wondering where the hell we would go.
The men knew the song, though, as they joined in the chorus:
Orpheus, a fine ship, a big ship
Orpheus, a wet ship, a pig ship.
One, two three, up go the sails
While the master down below yells
From Plymouth sound to Canada’s shores
Through seas that shook all the doors
Water on top and more water below
“Keep bailing men” came the bellow
Down to Bermuda and then Simons Bay
Warm winds and sun kept the water away
A shake down in Africa was needed
Before the course for Australia heeded
Round and round the big isle we went
Didn’t know where we’d be sent
Now to New Zealand we are headed
Where I’ll find a lass to be wedded.
The men roared with laughter at the last verse and then sang the chorus twice, and I joined in, having now heard enough to know it a little. At that moment it began to rain, softly at first and then harder and the men took what shelter they could find in the forecastle while I decided it was time to go below. My body ached and my head was sore from the endless round of thinking. I had still to come up with a plan to get
my watch back
6th February 1863
The ship had changed direction in the night. I had to adjust the way I walked for she lay on her port side and the handholds were in different places. I almost dropped the pail containing the burgoo as the ship lurched and I shifted my weight the wrong way.
“Need a hand?” Fred said, picking up the spoon from where it had fallen on the deck.
“No,” I said curtly. I was fed up with him, with the crew, and still suffering from my wounds, and the injustice of the punishment.
“Come here,” Fred whispered,
I stepped forward and he pulled me closer so that my head was almost touching his.
“We’ve been talking,” he said. “We think you should have your watch.”
I looked around the table. John sat there, as did Billy and, to my surprise, Pat. They all looked at me and nodded.
“How?” I asked.
“Meet us tonight on the forecastle and we’ll tell you our plan.”
Fred gave me a little push away and I stepped back, almost dropping the pail again. I did not want to leave until I had found out what they had planned.
I opened my mouth to speak but Fred hissed, “Later, the lieutenant is watching.”
I turned and saw Lieutenant Amphlett standing just by the galley door looking down the length of the mess tables. I took the spoon that Fred handed out to me and continued on to the next table.
The day dragged. I tried to catch Fred at the midday meal but he waved me away without saying anything. Several times I caught Lieutenant Amphlett watching me. Did he suspect something? There was no way he could know what had been said that morning, unless someone had told him.
Eagerly I climbed the ladder to the deck that evening after all my chores had been done. I could see the men gathered in the forecastle, talking, laughing and smoking. I spotted Fred, but because I was not sure where Lieutenant Amphlett was, I settled into a spot with my back against a gun a little way from him.