Fletcher's Fortune

by John Drake

  “Thank you, Mr Dixon,” says he, quietly. “A miraculous cure, as I live and breathe.”

  He and Dixon leered at each other in a shared moment of happy, brutal satisfaction. Then he turned to the other men, “And are there any more cases for the surgeon?” There were not, and seeing the Lieutenant and his Bosun at their pleasure, I knew there was no escape for me.

  Indeed there was none. Try as I might to do the work that I was set, and keep a look-out for Dixon, he would still catch me. It was persecution without pity or reason. I was used to being cock of the walk: living in comfort, surrounded by friends, admired for my wit, and steadily making money. And here I was, being tortured by a murderous anthropoid with not one thousandth of my intelligence. How could it be? And it got worse. It got so bad that I’m not even sure how long I was aboard Bullfrog; the days and nights blurred into each other as I sank lower and lower.

  Probably it all happened over three or four days. But before chloroform was invented, the surgeons used to tell their victims that the amputation would only take a minute or two. And I doubt that eased the mind very much.

  In my case, during those few days, fear and hatred of Dixon were turning me from a rational man into a lunatic. He was breaking my mind more than my body. Remember — I was barely eighteen, I’d been taken away from everything that I knew, and I was cold, wet and seasick into the bargain. And if you still think I’m whining, why don’t you get some friend (choosing one with a strong right arm) to hit you as hard as he can with a rope’s end? Then get him to hit you on the same place two or three times more, and calculate how long you could stand it.

  Finally, one morning just before light, I reached the crossroads of my life. I was crouched, soaking wet, in the very bows of the ship by the “seats of ease”. These are the ship’s privies; boxes with holes in the top for the men to sit on, perched on a grating under the bowsprit. The grating was narrow and triangular, with ropes to grasp to keep you from falling off, but it was open to the sea on either side.

  Dixon had set me the nonsensical task of standing by to swab over the seats after each use. I had been there all night and was light-headed with fatigue and the waiting for Dixon to creep up on me. Bullfrog plunged along, the bows swayed up and down, and every fresh wave threw a shower of salt spray over me.

  I was in a singular state of mind. I had got it into my head that one more blow from Dixon would split me to the bones and my insides would fall out. The poison mixture of anger and fear, cooking these several days in my mind, grew so hot that I could contain it no more and I rocked to and fro in my torment. The only way out was to roll forward and drop into the smooth green waves. At least it would cool the pain. I took a breath, tensed my muscles to push forward and ... SNAP! Like the turning of a lock, my mind cleared. I saw the way out. The dreadful threat of suicide passed, and I became my own man again. Immediately I got to my feet and crept quietly back over the bow to the nearest gun. Then I returned to my place and took off one of my shoes. Nobody had seen me.

  And there I stayed until Dixon arrived, which he did when the watch changed in the early light. I had my back firmly against the bow bulkhead so he couldn’t come at me from behind. He grinned as I stood up to face him.

  He wouldn’t hit me while I could see him, that was the whole point of his game, so I swayed with the motion of the ship and held his eye. For a moment, the perfect crudity of his face was marred by a frown of puzzlement. Then the frown was obliterated in a crunching of bone as I hit him in the forehead with heart, soul, mind and strength ... and a four-pound iron round-shot swung in the toe of a stocking.

  It took him by surprise but he was fearfully strong and though he fell, he didn’t go straight over the side. He managed to catch the edge of the grating and hung at the full stretch of his arms, totally vulnerable, looking up at me in amazement.

  I could see his stupid, brutal face straining with effort as he tried to follow the unbelievable turn of events. But this was no time for gloating and I stamped on his fingers in a passion of rage to make him let go. Splash! And he vanished under the bows, to be scraped, pounded and drowned as the brig passed over him. Farewell Mr Dixon. He never even cried out. I shuddered heavily and dropped the shot after him. Then I sat down and took off my shoe to put the stocking on again.

  Afterwards, I waited for the inevitable discovery of my crime. But nothing happened for a while, and then there was a lot of bustle and shouting for Dixon, though none of this was aimed at me and eventually things got quiet again. Slowly the incredible thought grew in my mind that perhaps nobody had seen what I’d done. I gathered courage and peered back down the length of the brig. Nobody was paying me any heed. Nobody was looking at me. Nobody was interested in me. Nobody was advancing upon me to throw me in irons.

  I’ve often wondered what Lieutenant Salisbury thought about Dixon’s disappearance, and what he put in the log: “Lost overboard in a storm” very likely, even though the weather was fair and Dixon a seaman of vast experience. That would bring the least discredit upon himself. Less, for instance, than “murdered by an unknown member of the crew”, even should such an idea have entered Mr Salisbury’s head. Such an entry might make a young Lieutenant’s superiors think that he hadn’t got proper control of his ship. And that could blight a young career badly. In any case, that very day we reached our destination, Portsmouth, and I was taken out of Bullfrog and beyond Lieutenant Salisbury’s reach.

  6

  Has not this officer done his dooty by yoo?

  (From an undated, unaddressed letter, in a semi-literate hand believed to have been written by Lieutenant John Spencer of the Impress Service.)

  *

  The Right Worshipful Mr Nathan James Pendennis, Esq, Lord Mayor of Polmouth, Justice of the Peace, and prosperous merchant, was an imposing figure. From his respectable wig to his buckled shoes and the snuff-coloured broadcloth encasing his substantial belly, he was a man who normally inspired confidence and respect.

  But today on a cold Monday morning, enthroned in his great chair, behind his desk, with his senior clerks waiting upon him, he inspired only terror in the two miserable worms that cringed before him. For Enoch Bradley and David Ibbotson, one of the great reckonings of their lives was upon them.

  “You sir!” roared Pendennis at Bradley. “How dare you drop your eyes in that dissembling manner? Face me sir! Face me when you speak, or you’ll never be employed again! Not by me nor any other in the land. I’m not without influence, sir!” Knowing how true this was, the wretched Bradley forced himself to look the Gorgon in the eye.

  Mr Pendennis’s inquisition had already been under way for some time and had first been directed upon David Ibbotson. As the latter had now reached a state of pitiful incoherence, Bradley knew that his turn had come.

  “Now sir!” said Pendennis. “For the moment, we shall leave aside your iniquitous insubordination in attending the place of ill-repute, to which you repaired on Saturday night.” Bradley licked his lips and thanked merciful God for this deliverance, however temporary. He was so relieved that he near-as-damn-it passed water in his breeches. “Instead,” thundered Pendennis, making the papers jump on his desk, “we shall discuss the whereabouts of your fellow apprentice, Mr Fletcher, whose absence this morning brought this whole matter to my attention.”

  Pendennis paused, his chain of thought disturbed, and added in a quite different voice, “Fletcher — a young man in whom I had noted considerable gifts. It saddens me to learn that Mr Fletcher was part of your abominable expedition.” There was a moment’s silence, broken only by Ibbotson’s snivelling, as Mr Pendennis considered this cruel disillusionment. His attendant clerks looked stern and shook their heads in sympathy. “However,” said Pendennis, “you will now tell me exactly why Fletcher did not return with you on Saturday night.” He glared at Bradley, awaiting an answer.

  “It was the press-gang, Mr Pendennis, sir,” said Bradley. “They took Fletcher and they tried to ... ”

  “What?” cri
ed Pendennis, shooting to his feet. “The Press? Those enemies of trade, those sons of Beelzebub!” His jaws worked and his fists clenched in fury at the mention of the hated Impress Service. His business depended on watermen and bargees, every one of them lawful prey to the press-gang. He had heavy investments in merchant ships whose sailings might be interrupted by impressment. He had loans outstanding to fishermen whom the press-gang might remove from all ability to repay him. “You pair of worthless dolts!” he screamed. “WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME THIS BEFORE?”

  “Er ... Er ... ” said Bradley, not daring to say that Mr Pendennis hadn’t given them the chance. Not daring to protest that Mr Pendennis had focused on their doings at Mother Bailey’s to the exclusion of anything else.

  “Never mind!” said Pendennis. “Did you not tell them you are apprentices? Did you not mention my name?”

  “Yes sir, no sir,” said Bradley, accurately.

  “What?” cried Pendennis, misunderstanding. “Do you bandy words with me, sir?”

  “No sir,” said Bradley, quivering.

  “Did you not tell them that to take an apprentice is contrary to law?”

  “Yes sir,” said Bradley, “Fletcher told ’em, but they took him anyway, sir.” Pendennis ground his teeth with rage and turned upon two nearby clerks who ran like rabbits to do his bidding.

  “You! Fetch my lawyer! You! Fetch the constable ... Take a Pendennis apprentice would they?”

  Within the hour Mr Pendennis, at the head of a considerable procession, had arrived at the Rondy and was putting Lieutenant Spencer to the same torment that he’d inflicted on Bradley and Ibbotson. At least that’s what he was trying to do, but Spencer was an altogether tougher old bird.

  “For the last time, I demand that you release Jacob Fletcher!” insisted Pendennis.

  “Fletcher-be-buggered!” sneered Spencer. “I tells you for the last time, we ain’t got no soddin’ Fletcher!” He grinned, showing a broken line of tobacco-stained teeth. “Search for him if you like, matey. We won’t stop you, will we boys?” and his men joined in his mocking laughter.

  “Dammit, sir, are you telling me that you’ve already sent him into the Fleet?” said Pendennis.

  “I’m tellin’ you nothin’, mister!” said Spencer.

  Pendennis was no fool and could see he was beaten for the moment. He drew himself up and looked down his nose at Spencer.

  “Very well, sir,” he said. “You may think yourself clever, but I have the law behind me and I shall pursue this matter ruthlessly.” Pendennis advanced a step and glared fiercely at Spencer. “And as for you, sir, I shall remember you most particularly. You shall curse the day that you crossed me!” and he turned on his heel and stalked out with his followers in tow.

  Spencer watched him go in dull fury. His contempt for Pendennis, and all the other Pendennis’s in the land, was fully equal to their contempt for him.

  “You bugger!” he said, bitterly. “You’d be the first to squawk if the Frog navy stopped your bloody trade, wouldn’t you? You’d be first to call for us to man the Fleet — just so long as we takes the men from somewhere else!”

  His Bosun came hobbling up, still out of favour over the incident of the clipped wing.

  “Told him proper you did, Mr Spencer, sir, and no mistake!”

  He turned to the men, urging a display of loyalty. “Didn’t he, lads?”

  “Aye!” said the lads half-heartedly.

  “Who asked you?” said Spencer. “Shut your trap!” But the Bosun pulled his hat off and knuckled his brow.

  “Thing is, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, we was wonderin’ when we was goin’ to get the money ... ”

  “Never you mind no bloody money!” snapped Spencer. “If I was you, mister, I’d be more worried about gettin’ my backside cauterised before it festers.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” said the Bosun, pressing dangerously on into the storm. “We was only wonderin’... ” But Spencer’s temper snapped and the Bosun had to jump to get out of range of his stick. Finally, when Spencer had exhausted himself with rage, he stomped off and sat down with a bottle of rum in the dingy hole that served him as a private room. The more he turned things over in his slow mind, the worse they seemed.

  Spencer was no coward. He was a coarse and shabby old bully but he’d face any man that came at him with sword in hand. He’d do that all right, but facing the courts was another matter. It drained the manhood clear out of him. What chance was there for an old tarpaulin like him? Especially when he’d taken a man that shouldn’t be took.

  But none of this was supposed to have happened. The gentleman had promised that all would be made right. The gentleman said he’d square it with the law. The gentleman had promised! And Spencer was to get twenty guineas in gold for the work.

  He fell back in his chair and took a pull of the bottle. He cursed his own laziness in not going out with the gang. But how could he do that with his bad leg that was ruined in the King’s service? He couldn’t dance after young apprentices, could he? So he’d brought that shithead Bosun into the plot; a guinea for the Bosun and half-a-guinea per man for the gang, to bring in a named man. A named man! He groaned as he saw the Bosun telling that to the court — proof positive of wrongdoing. They’d break an Officer for that. They’d turn him out of the Service to starve in the gutter. That’s the least they’d do.

  Spencer thought of the gentleman again. What was his game anyway? Why hadn’t he done right by him? Spencer had done his duty, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he delivered up the goods? And here he was cast up dismasted on a lee shore! Well, if he must sink, then that fine bugger should sink with him. He’d make all plain in the courts if need be.

  At this, a great light shone upon Lieutenant Spencer. He smiled as he saw the way out of all his troubles. He would make the swab do right! He would write him a letter. The lubber was staying at the Crown Inn and a letter could go by one of the gang. He’d tell him to call off the lawyers or be betrayed in court. Half sozzled in rum, he roused himself and got pen, paper and ink from the landlord. Mumbling the words and chuckling savagely, he hauled the pen clumsily across the page in his heavy fist.

  7

  I was most of a day in Portsmouth before being taken off Bullfrog and the meaning of what I’d done began to weigh on me. The calculation had seemed an easy one: since I was already prepared to drown myself, I had no fear of any punishment the Navy might inflict. So why not be revenged on Dixon? But now I wasn’t facing certain death, and I was troubled. Moral scruples were not a problem; what Dixon got from me was natural justice. The trouble was I couldn’t really believe I’d got away with it. I was terrified that someone must have seen what I’d done and that soon I’d be dragged off to face a hanging.

  There was more, too. My confidence had taken a heavy battering from what I’d suffered over the last few days. And I had actually killed a man; not a thing that training as a clerk exactly fits a lad for, as you’ll appreciate. No, you can’t expect just to walk away from all that with a merry smile. So I wasn’t myself for quite a long time after, and a lot of what happened next passed me by like a dream. For instance, if I’d had the wit to do it, I could have talked myself out of the Navy even then. Pressing apprentices was merely illegal, but pressing a gentleman was unthinkable to any decent Officer. And I had the speech and manners of a gentleman. [A favourite claim of Fletcher’s which those who knew him might dispute. S.P.] But I said nothing, and as Bullfrog’s pressed men were unloaded I found myself in a boat, with others, towed by a launch from one of the warships. There were lines of great ships at anchor, and the cold water splashed over the gunwales. A heavy depression was on me, and I went like a sheep to the butcher’s.

  First they sent us aboard an old hulk fitted out as a slop-ship with tubs of hot water and soap. By then, not only were we filthy, but we were hopping with livestock as well. So they scrubbed us clean and baked our clothes in ovens to kill the fleas. And they shaved our heads for the lice, and slapped on tar for the ringworm of those
who’d got it. Then they weighed us, measured us and took our names, and a surgeon came to weed out those so obviously crippled that even the Navy wouldn’t have them. For this examination, we were lined up stark naked in the freezing cold, and the hulk’s crew sneering at the wretched state of us, with our white skulls and running noses.

  After that we were left alone for a while and I got my clothes back (minus all my money, naturally) and we got an issue of food and grog. I was some days on the slop-ship and I must say it was better than life on Bullfrog. They left you alone for one thing, provided you didn’t try to escape. They had marines with muskets to shoot you if you did that.

  Finally they broke us into groups for different ships. To my surprise, there was some haggling over me. A clerk said I was down for one ship and an elderly midshipman said I was for another. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t care where I went, provided I could keep quiet and not be noticed. I was only waiting to be dragged off to the hangman at any minute. In the end, there was another trip round the harbour.

  This time I was taken off in a smartly painted boat manned by eight muscular seamen dressed all alike: blue jackets over white shirts and trousers, with a black handkerchief knotted at the neck, and to finish, the round, black-glazed sailors’ hats that look like flattened top hats. This was the cutter and crew out of H.M. Frigate Phiandra, and at the tiller, commanding eight prime tars and five Pressed men, was Mr Midshipman Roston, twelve years old. I wondered at this child in charge of full-grown men, but in charge he was and squeaked out his orders with complete confidence.

  “Give way!” says he sharply, and the tars threw their weight on the oars. They rowed beautifully and all together, with a sense of harmony about the thing. They were as different as could be from the press-gang or Bullfrog’s crew, and actually seemed to enjoy what they were doing. I studied them for a while, as the boat darted off into the mist that hung round the anchorage. But I was too full of my own troubles to pay much attention to them or anything else.