by Lee Henschel
He buffed the chronometer with his chamois and asked without looking up. “You find this amusing, boy?”
“No, sir. I mean aye, sir. I mean I begin to like the smell of it, sir.”
He only nodded, then locked the chronometer away. “You will begin your duties now. Clean up the mess you left on the table before you ran. Restore everything to its proper place. Smartly, boy. Get you on.”
“Aye, sir.”
The last of the smoke had cleared off by the time I finished. Ajax shut the windows and turned to me.
“Now stow the sextant.”
I did so.
“We’re done here now. When you are not on duty you will sling your hammock just outside the great cabin. You will secure your hammock in a bulkhead when not in it. And you will not be in it often, or for long.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Do you have a kit?
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Did you bring anything onboard with you?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought as much. Very well. Do you believe in God, boy?”
“Oh yes, sir. I mean aye, sir.”
“Then you shall meet him now . . . or one who at least thinks he is God. Midshipman Pogue. He’s in charge of all ship’s boys. Come.”
Ajax steered me through the officers’ mess and forward to the gunroom where the midshipmen messed. A small passage, no more than a long narrow table running fore and aft, rough benches to port and starboard, and bunks crammed between the knee timbers. The gun ports were locked down and it was a dim place baking in an odorous fug.
“Do you wish to improve yourself, boy?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then you must become a midshipman. It’s the first rung on the ladder.” He looked around. “And a miserable one.”
He made a curious face, part grimace, part disgust, then boomed overloud, “Mr. Pogue! Don’t you make me wait on you, sir.”
A vague response drifted from above, followed by hard-soled shoes knocking on the companionway, yellow suede pumps and pewter buckles. An indifferent sort of fellow came ambling down the ladder. Pogue. He looked about seventeen, and skinny, with long hair, rat brown and stringy. His face was pimply, and heavy brows made for a low forehead, shifty brown eyes set deep. His nose was broad and flat and his cheeks high and prominent. But it was Pogue’s mouth you noticed, quivering moist as a fresh slab of liver. It was overlarge and opened in a gaping black hole as he yawned at Ajax.
“You will present yourself to me properly, Mr. Pogue.”
The midshipman drew himself to attention. “Aye, sir. Midshipman Pogue, reporting as ordered, sir.”
“You’re late, Mr. Pogue.”
“Mr. Lau wasn’t satisfied with me noon line, sir, so ’e made me do it over.”
“Yesterday you had our position somewhere in the middle of Russia, so I hear.”
“‘oo’d you ’ear that from, sir?”
“None of your business.” Ajax nodded at me. “This is your new boy. Harriet. You will fit him out in slops. You will submit his name for the watch bill. You will show him where the head is and while you’re there you will enlighten him to the purpose and construction of the bowsprit. You will requisition a hammock for him and you will deliver him to me at the main fife rail before the first dog watch. Do you have time for all that in your busy schedule, Mr. Pogue?”
“Aye, sir.”
Ajax turned to me. “When’s the last time you ate, boy?”
“Yesterday, sir.”
He nodded. “Very well. Mr. Pogue will take you instanter to the galley. Cookie will feed you. Take him, Mr. Pogue.”
Pogue led me away. He moved most peculiar, walking shifty sly and looking always behind. He did not take me direct to the galley though. Instead, he took me to the head.
“Yer the new cabin boy.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And the captain’s yer uncle.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Well now, ain’t you the lucky ’un.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Well a pox on yer good fortune.” He pointed to a bucket and mop. “Swab out the crappers, nephew boy. Port and starboard. And if it ain’t done proper you’ll do it again when I get back, from below the gratings.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Well jump to it!”
He spun on his heel and stole away. As I began my task a low, quiet voice spoke from the starboard header.
“That one’s a rotter.”
I leaned over to see an old tar sitting on the grates. “What, sir?”
“I’m not a sir. I’m the sail maker. Wat.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, aye, Wat.” I went back to work but risked a question. “Do you know what shrouds are, Wat?”
He smiled toothless, then pointed. “Right there. Them’s the foremast shrouds. Port and starboard. They keep the mast upright along with the stays.”
“That’s most clever to have shrouds. But what are the stays, Wat?”
“Forestays and backstays.” He pointed to the thick, tarred ropes securing the foremast. “That’s them. They keep the mast upright fore and aft.”
“Oh! I know fore and aft, Wat.”
“Well good fer you, lad.”
“Mr. Pogue was supposed to tell about the bowsprit and he left. I was wondering, Wat. Do you know where the bowsprit is, too?”
He smiled again. “Aye. Your hand’s resting on its cleat.”
“Oh! At least I know where it is now.”
“I’ve a few minutes, boy. You go about your work and I’ll tell you some of the bowsprit.”
But Wat told more than just some of the bowsprit, and went naming the thing from knighthead to flying jib boom, each downhaul and every jeer. Then the sails, and the making of sails. He described the very set he’d cut for Eleanor, and spoke reverent of the foil that shapes all sails majestic. It was all mystery and cant to me. He didn’t notice my absent look though, for the bowsprit and all else onboard Eleanor was second nature to him, of a piece, and easy to understand. For him. And it became second nature to me as well. Over the years, but now the particulars overwhelmed, and I meant to beg off. Then he was called away.
Soon I finished my task and Pogue came to inspect. I had done well, I thought, and hoped for recognition. Before he said a word he spat toward the starboard hole, and missed.
“I told you to clean it proper.” He pointed at his gob. “And you forgot something.”
“But sir, you just . . .”
He moved toward me, balling his fist in my face. I believe he expected me to wince or cower. I stood my ground, for my oldest brother, more solid than Pogue, enjoyed hitting me overmuch, always striking hard and at times in anger, so I knew what to expect from a fist. Certain I would feel it. But unless he struck at my face, which I would not allow, I would stand it. So I made fast and looked him in the eye, not as to dare, but to let him see I didn’t fear him. He saw my meaning and backed off. And I thought I’d come through well enough, until he cocked his head and cast a sideways look, grinning spiteful. A dark look and more threatening than his fist, and I shivered.
He nodded slow. “You begin see my way of it, boy. Now I suppose you want to eat.”
“Aye, sir. I’m most hungry.”
“Damn yer ’unger, boy. If I don’t have you fed bloody Ajax’ll ’eer of it.”
Chapter Two
Like all King’s ships in 1798, Eleanor was below complement, and to make up the shortfall Captain Cedric was obliged to generate a sizable portion of ship’s crew on his own. As customary, he paid out of pocket for the printing and distribution of recruiting posters. Most advertisements were of a kind—written up swell to promote both glory and fame. But Captain Cedric’s notice was of a different sort, for he knew that among the ratings most seamen were illiterate. So the captain dispensed with the written information, except for name of ship, number of guns, Eleanor’s home port and his own name in overlarge print. Then, to make his offer seem a good th
ing, he employed a fellow to make a woodcut depicting Eleanor anchored in the Solent. She flew an large Union Jack, while on shore a group of well fed, jolly sailors—all wearing Eleanor ribbons—stood in line waiting for a great pile of sovereigns to be handed over.
The appeal netted little of worth, though. The prime sailors had long been taken in the fight against Boney, who now had plans to bugger all Egypt. And many other seamen had been taken from merchant vessels while at sea. But Eleanor had not gone to sea yet, so she could not provide for herself in that way. So she had to rely on recruiting posters, and the Quod—the quota of men supplied to the Royal Navy from each county. But the numbers in the Quod were sorely deficient, and generally yielded landsman only. Most of them were criminals, or diseased, or both. So Captain Cedric had dispatched his first officer, Lieutenant Rainey, to find and press a meager lot on his own to serve onboard Eleanor. They’d be men no longer found in port towns or coastal villages, but far inland, and gleaned from halfwits, dimwits and remainders.
It was this shortfall that forced Captain Cedric, on the first night I came onboard, to turn out all hands to man Eleanor’s barge, cutters, jolly boats and launches and row her across the inner roads to Agamemnon, a decommissioned ship-of-the-line now serving as a sheer hulk. And for the coming week Eleanor would lay alongside Agamemnon and take on her ordnance. Twenty long guns from the Royal Brass Foundry in Woolwich, all of them twenty-four pounders and meant to be fought from the gun deck. A dozen newly designed carronades from the Carron Iron Company in Falkirk. Twenty-four pounders as well and meant to smash at short range from the spar deck. And two brass nine-pounders to bang away from the bow and stern. But unless the Royal Navy had miscalculated by design, that total made just thirty-four pieces. Eleanor was rated at thirty-six, and Captain Cedric was displeased with the variance. He went ashore to investigate.
He stayed away the entire night. That left the great cabin unoccupied, but locked mightily, and no marine stood sentry. Pogue was long past done with me and had delivered me to the main fife rail to wait for Ajax. The officer of the deck, Lieutenant Goodwin, said the coxswain had gone ashore with Captain Cedric, though, and rudely ordered me off his deck. I went below. I was most tired and slung my new hammock from the quarterdeck carlins, tucked in a corner formed by the great cabin and the quarter gallery. I swung to Eleanor’s slow waltz as she rose on the surge, then bowed graceful to await the next roll. All but the anchor watch had turned in. Aft of the officers’ mess all was quiet and still. The only activity came from the spar deck, where the cooper was still bunging his water casks.
This day had started before first light and had worn on tiresome. You will do this, boy, and now you will to that, boy, and boy, you will shut your mouth. I was most weary of it, and longing for sleep, lulled by Eleanor’s soft shudder as she snubbed her hawser. I breathed in her myriad of smells, sensing the heartwood of her oak beams. This was my first night away from home, away from a warming hearth and the measured pace of eventide. I thought of mother. Her death had begun to unravel us, and now I was the next to be torn away. For the first time in my life I felt alone. When the cooper finished his work and the ship fell silent, I lay awake, my tears welling, yet I refused to let them fall. Finally I slept, waking only to ship’s bells in the middle watch. Ding-ding, ding-ding.
Then, from the deep hush, came a whisper.
“Sukiyama. Sukiyama.”
Only a dream. Only a whisper inside a dream. And I fell back to sleep. Then once more, this time most pressing. I answered.
“What?”
“Sukiyama.”
It came from forward, and I sat up, searching the darkness beyond the galley bulkhead, but saw nothing. I waited, listening for more. Nothing more came. Even so I slept no longer, for I heard it call silent in my head now, and I rolled from my hammock thumping the deck barefoot. I went not to seek, but to answer, easing forward in the darkness through the galley, its stove still warm to my touch, and into the officers’ mess. Still there was nothing. No whisper. But no longer was there an urge to abide, and I was about to return when I smelled the reek of Coutts, and watched his shadow ghosting aft along the gangway. Without thinking I dove to the deck and slid flat and low behind a hatch coaming to watch him move silent toward the great cabin where he paused only for an instant, for the great cabin was not his destination. Instead, he moved on, stopping at my empty hammock, which he clutched in both hands and sniffed deeply. After a moment he sank into the shadows.
Surely I could not return, and no longer could I remain behind the coaming, for a pool of moonlight now spilled through the companion way, inching close. Soon it would find me, and expose my cover. Just twenty feet away deep shadows still lingered between the stove and the bulkhead. It was a better place to wait, or to hide—a risky move, for the deck was all open before me and I might be seen by Coutts. I held back. Then the moonlight touched my foot, and despite the risk I slid away toward the bulkhead and stove, moving silent smooth.
There I waited. And at five bells Coutts emerged from the shadows, moving of a purpose through the galley and the officers’ mess, up the companionway and off the gun deck. For the first time in half an hour I breathed full. I didn’t go back to my hammock. Instead, I curled and slept behind the galley stove. Not for long, I don’t think, for I awoke to the purr of a cat. No doubt I was in its spot. A cat would know this place. I stroked it for a while, comforted by its calm repose. With no warning it shot from under the stove and went racing along the gun deck.
“George! Georgie, it’s sardines! Ahh! There you are, you silly thing.”
I saw a hand reached down to place a saucer on the deck, then the freckled face of a young man. I caught his eye and he jumped back.
“Oyi! And who might you be?”
I stood and addressed him. “I’m Harriet. Captain Cedric’s cabin boy. Sorry to give you a start.”
“What were you doing back there?”
“Sleeping.”
“Lie! A cabin boy doesn’t sleep behind the stove.”
“Not all night. I was looking for something, then fell asleep back there. Who are you?”
The cat tore into his sardines and the fellow reached down to pet him. “That’s right, Georgie.”
The fellow watched Georgie for a moment, and I watched him. He was sixteen, I guessed, curly blond hair and pale blue eyes. Pale skin, not weathered, unlike most of the men onboard. He carried himself agile light, and moved small.
Finally he answered. “I’m Reggie Spoon. Loblolly.”
“Loblolly?”
“Surgeon’s assistant.”
“Oh. I see. Well, do you know where I can find Mr. Pogue?”
“Why should you want to find that one?”
“I followed Ajax yesterday, mostly. But he’s not here I don’t think, or Captain Cedric. And Ajax said Mr. Pogue’s in charge of ship’s boys. So I thought perhaps I should report to him.”
“I presume he’s forward by now . . . tormenting the ship’s boys, as usual.”
We watched quiet as Georgie smacked his lips and began licking his paws. Reggie picked up the saucer and wiped it with his kerchief. “Now wasn’t that a good ’un, Georgie?”
Georgie sauntered away, ignoring the question.
Reggie sighed. “Just like his namesake, I imagine.” He blushed. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“The king? Or Georgie?”
“Both, I should think.”
“Don’t worry. I shan’t be seeing the king today. And Georgie, he doesn’t seem to care overmuch.”
Reggie laughed. I made to go search for Mr. Pogue but Reggie stayed me gentle.
“What were you looking for?”
“What?”
“You said you were looking for something.”
“Oh, yes. Last night I was in my hammock, outside the great cabin, and I heard something odd. Whispering. I didn’t know what to think. So I thought to go look.”
He cocked his head, inviting me to say more.
>
“It seemed, well, like someone calling out, almost. A summons of sorts.”
“A summons?”
“At first it felt that way. But now I think it was more a warning.”
And it came to me then, that what I’d heard was an omen. An omen intended for me. I made to say as much and the words caught in my throat. I stood there, starting to quake.
Reggie reached out, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“Easy, lad.”
“Yes. Just hearing things last night, I imagine.”
“Hearing things, yes. But not imagined.”
“What?”
“I’ve heard it, too, on other nights, but not last night.”
“Was it a whisper?”
“Something of the sort.”
“What did it say?”
Reggie looked at me, pondering, I think, how much to tell a stranger. I wondered as well, not sure if I wanted to tell him about Coutts sneaking on the gun deck. Just then we heard the marines start thundering away on the quarterdeck, their sergeant swearing most colourful and the men stomping about and slamming their musket butts on the deck.
Reggie rolled his eyes. “A noisy bunch.”
“Aye.”
Then a pair of felt shoes halted on the companionway, then came down.
“Oh dear! Here comes Cookie. God’s own misery . . . and at his artful best in the morning watch. We should beat feet before he sees us. Know where ship’s boys mess?
“No.”
“Well that’s where Pogue will be. Come.”
There were four other ship’s boys onboard Eleanor. Every morning after serving the watch below they messed on the gun deck, gathering around the foremast to take their own breakfast and be dragooned by Pogue. My new-found mate, Reggie, brought me there and stopped short, pointing them all out.
“Botherall, he’s the fat one. Opp is the tall one. Hudson’s the stocky one. And the little one is Tate. He’s too young to be here at all. And Midshipman Pogue. No doubt you’ve gotten off to a bad start with that one. Everyone does. Stay clear of him as best you can, Harriet.” He patted me on the back and made to leave. “I must go find Mr. Starling. He’s ship’s surgeon and expects me early. Lieutenant Rainey’s due back any day now with his press and there’s no telling what he’ll drag in. Very likely they will all be unfit so we must be prepared.”