by Lee Henschel
I stepped forward and Pogue stopped in mid-harangue, looking me over.
“You’re on report for being late, ’arriet. Now stand to while I improve upon this little monkey.”
That was Tate. He was very young, indeed, even for a ship’s boy. It seemed the lad didn’t know how to tie a sailor’s half-hitch. No good thing, for I’d seen already that the hitch was the most common knot onboard any ship. Pogue poured it on thick, forcing the lad to try and fail, try and fail. I saw straight away the thing about Tate that Pogue didn’t see, or didn’t care to see. The hitch was a simple knot, and the boy could not tie it because he was simple. I saw it in his face, the same expression I’d seen all my life in the dull but trusting face of my brother, Albert.
When Tate failed a third time Pogue boxed his ears and the boy started wailing.
“Learn it, boy! Or ’oy’ll box you more. Now geh’ out o’ me sight.”
Tate ran off, and Pogue strutted on the deck, a young rooster primed and ready for the next cock-up. Standing across from me with his back against a ladder was Opp, tall for sure, and lanky, red faced and pimply. Leaning against the foremast was Hudson, neither tall nor short, but well set up. And next to him stood Botherall. Botherall looked older than the other two, perhaps fourteen. Fat and lumpy.
Pogue stopped pacing. “Now then, it’s time you gents meet the lucky ’un ‘ere. It’s ’arriet. Even though yer all not ’aff above ’im on the list, it’s ’im wot’s cabin boy, and it’s a bleedin’ shame to ’ave such a thing ’appen to fine lads such as yerselves.”
He stopped in front of Opp. “Do you like it, Opp, for ’arriet to be cabin boy?”
“No, sir.”
“’owe ’bout you, ’udson, do you like it?”
Hudson shook his head.
“And you, Botherall. By rights it’s you wot should be cabin boy. Not ’arriet.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pogue tugged at his waistcoat. “Right then. So ’ere’s the way of it. Before you begin yer duties, why don’t you all show ’arriet ’ere just ’owe you feel about it? Wot do you say?”
“Aye sir.”
“Very well.” he shot his cuffs. “I’ll be back in five minutes, and damn-all ’ooever’s still on this deck.”
Pogue passed me close by, giving me a slick grin as he scampered up the companionway. I knew what was coming and I might have tried going at it with one ship’s boy. But not three, and with my back against the bulkhead there was no room to back away. My oldest brother, John, showed me how to fight near every day, not by teaching, but by knocking me about in the stockade. What I learned, though, was not how to fight, but how to curl on the ground and cover his kicks and punches until he got bored. I hoped that might meet the requirements now, as Opp landed the first blow. Botherall and Hudson laid it on, too. None of them really had their blood up, though. Their efforts seemed a sorry display, actually, only going through the motions to satisfy Pogue. It inspired me to rise and fight . . . just as heavy foot falls sounded on the ladder, and all three boys took off, leaving me on the deck.
“On your feet, boy!” Ajax boomed. “Come.”
He took the companion way up to the spar deck and headed aft. I followed on smart, and then remembered the strange voice from the night before. I slowed, peering down through the boat rack and along the gun deck to where I’d hidden. I tried to recall the faint whisper. It was already a fading memory and impossible to gather, lost now in the morning light and the hubbub of Eleanor’s bustling crew. Still, Ajax might care to know of it, so I risked calling his name.
“Ajax!”
“Shut your mouth, boy. And show a leg. Mr. Pogue’s already informed me of your tardiness.”
“Aye, Ajax.”
I weaved between work gangs to catch him up and he stopped to face me. “Report to me your general orders.”
I told him.
Ajax nodded. “Wat says he told you the shrouds and stays.”
“Aye.”
“Point out the shrouds and stays on the mainmast and state their function.”
I did.
“Good.”
“Wat told me some of the bowsprit, too.”
“Not Mr. Pogue?”
“No.”
“Very well. Let’s hear it.”
I told it.
“You learn. Now follow me.” We continued aft and Ajax resumed his chide. “You were fighting just now with the other ship’s boys.”
“Aye, sir. But . . .”
“Shut your mouth, boy. And know this. Fighting among the ranks is a floggable offense.”
“Aye, sir.”
When we reached the great cabin he gave even more. “You’ve neglected to stow your hammock.”
“Aye.”
“Hear this, boy. Eleanor’s no Indiaman. Tardiness, fighting in the ranks, and failing to stow your gear, those infractions may appear of little consequence, but if not addressed they threaten ship’s discipline. And lack of discipline will sink us.”
“I’m sorry, Ajax.”
“No one cares a farthing if you’re sorry, boy. Instead, you must strive to be better. I would be willing to overlook your tardiness this time, for you’re green. Mr. Pogue has put you on report though, so the offense must be addressed by the first officer. There may be charges, but I’ll try to have them reduced.”
“Aye, Ajax.”
“You have work to do. Come.”
Several days passed until Lieutenant Rainey appeared on the quay leading his lot of pressed men. Even before Mr. Starling stepped on the quay for inspection he ordered the bosun’s mate to strip the men and hose them down. Soon they all stood naked as jays and dripping wet, their backs turned to the catcalls and whistles coming from the randy women who’d come to observe. Mr. Starling took pity on the pressed men and ordered the marines to chase off the crowd. Only then did he proceed with his examination. Three men were young, not above twenty. One man was nearly too old to serve. And one fellow was a halfwit and discharged prompt.
When Mr. Starling was satisfied he ordered the men issued their slops. The black tunics and grey dungarees elevated their spirits and they went onboard willingly, to be met at the entry port by Coutts, who entered each man’s name in the register. I heard Coutts pronounce them all landsmen and meant to deduct their first month’s wages against their new togs. He then turned them over to Lance Corporal Marley, acting as Eleanor’s sergeant-at-arms. The corporal introduced each of them to his starter, and led them below.
I stood at the fife rail, watching Reggie follow the poor men below. I liked Reggie. He seemed capable of talking to me without yelling or telling me to shut my mouth. I felt safe to ask him questions. And I had many, so I followed him down through the officers’ mess and into his cubby hole. As loblolly Reggie also served as ship’s apothecary and he worked and slept where the physics and such were stored, just across from the first officer’s cabin. When I knocked he looked up from his tiny desk and smiled.
“Harriet! I wondered when you might come pay me a visit.”
“Hello, Reggie. May I come in?”
“It’s cramped, but if you step in and close the door we’ll have a bit more room. I must finish this first. I’ll only be a moment.”
He began to write, his quill scratching distinctive as he drew it across the ledger. When he set the quill down I spoke.
“Reggie?”
“Yes, Harriet.”
“When did you learn to write? And to read?”
“Oh, I was about your age. A bit younger, I suppose.”
“Then it’s not too late for me to learn how?”
“Of course not.”
“Mum taught me numbers when I helped at her loom. And letters, too, but not so much. I should like very much to learn proper.”
“Then I’m sure you shall.”
“What are you writing now?”
“The names of the men who just came onboard. Mr. Starling requires me to keep our own ledger. To make sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“Of Coutts. The man keeps two ledgers. One is for the ship. That ledger is an official register for pay tickets, clothing allotments, and all sundry items. The account is a necessary record, done up proper. Coutts also keeps a ledger for himself, though. All pursers do it. And when . . .”
We heard Marley yelling at the new men, bullying them into the officers’ mess and lining them up. Reggie opened his door a crack and we peeked out. The deck was empty but for the press. A sorry lot. Another man joined them now, one I’d not seen before. Without delay a lieutenant stepped from the first officer’s cabin. It wasn’t Rainey. The fellow walked slow and with stormy intent, stopping before the men, measuring them in a pronounced silence, his face dour and dark. The lieutenant drew a deep breath and burst out in a long and strident shriek of insults, howling high and roaring most low, calling them the worst stinking collection of miscreants he’d ever smelled. He grew more livid by the second, spittle flying and the men cowering. His rant went on and on and the men quaked and cowered, the oldest one crying openly. The lieutenant paced forth and back, flailing his arms, shaking his fist and shaming them no end until, without warning, one of the men, the one I’d not seen before, charged him, screaming that he’d had enough and would take no more. He raised a fist as if to strike and that’s when the lieutenant took one step back, drew his pistol, and shot the man in the heart. The man fell to his knees, then flat to the deck, his hands pressed over his heart, blood seeping between his fingers. The men stood dumb until one of them mumbled The Lord’s Prayer, followed by an agony of silence.
Ding-ding. Ding.
One-thirty in the afternoon watch. I’d just seen a man shot dead. I began to weep. Reggie laid a trembling hand on my shoulder. The lieutenant lowered his pistol, walked slowly over to the man, and calmly gazed down at him.
“Dead, b’God.” He turned to face the pressed men. “Let this be the first thing you learn about serving in the Royal Navy. If you raise a hand to strike an officer you will be shot dead.” He put his pistol away. “Now then, any questions?”
No questions, of course, so he ordered Marley to march the men away. When they were gone the lieutenant went to the cabin and closed the door, leaving the body on the gun deck. Uncovered and unattended. All went quiet.
“May I get up now? The floor has slivers and I’ve got one stuck in me arse from me fall of death.”
Rainey and the other officer came out then, laughing. They helped the dead man stand, and Rainey patted him on the back.
“And an epic death it was, Dewey.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dewey took out a rag and wiped his hands of blood. Not blood though, only water dyed red.
“Most convincing, Dewey. I never once saw you breathe.”
“Holding me breath’s me specialty, sir.”
Rainey turned to the other fellow. “And you, Hodge, can’t you just play the nasty officer, though?”
“Thank you, sir. I played it just as you wrote it.”
“You did indeed, and with great fire. I began to feel a bit sorry for the beggars.”
“Yes, sir. I only wish we could have played to a bigger crowd.”
“Not for this performance. I made sure the mess was cleared for a private audience. But you’ve earned your wages this day.”
Rainey fished in his waistcoat and took out a crown, shiny new, and flipped it to Hodge.
“You will go ashore now. But next time I’ve a need to tyrannize the press you’re the lads for me. You may be sure of it.”
Chapter Three
The weather turned most foul and slowed our progress. It took eleven days alongside Agamemnon to bring aboard Eleanor’s ordnance, secure each gun in its carriage and assign gun sections . . . and several days after that to take on shot, powder and the remaining supplies necessary to begin sea trials. Finally Mr. Starky, Eleanor’s carpenter, stepped the top gallant masts and a gang from the rope walk came aboard to fit the last of Eleanor’s standing rigging. I followed the Captain Cedric often now, but he seemed barely aware of me. He rocked and swayed in a constant pique and I dreaded being in the great cabin or on deck with him, fearing he might vent his spleen on me. Thankfully, Ajax usually stood in the forefront, and I only observed and learned, and kept my mouth shut.
Eventually the perishables and livestock were brought onboard. All went satisfactory until a barrel of apples tipped from its cargo net and split open on the gun deck. Starky’s shoat got loose and went for them direct and the thing turned most indignant when he was stuffed back in his pen. The next morning a milk goat just purchased by the officers’ mess slipped her tether, clattered onto the port cathead and went overboard direct, bleating mournful as she sank.
“Bloody hell!” Lieutenant Goodwin complained. “Not milked even once!”
Then some too-clever mallard billed open the latch of its coop and the entire flock flew off the deck, quacking cheery as they circled around.
The watches laboured strenuous both night and day. But at last Eleanor stood away from Agamemnon and proceeded to her moorings in the outer roads. On the night before sea trials were to begin, Wat sent up a fresh suit of sails. It took half the night to hand and reeve them onto the yards.
That same night one of Eleanor’s midshipman fell to his death. Mr. Baker. He was sliding leg-over down a mizzen stay when a block, reeved improper, failed and the stay broke away. Baker dropped to the deck, cracking his head on the capstan on the way down. He was dead on the spot, a spoonful of brains leaking on the deck. Mr. Starling ordered Reggie to use a curved sail needle to take a stitch through Baker’ nose. Reggie explained it was a test . . . to make absolute certain the man was dead. Still most dead. Mr. Starling pronounced him as much, and while Baker’s blood and brains were hosed into the scuppers Reggie sent his body ashore. Poor Baker. Poor Reggie.
By then Reggie and I had become mates and I saw how Baker’s death had upset him. Sticking a needle through a dead man’s nose was most gruesome. I tried to visit him in his cubby-hole whenever I could, to cheer him some. He worked and bunked in a cubby not far from where I slung my hammock. He was always there, it seemed. So to keep him from thinking overmuch about poor Baker’s nose, we busied ourselves talking about Rainey’s little show he had staged on the gun deck. Wat said the whole thing was all lies and jest meant to frighten a new press. Something for them to think about once they discovered how miserable their lives had become, and before they began to consider mutiny, such as at Spithead and the Nore. Ajax said most skits weren’t as clever or as shocking as Rainey’s. The first officer came from a theatrical family, and knew how to write a skit and where to find actors to perform it.
On one of my visits Reggie was entering names in Mr. Starling’s ledger, and it reminded me of the list Coutts kept.
“Reggie, do you remember telling about the purser’s list? You said he keeps more than one.”
“He does. One list is genuine. The other is phantom.”
“What are they for?”
“The genuine list includes the names of actual crew, you see. But the phantom list includes the names listed on the ship’s manifest, and also includes the names of some who’ve died or run, or gone overboard missing. There’s also the names of some who’ve never existed at all.”
“Why?”
“The purser carries false names on his list so he can submit their pay tickets the same as if they were alive. Then he pockets the money. The practice is quite common. It’s just another way a purser takes his profit. And they make money by the bushel.”
“Mr. Coutts looks most poor to have any money at all.”
“He looks that way to hide his wealth.”
“He’s wealthy?”
“Of course. See it this way, Harriet. If Coutts has twenty phantom names on his list and each names brings, on average, two pounds, seventy-three pence a year, then after a voyage lasting, let’s say three years. Well I’d have to figure it out but it would be a great sum.�
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“One hundred sixty-three pounds, eighty pence.”
Reggie stared at me for a moment, then wrote his numbers down and calculated. After he finished he set down his quill.
“You’re exactly right, Harriet. That was right quick. How did you do it?”
“The numbers, they just tumble, Reggie.”
Reggie frowned. “The numbers just tumble?”
“Like the acrobats. They roll about and flip and pose and do all sorts of things.”
“What acrobats?”
“The ones who came to play Newbury Fair.”
“But numbers aren’t people, Harriet.”
“Oh, I know. Mother taught me numbers when I helped her weaving, counting warps and such, and the numbers always reminded me of acrobats. And for some reason the numbers always tumbled into place.”
“I must say, that’s very unique.”
“I hope it’s not a bad thing, because I can’t stop them. They just go on.”
“Not bad, I don’t think. Just a bit odd. Anyway, Coutts generates a great deal of money through his phantom list and the money just falls into place like one of your players. There’s one more list, though. It’s kept by the captain for his muster.”
“What’s his muster?”
“That’s when each man stands before the captain and states his name and duties. It’s supposed to insure against the purser carrying phantom crew.”
“How do you know about lists and all? You know so much, Reggie.”
“Not so much. But father’s a chartered accountant, so I grew up listening to him to fret over things such as phantom lists.”
“Does he keep a phantom list?”
Reggie smiled. “Certainly not. Father knows all about them though, and spends a good deal of time trying to expose the practice. And a ship’s purser, well he’s the most likely of all to keep a phantom list. Father wanted me to join his firm and follow in his footsteps”