Sails on the Horizon

by Jay Worrall

  The last thing Charles wanted to hear was an argument. An angry response was not far from his tongue. With an effort he restrained himself and said, “Yes, what?”

  “Captain Freemont, our regular captain,” Tillman sputtered on, “he let us have some time to relax a bit in port. He liked an efficient ship. He didn’t care much how smart she was. All that polishing and flemished lines and all is a lot of foolery in his opinion. He often said, it’s how well she—”

  This was getting to be a longish speech and Charles seriously doubted that the Lomond was any more efficient than she was smart. “Captain Freemont is not among us at present,” he broke in sharply. “Flemished lines are one thing, loose yards and guns are another. See to my steward and sea chests. Then the women. Then call the hands. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant responded, drawing himself up at the rebuke.

  “I will be in my cabin. Have me called when the men are assembled.” Charles turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “And, Mr. Tillman, I do believe in a smart ship as well as an effective one. Including her officers.”

  “Yes, sir. I see, sir.” The lieutenant was standing rigidly erect. He felt vaguely sorry for the man, but the Lomond in the condition she was in was an insult to the navy. If he was to accomplish anything during his brief command, things would have to change quickly. If that was hard on this lieutenant, then so be it. Charles took a moment to look over the masts, rigging, and deck again, grimaced, and then made his way aft toward the ladderway and the captain’s cabin. He was looking for the key to Commander Freemont’s desk when Attwater arrived with four seamen carrying their chests.

  “Damnation,” Charles swore, his frustration with the desk, the first lieutenant, and the deplorable state of the ship coming to the surface. “How do you open this thing?”

  “’Ere, sir. Don’t you fret none.” The elderly steward reached up and felt along a ledge above the desk and almost immediately came down with a small black key. “That’s where Captain Wood, ’e kept his key, sir. Hidden like, where no one couldn’t find it.”

  “Thank you.” Charles let out a long breath and some of the anger and disappointment seemed to leave him. “Arrange things as you see fit. When you have the time, ask the cook to make some coffee. He should probably make enough for the crew to have at dinner instead of their evening grog. I think they’ve had enough of that for now.”

  “That would be all of your stores, then,” Attwater said indignantly. “We ain’t had no time to buy any proper captain’s stores. Coffee is all I brought. The cook, he won’t have none.”

  “I’ll send you into town to buy whatever you need, first chance,” Charles promised. He realized that having the proper food and other little luxuries in hand was important to his steward, probably more important than it was to him. “In the meantime, give the coffee to the cook after you’ve finished unpacking.”

  While Attwater began to sort through their sea chests, Charles removed his hat and sword and hung them on pegs set into the bulkhead, then dropped heavily into the chair in front of the desk and unlocked the drawer. Inside he found the captain’s log, the Lomond’s muster book, her punishment book, accounts, and the other official records that would tell him a lot about what kind of ship and crew he had inherited. With no appetite to examine them, he stared at the open drawer for a moment, thinking about what he already knew and what he should do about it. He was about to reach in and take out the ship’s muster book when a sudden tumult of running feet, shouted orders, loud screams, and screeching obscenities erupted from the deck just above his head.

  “Dear Mother of God, sir,” Attwater exclaimed, “it’s a mutiny.” He rummaged frantically through Charles’s sea chest. “I’ll have your pistols in a minute.”

  Charles listened, trying to make some sense of the commotion. Then he grinned. “It’s not a mutiny, it’s the women. They’ve been asked to leave the ship. Apparently they don’t like it. Just a dry jacket, Attwater. I think I’ll go on deck.”

  The little brig was flush-decked, with no fore- or aftercastle, so Charles climbed the aft ladderway onto what served as her quarterdeck near the stern. He smiled broadly and almost laughed at the confused melee in progress midships. About a dozen seamen, under the command of a midshipman, were attempting to herd sixteen or eighteen women over the side and into the waiting boats. The women, clustered into several small knots of dubious femininity, were at least reluctant, if not openly rebellious. Charles heard a riot of shouted orders and answering obscenities and saw that not much progress was being made. “Now, Poll,” he clearly heard a bosun’s mate implore, “the new captain wants you off the ship. You have to go, it’s orders.” In answer he got, “I’m no Poll, you fucking whoremaster’s bastard. And the captain can kiss my arse. I’m a free woman.” From another corner came a loudly screeched, “Ye push me one more time, ye faggot, and I’ll cut off yer balls and feed ’em to the fish.” At least the rain was letting up.

  Charles grinned and decided it was time he intervened personally to restore order using the authority and prestige of his uniform. He straightened his hat and started forward, then halted. One of the women around the midshipman lifted her bag and hit the unfortunate boy on the head with it. Then four of the women jumped on him, pulled him to the deck, kicking, scratching and punching, swearing loudly all the while.

  Charles noticed someone standing near the ship’s wheel almost doubled over in laughter at the spectacle. “You there,” he ordered, “come here, please.”

  “Aye aye, sir?” the man said as he approached, struggling unsuccessfully to assume a serious demeanor. Charles saw that he wore a buff waistcoat under a black jacket. One of the warrant officers, he guessed.

  “Who are you?” Charles asked abruptly.

  “Wilson, sir, quartermaster. And might I inquire who you be?”

  “Edgemont. I’m to be the temporary commander of this barge.”

  “I see, sir. Welcome aboard,” Wilson said noncommittally.

  “Yes,” Charles answered, glancing toward the waist and seeing that the battle had now become general, with the few seamen still standing retreating toward the bow. “Are there any marines on board?”

  “Aye, six, I think. Under Sergeant MacPherson.”

  Charles paused for a moment. It was time to end this, and end it quickly. “Fetch him and his men. Tell them to bring their muskets, loaded. And I want them in proper uniform.”

  Wilson looked at him in horror. “Loaded, sir? You’re not going to…”

  “That’s none of your affair. Get them now, quick as you can.”

  The marines, more or less smart in their red coats, black hats, and clayed belts, arrived at a run up the ladderway soon after. Their officer, a tough-looking, bandy-legged Scot, ordered them into a line. His men presented arms and then shouldered them.

  “Sergeant MacPherson, SIR!” the marine officer almost shouted. “The Lomond’s complement of Royal Marines all present and sober, SIR!”

  Charles could tell at a glance that this last was not entirely true. Indeed, the sergeant himself looked somewhat under the weather. Still, it was the best he had at the moment. “Sergeant, I want you to take control of the deck and restore order immediately. Then you will assist those women off the ship. You may begin by firing a volley over the port rail.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” MacPherson answered. Then, turning to his men, he snapped, “Left FACE! Shoulder ARMS! Aim high, boys, FIRE!”

  The volley sounded like an explosion in a barrel, and Charles was pleased to see the mass writhing on the decks forward pause and look aft.

  “Fix bayonets. Forward, MARCH.”

  The women, at least, began struggling to their feet. The seamen, looking sheepish and not that much the worse for wear, soon followed. To Charles’s relief, the marines quickly cleared the deck. Presented with the threat of armed force, the women retreated with some indignity to their boats and were gone. The rain tapered away to a dull drizzle and the L
omond’s decks seemed unnaturally quiet despite the dozen or more seamen standing in the waist with the now-idle marines. Charles suddenly realized that they were all watching him with a mixture of curiosity and expectation.

  “Pass the word for Lieutenant…er, Tillman,” he said to Wilson. He then waited self-consciously, standing with this hands clasped behind his back and thinking about what he should do about the mess he found himself in. He was only the Lomond’s temporary commander—how much should he interfere with another man’s ship? He knew the answer—as much as he thought was needed. Strangely, it made him feel a little easier. The condition the ship was in wasn’t entirely the men’s, or even the Lomond’s officers’, fault. It was Freemont’s. He’d set the tone and the expectations that his officers were to follow. Charles wondered how the man had kept his command so long.

  To his relief, Tillman arrived promptly in a clean if wrinkled uniform and freshly shaved. There was a still-bleeding nick on his chin, as if to prove that he’d just done it. Charles softened marginally. Perhaps it was time to start on a fresh footing.

  “You’ve cut yourself,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I was in a hurry.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Tillman, I’ve done so myself under similar circumstances. You may assemble the hands aft. It’s time I read myself in.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said automatically. He glanced sideways at Charles, as if surprised by the change in his temper since their last meeting.

  “Bygones, Mr. Tillman. It’s what we do next that matters. The hands please, sometime this week.”

  “All hands on deck!” Tillman immediately bellowed in a voice that Charles thought could probably be heard in Ireland. “All hands on deck by divisions, captain’s orders!”

  “That should do it,” Charles observed.

  “Sorry, sir. We don’t have a drummer. Well, we do, but the drum is stove in.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  Charles watched with interest as the remainder of the crew staggered up the ladderways and groped toward their petty officers. Some were clearly drunk; others looked as if they had been sleeping it off. None seemed in a very lively condition. One by one the divisions were reported to the lieutenant in the time-honored formula as, “All present and sober.”

  “All present and counted, sir,” Tillman said tactfully after the last report was received.

  “Thank you,” Charles said, and stepped forward to where he could be seen and heard more clearly. The fifty or sixty men gathered on the deck in front of him were the sorriest-looking he had ever seen. He didn’t know the exact size of the Lomond’s complement yet, but that seemed about right. Without preamble he reached into his coat pocket, took out the orders he had been given, unfolded them, and read loudly and slowly. “To Commander Charles Edgemont, Esquire; hereby commander, His Majesty’s brig Lomond. Sir, you are hereby requested and required to report onboard His Majesty’s brig of war Lomond, presently moored in the River Mersey at Liverpool. You are directed to take temporary command of her until such time as you are relieved, requiring all officers and company to behave with strict obedience to your orders. You are also required to proceed pursuant to the General Printed Instructions and those orders you will receive on board from any superior officer of His Majesty’s Service. Nor you nor any of you may fail except at your peril. Signed, Captain Alphonse Dawson, Acting Port Admiral, Liverpool.”

  When he finished reading, adding emphasis as he saw fit, every hand on the ship looked at least somewhat more sober than when he had begun. And well they should, he thought. By the act of reading his orders out loud, he had officially taken command of their ship and every one of their lives. He could with impunity order harsher punishments than the king could, up to and including death by hanging if he saw fit, all without a trial or a defense, or any chance of appeal to a higher court, or indeed any court. And the men knew nothing about him except his name and that it was not the same as their regular captain’s.

  He had considered making a short speech to introduce himself and explain how he intended to run the ship and what he expected of them in return. Most captains did. Some spoke of patriotism and calls to duty, others to honor and glory, and some gave frankly evangelical appeals to follow Christ and seek salvation. But Charles had rejected the idea almost immediately. Most of the men were too drunk to listen anyway. Instead of telling, he would show them.

  He carefully refolded his orders and placed them back in his pocket. With every eye in the ship still fixed on him, focused or otherwise, he turned to Tillman and in a voice just loud enough to be overheard by the closest of the assembled seamen, he said, “I will inspect the ship before supper. I will only concern myself with the main and lower decks. I don’t want any of the crew sent aloft in the state they’re in. No food will be served to anyone on board, including the officers, until I am satisfied.”

  “But, sir—,” Tillman interjected.

  “My God, you say ‘but, sir’ a lot. What is it this time?”

  “We can’t, sir. It’s too much. The Lomond hasn’t had a proper cleaning in months. The captain thought, er, other things more important. There’s too much to do. It would take all night.”

  Charles listened. It was probably sound advice. Belowdecks must be a shambles. He didn’t want to ask the impossible, but he did want to drive home the point that he expected a clean and well-ordered ship, and the Lomond was going to become one whether Tillman or the crew liked it or not. “All right,” he said, pulling Tillman aside and speaking in a softer voice, “I will make an inspection before supper. I’ll overlook a lot, but I want to see progress made in putting this floating piggery in order. That itself will take some time, and I expect supper will be delayed an hour or so.”

  “Yes, sir. We can manage that with some effort.”

  “And one other thing. The crew is in bad enough condition. A good stint of hard work will help, but bullying won’t. No starters or beatings. No punishments of any kind will be meted out. I want the officers to set an example, not browbeat them. If there are serious breaches of discipline, bring the offenders directly to me, and let them know I will be hard on them.” It wouldn’t hurt if the crew thought him strict or even harsh. He also wasn’t worried that the officers would think him one of those captains who coddled the men at their expense. Everyone would know what kind of a commander he was within the next few days.

  Tillman swallowed and gave a tentative, “Yes, sir.”

  “See to it,” Charles said, nodding his dismissal. “Send the purser and cook aft. I’ll be in my cabin.”

  The first thing he noticed on approaching his cabin door was the armed marine standing sentry outside. The man seemed reasonably sober and snapped to attention as Charles approached. At least Sergeant MacPherson had seen to that without having to be reminded. It was something.

  “Coffee,” he said to Attwater as he entered the cabin. “Three cups.”

  “Three, sir?”

  “Yes, three, and quickly. I’m expecting the cook and purser momentarily and we’re not serving any more spirits today.”

  The purser arrived first, a dour, plump man who was stone sober. He came carrying his ledger book. The cook, tall, thin, and missing his left arm from the elbow down, appeared red-nosed and unreasonably cheerful. Charles gave them each a mug of coffee, although he doubted the purser needed it.

  “What’s the state of the ship’s provisions?” he asked without preamble.

  “We’ve plenty, zur,” the cook answered with an inappropriate grin. “Salt pork, salt beef, some still good. Plenty of biscuit, only a little weevily. Plenty of—”

  “Any fresh meat?” Charles interrupted. “Beef, mutton, chicken, anything like that?”

  “No, zur.”

  “Any vegetables? Flour for gravy?”

  “Yes, zur. We’ve plenty of dried peas, sacks o’ them. No flour, though. The rats got it all.” The cook looked puzzled for a moment at the line of que
stioning, then added, “The rats don’t like the peas much. Like little rocks, they are.”

  Charles turned to the purser. “Take one of the ship’s boats with my steward, the cook, and his mates, if they’re sober, into Liverpool. I want you to purchase sufficient fresh meat, vegetables, and flour for tonight’s supper. Keep a full accounting for me to sign; I expect the Navy Board will want to question me about it later. Mr. Attwater will be doing his own purchasing.”

  The purser nodded expressionlessly. “But, zur,” the cook protested, “even if we’re as quick as can be I’ll never have such a meal ready by the first dogwatch.”

  “Supper will be delayed. But be quick about it. I don’t want the men to wait any longer than necessary. I’ll give you an extra hour.”

  “What sort of a meal?” the purser asked.

  “A hot, healthy meal with fresh meat, vegetables, potatoes, and gravy. Buy some fresh bread if you can. I want the food to be enjoyable as well as filling. I’m going to eat it myself, so it had better be as appealing as you can make it.”

  THE NEXT MORNING he sent the bosun, his mates, and all the topmen aloft to unfurl the sails so they could dry, square the yards, and put the rigging in proper order. The remainder were set to polishing the brightwork with brick dust and grinding the decks with holystones until they were white. In the afternoon, the bilge, which stank like a cesspool, was pumped dry. River water was pumped in and then out again several times. The effect was instantly noticeable, if not completely gratifying. Supper that evening consisted of the normal salted meat from casks, dried peas, and biscuit, with a carefully measured ration of spirits afterward.

  On Charles’s third day on board the Lomond he set the men to replacing chaffed lines and cables in the rigging at the direction of the bosun, and to general repairs under the supervision of the ship’s carpenter. It was amazing how many little things had been neglected and needed attention. With the gunner in tow, he personally examined each of the six-pounder cannon and ordered several of the restraining tackles replaced as well as all the flints in the firing mechanisms. He then directed that the guns and their carriages be painted. Late in the afternoon, with his first lieutenant, he conducted a thorough inspection, from mast-tops to the hold. In the end he was satisfied and told Tillman so while they were standing near the base of the foremast, where he was sure his words would be overheard by a number of the crew. “You and the men have worked hard,” he said. “She looks like a proper king’s ship. You should be proud.” It was certain that his words would be passed to every corner of the ship within minutes. Tillman looked relieved.