He, as steadily as he could, approached the captain of the vessel with Turpin and Poynter close on his heels. “Lieutenants Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin requesting permission to board, Captain.” He saluted and hoped he had addressed the captain correctly. He knew that naval men were weary of those who spent their entire lives on dry land. He also was aware that they were on his territory now and that he—Captain Fletcher—was in command. No matter what he ordered them to do, they had a duty to obey.
To Wickham’s surprise, the man’s browned and leathery face broke into a grin. “It’s my pleasure entirely to have such fine men upon my ship. I hope you will all join me for dinner this evening in my cabin—once we’re well underway, that is.” He looked at a man to his left. “I believe we still have quite a stash of rum?” The man nodded and smiled. “Good, good. Then we shall make a merry party on our way to London, shan’t we?”
Wickham smiled up at the man and nodded. “Indeed we shall, Captain.”
The shower of rain turned into a downpour that pelted the carriage unceasingly. Lydia wondered when it would end, as the roads turned slowly into nearly unpassable quagmires. They limped into Lincoln and the Bennets’ manservant procured them better lodgings better by far than the previous night, but the cold dampness in the air had penetrated their bodies and no matter how superior their rooms were, they were still chilled to the bone. Lydia moaned and whined as she sat on the edge of the bed and fed Georgie that evening. Her belly was now warm and satisfied with the large bowl of beef stew inside it, but still she could not shake the chill that lingered around her shoulders and sent shivers down her spine. Georgie’s face was cold against her breast and she looked down at the sucking child and touched his rosy cheek. She frowned and pulled his blanket tighter around him. The poor mite is just as cold as his mama.
Tess had busied herself the moment they arrived at the inn. She set to lighting a fire—much to the irritation of the landlord, who said they had servants for such things. However, Lydia’s incessant complaining that she was cold had spurred the young girl into action, and by the time Lydia had removed her coat, gloves, bonnet, and boots, there was a fire blazing in the chimney.
“Shall I go downstairs and ask for some hot chocolate, ma’am?” Tess asked after searching the room for all the extra blankets she could find.
“Yes, that would be a splendid idea. I have to warm my bones somehow. Goodness knows how I will sleep, and I had better not catch a cold from that damp carriage—I shall have to speak to Papa about it when we reach Longbourn. It simply will not do.”
Tess nodded, curtseyed, and left the room.
Lydia looked at her surroundings. The room was pleasant enough. The old four-poster bed was intricately carved and antique—she thought it most likely Jacobean. That made her smile. She liked to be around antique things and enjoyed the feeling of opulence she got from them. She reached out and touched the post nearest her. She ran her fingers over the delicate carving on the wood and felt the coolness on her fingertips. She stroked the thick tapestry-style drapes that hung at each corner. Yes, she thought, I shall have something similar to this in my home. She smiled to herself and stretched sleepily. I could stay here for a fortnight, I am sure. Slowly, but surely, she started to warm through, especially now that the fire was lit. She looked down at Georgie and hoped he would finish feeding soon. All she wanted at that moment was to curl up in the delightful bed and sleep for hours. Who cared that they still had a long way to travel ahead of them? Right now, Lydia was dry, almost warm, and feeling decidedly drowsy. She hoped Tess would return soon. She would then undress, slip on her nightgown, drink her hot chocolate, and then not stir a muscle out of the four-poster until the morning.
The swaying of the ship, to and fro, did nothing to calm Wickham’s churning stomach, nor to allay the fears that had sprung upon him since weighing anchor. Suddenly, he remembered he was not a strong swimmer and did not like to swim out of his depth, and yet, here he was, on a ship sailing into the North Sea off the coast of northeastern England, in charge of soldiers who were in the grip of greater fear than he was. He knew he had to take a hold of himself. He turned and looked at Turpin—who had turned a shade of green—whilst Poynter stood beside them both with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, smelling the sea air and chuckling at their obvious discomfort.
Holding onto the rail as he descended, Wickham climbed down the steps from the quarterdeck and walked as steadily and as in command of his tottering legs as he could manage. All along the sides of the ship, their men were leant doubled over the sides. The sound and the stench was horrendous, and the seamen did little to help as they laughed and watched as they went about their duties.
Wickham walked to the end of the deck and then back towards where the captain stood on the quarterdeck and called, “Isn’t there something that can be done for their present relief?”
The man merely shook his head and shrugged as he yelled back, “The men usually find their sea legs within two to three days at sea.” He chortled as he looked out to sea as he continued, “Unfortunately for your men, the voyage will be over by the time they are used to it, Lieutenant Wickham. Just be thankful this is a calm sea!”
Wickham groaned inwardly and returned as quickly as he could to the quarterdeck and spoke under his breath to Poynter. “The men will be in no fit state to march onward to Dover if they are sick all the way down to London.”
Poynter looked over Wickham’s shoulder before he spoke, and Wickham had the distinct impression that the captain and his officers were watching and listening in. “I remember my uncle always used to say that the men’s stomachs would settle if you could get a good meal into them.”
Wickham turned and looked back down the ship. “I would not hold up much chance of that happening this night.”
From behind him, he heard the captain and his men laugh, and felt the older, jolly man slap him on the back. “You’ll be surprised, Lieutenant Wickham. Truly, you will. I am always amazed at how hungry a man can become once his belly is empty, even if he brings the meal straight back up again.”
Wickham winced at the vulgarity.
“Are you shocked, lad?” the man asked, laughing. “You’ll get used to our ways, I’m sure. We’re not so fine and dandy as you land-men.” He winked at Wickham and he could not but smile at the older man’s jibe. “Let us put some distance between us and the land, and the purser will get biscuits and water distributed. That ought to settle their stomachs a little, and then they might eat some stew later.” He nodded with assurance and Wickham hoped he could trust the man’s wisdom and experience.
He turned his attention to the sailors beneath him and those climbing up the rigging to loose the sails. Within minutes, he, his lieutenants, and midshipmen were hollering commands and barking orders at the seamen, who immediately scurried to carry out their orders. Wickham remained where he stood, in awe of all that went on around him. It seemed to him that they even spoke another language to one another. He was certain that it was English which they called out, but the terminology was entirely foreign to him. Terms such as abaft the fore hatch, mizzen, clews, afore, and aft were bandied about, making his head spin.
Once they were well under way, the captain turned to him, Poynter, and Turpin and said, “Well, Lieutenants, it seems we are wind-over-tide. Your men may get their sea legs before we reach London.” All three of them stared at the captain as though he had not uttered a comprehensible word at all. He laughed. “It means that the tide and wind are in opposite directions. The wind is stronger than the tide. It means we have short, heavy seas.” Their blank expressions prompted further explanation. “It means that we cannot sail with the wind and the tide aiding us. The wind, right now, is blowing towards land against the tide, which is going out. The waves will be a little high, too; it’ll get choppy.” Choppy. The word stuck in Wickham’s mind like a harbinger of doom. He did his best not to react to the statement and nodded that he understood. As if to test his stamina, the sh
ip lurched to the side and he reached out to grasp the rail. “Ho!” The captain laughed. “It looks like she’s testing you there, lads!” He turned and looked at his officers, and Wickham knew by their smirks that they found Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin’s discomfort and determination to master it a source of amusement.
True to his word, once they were well and truly underway and out to sea, the purser was sent for by the captain to distribute sea biscuits and water to all the men—including the infantry. Wickham was not certain if his stomach could handle the dried food, but he ate it nevertheless, as an example to his men. He was surprised to notice that it was pleasant and refreshing. His stomach certainly calmed after having eaten a bite of food and taking the water, but frustratingly, his vertigo continued. He assumed that the choppy seas were to blame. Had the sea been calm, he felt that he would have been a lot steadier on his feet.
As he continued to watch the seamen climb the rigging, Wickham experienced a new sense of respect for the men as they scampered up along the arms that held the sails, and back down again with well-practiced ease. The movement of the ship seemed to have no effect on them whatsoever.
Wickham watched as the captain retired to his cabin and wondered what he, Poynter, and Turpin were to do now. Turpin answered his unspoken thoughts. “I suppose we ought to move amongst the men—make sure they are all right and all that.”
As one man, they moved from where they stood on the quarterdeck, descended the steps onto the main deck, and headed, each one, to their own command of soldiers, who, judging from the looks on their faces, were mightily pleased to see them.
“How long will this blasted voyage take, sir?” one of them asked as he paled when the ship lurched once again.
“Three to four days, I am told. However, the captain says we are sailing against the wind, which means we are sailing slower than we should be.”
Groans met his words and the men began to complain. “I dunno if me stomach can ’andle much more o’ this!” one wizened, old soldier commented.
“Fear not, Jacobs. I am told the longer we are at sea, the calmer our stomachs will become.” The men murmured that they doubted the truth of that statement. “Look above you at the men climbing in the rigging.”
“If it’s all right with you, sir, I’ll keep my eyes firmly on the deck,” Jacobs replied, to the laughter of the others.
“What I mean is, they overcome their seasickness. I am told that almost all seamen get it in the early days.” The men looked up at him as though they did not believe a word of it. “By the time we get to London, you will all be as right as rain.” Wickham gave them his most confident and charming smile. Some were persuaded, but the majority, he saw, were not.
“What will we do when we get to London?” they asked.
“We await orders. All we know is that we have a long march to Dover after that.” More groans met his words. “At least then your feet will be on firm ground.”
Then one wise man at the back, who looked a far sight greener than the others, spoke up, “Yeah, but then we ’ave to sail across the channel, don’t we?”
Wickham did not know how to answer that question. It was true. Another sea voyage did indeed lie ahead of them. “Yes, Walker, we will have to sail across the English Channel, but I assure you that it will not be such a long voyage as this one.” Again, they complained. “That’s enough now!” Wickham snapped. “I cannot very well order the ship to return to harbour because you are all uncomfortable, can I? Just bear with it.” He turned and walked as quickly as the vertigo allowed him to the quarterdeck again. He was irritated with them. How are we to fight the French if they whine like little children because of a slight choppy sea?
Wickham turned and looked out to the North Sea. There was no doubt about it, the sea did certainly have a magically calming effect on him, and he felt his irritation at the men wane. They were land infantry—foot soldiers—after all; none of them had volunteered to join the Navy, and he was not surprised that they were uncomfortable—he was not comfortable on the sea, either. He could not wait, if the truth be owned, to be safely back on dry land. However, the men’s attitude vexed him. As he calmed down, he wondered whether he was irritated with the men’s attitude or by what the captain and the other men aboard the ship would think of them, whining like babies. To his shame, he suspected it was the latter rather than the former.
Wickham was astounded that there was a dining room below deck. It was wood panelled, and if it were not for the fact that the whole room kept swaying from side to side on the sea, he quite easily would have thought the room belonged in a modest home anywhere in England.
His amazement continued as the purser’s team of men brought in their dinner on what Wickham was certain was silverware. Of course, it would have been the height of bad manners for him to lift a plate and look for the hallmarking underneath, but he had pawned more than one piece of silver in his lifetime and he was certain that most of it was real, despite a few pieces looking to him like silver-plate.
He caught Turpin’s eye and smiled at his face. His expression was one of pure delight. Turpin was always one to enjoy his food and the spread, which entered the below-deck dining room, now impressed the young man greatly.
“I see you are impressed, Lieutenant Turpin.” The captain laughed heartily as he and the other naval officers took their places around the table.
“Oh, indeed I am, sir. I confess that I had thought that seamen lived on sea biscuits and rum,” Turpin responded, to which the company assembled around the table laughed heartily.
Wickham looked around the large, square oak table. He tried, without success, to remember the officers’ names and their ranks, but his mind was overwhelmed. There was the captain and the master at arms, lieutenants, mid-shipmen, quartermaster, and even a surgeon, and others whom he could not remember at all, and not all of whom he was certain were at the table with them that evening. The life of a ship was another world entirely.
The aroma of the meal drew his attention back to the platters being placed on the table. There were tureens of soup, vegetables—roasted and boiled—and to his even greater surprise, a large leg of lamb was placed in the centre of the table, too.
“No sea biscuits for this table, Lieutenant Turpin, you see?” The captain chuckled again. “Although I confess we had a great opportunity to restock the ship in Scarborough.”
One of the lieutenants—Wickham remembered he was called Harper—nodded. “Aye, it’s always good for the morale of the men to restock the ship’s supplies.” He looked directly at Wickham as he continued. “You can imagine, I am sure, that after three months at sea, the food has to be rationed. None of us like it, but…it’s better than starvation.”
“Starvation?” Turpin gasped.
“Aye. A common occurrence aboard a ship, I’m afraid,” the captain replied sadly.
Wickham thought mayhap the man had lost a few of his men to starvation. The sadness in his face spoke volumes. “There are not many friendly ports these days and if, by God’s grace, we manage to successfully sail into a friendly harbour avoiding enemy fire, we are often the first supply ship they have seen in months. We cannot restock, and it would not be right, would it, to sup with the garrison in the harbour forts? No, we stay aboard ship and pray for a providential wind to take us home as fast as can be. She is not the swiftest of ships, Lieutenant Turpin, and neither are we armed well—we are blessed, though, with two cannons. Nevertheless, two cannons are no match for an enemy frigate. So, we then have to sail back to England, avoiding the French and Spanish fleet, on half, sometimes even quarter rations.”
Turpin gasped again. “I confess I had not spared much thought to what it was like for the Navy, sir.”
The captain shook his head. “I’m not surprised. It’s very rare that what happens on a ship is spoken about on dry land.”
Lieutenant Harper nodded at his captain and added, “It’s not good for the morale of the folks at home to know about the hardships endured
by the men fighting for King and country, is it?”
Poynter nodded. “Too true. None of us can speak about what we face, or will face.” He caught Wickham’s eye and he nodded.
“I believe I would much rather stay aboard ship than do what you lads are about to,” the captain murmured. “It takes a lot more bravery than I think I have to face the enemy eye-to-eye.” Wickham had not thought of that, and his stomach lurched. If they were aboard ship, it was rare that they would be close enough to see each individual enemy, whereas he and his fellow foot soldiers would more than likely encounter hand-to-hand melee at some point. “But…” The captain sighed. “…I am not cut out to be a soldier. I was born for the sea, and I will be until the day that I die and go down to Davy Jones’ locker.” He nodded at the purser to begin carving the leg of lamb, and they all watched on in silence whilst thinking about his words.
Turpin broke the silence. “Davy Jones’ locker? What’s that, Captain Fletcher?”
“Do you not know, lad?” Turpin shook his head. “Well, every seafaring man knows about Davy Jones’ locker, although I am hardly surprised that you do not know. I believe there is more than one reference to Davy Jones.” His eyes glazed over as he looked up towards the oak-wood panelled ceiling and brought to mind the story. “‘Some of Loe’s Company said, They would look out some things, and give me along with me when I was going away; but Ruffel told them, they should not, for he would toss them all into Davy Jones’s Locker if they did.’”
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