Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  Harry was content that this should be so. He had no desire to befriend any of them. His sole ambition was to reach New York, see perhaps something of the colonies — he had no idea what sort of distances might be involved — and then find himself a passage home.

  And perhaps, before then, find the opportunity for a word with Elizabeth? That too, he knew. His only real disappointment, once he had become reconciled to his place in the forecastle, was her total absence from the deck. Never having been a victim to sea sickness himself, he found it difficult to appreciate what she might be suffering, as the sea was by no means rough, although lively enough to cause the barque to pitch every so often, and to roll whenever there was a slight shift in the breeze. He began to wonder if she meant to keep to her cabin for the entire voyage. Which could only be because she wished to avoid him. But that made no sense, as he was certain it was her decision, forced on her father, that he was here at all.

  On the third day out he enjoyed a dog watch below. Normal ships’ watches were of four hours each, from midnight to four in the morning, four to eight, eight to noon, noon to four; if carried through the remaining eight hours to midnight again, this would mean that each would work the same hours throughout the voyage. To prevent this, the four in the afternoon to eight at night watch was divided into two periods of two hours each, which meant that each watch had the midnight to four in the morning spell — generally considered the least desirable — on alternate nights. Besides, the dog watches, coming as they did in the late afternoon, were seldom used for sleeping, but rather for true relaxation, mending of clothes, or, as he was now doing, merely enjoying the weather.

  He sat just forward of the forecastle, watching the bowsprit plunging almost to wave height, before surging skywards again on the next crest, while the sea broke into flying spray to either side. On a spring afternoon there could be no more beautiful place to be, as the ship steered straight down the path of the setting sun. Providing one looked only at the sea and the sky, and the sun. For where he was also overlooked the heads of the ship, the grating that extended from the forecastle forward to the foot of the bowsprit, and which served as the seaman’s toilet, as it was constantly washed clean by each wave, bubbling up through the apertures.

  Idly Harry removed the now sadly soiled bandage from his left hand, closed and extended the fingers several times. It was four days since the cut, now; the flesh was scabbing well, and although the wound was still tender, he knew he was making a quick recovery, thanks to his mother’s salves. That was sufficiently good news to make him feel entirely at peace with himself.

  His feeling of well-being was disturbed only by the presence of the cabin boy, Jojo — it seemed no one in the forecastle actually knew his real name — who was using the heads. This was only the third time on the voyage so far that Harry had seen the boy, close to, as his duties kept him entirely aft, and apparently he even slept in a quarter berth off the officers’ galley. But he had already gathered that Jojo, not the brightest of lads although pretty enough, was an object of pleasure to the older hands. This was not something about which Harry was prepared to concern himself. He knew enough about the sea, the long days and weeks and sometimes months spent by the crews on a voyage, to understand that mein separated from women for periods of time would, when the mood took them, seek sexual satisfaction from the nearest available source. Just as he also knew that source was invariably the youngest and least experienced on board; there were indeed several new hands, shipped at Southampton for this voyage, who were still being broken in as matelots to the older sailors, just as he understood that he was the very newest and from the personal point of view, least experienced of them all — as he was obviously also one of the most desirable. But no one was going to lay a finger on Harry McGann without his say so, and that was the only point which he was prepared to insist.

  Disinterested as he was in the crews’ morals, however, he yet found it nauseating the way the boy Jojo, who obviously enjoyed his popularity, flaunted his buttocks and penis as he performed his necessaries, and sure enough, he was seized by two of the other off-watch seamen as he made ready, not very eagerly, to return aft again. Squealing with a mixture of pretended terror and real delight, he was dragged into the shade of the weather bulkhead and stretched on the deck. Harry got up to go below, not wishing to be subjected to the animal sounds which would soon follow, and then checked. Because it seemed that his two shipmates wanted rather more from the boy.

  ‘Aye,’ Jojo was saying in response to a question, while giving another girlish giggle. ‘I empties it, and this morning she was on it when I stepped into her cabin.’

  ‘Stone the crows,’ remarked one of the older men. ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘She said, “Go away, you silly boy. Did you never learn to knock?”’

  ‘What did you see, Jojo? What did you see?’

  ‘Well …’ Jojo was even more obviously enjoying this sudden importance. ‘Her legs were pulled up, see, because she was squatting, and her nightdress was above her knees. I saw right up. Right up.’

  ‘Look at the little bugger,’ said the other man. ‘Hard as a ramrod at the memory. I’ll have that.’

  ‘When he’s finished. Come on, Jojo. Tell us. You saw hair. Tell us about the hair.’

  ‘Well,’ Jojo said and looked up in alarm as the huge shadow fell across him.

  ‘You’re a foul-mouthed little bastard,’ Harry said in measured tones. ‘Get up, and get aft, before I kick you there. And mention Miss Bartlett again, and I will kick your ass right up through your mouth.’

  ‘Hark at him, said the first sailor, scrambling to his feet. ‘She belong to you, or something?’

  ‘Didn’t you know, he went swimming with her,’ said his companion. ‘Now, what do you suppose he was doing that for?’

  Harry reached out, grabbed one of their heads in each hand, and knocked them together.

  ‘Jesus!’ screamed the first man, tumbling into the scuppers. ‘He’s broken me brains.’

  ‘I’ll have you, you Irish rogue,’ growled the second man, running to the horse, a circular iron bar which surrounded the foot of the foremast and served as a storage rack for the belaying pins, the thick wooden rods which were used for belaying — or securing — sheets and halliards and other ropes when not in use. These pins fitted loosely through holes in the horse, so that they could easily be removed and replaced in another, more convenient place. The sailor now pulled one out, and turned, teeth bared, arm thrust forward with its very serviceable eighteen inch club at the ready — to prevent it from slipping right through the hole, the pin was broadened into almost a haft at its upper end.

  ‘Split his skull for him,’ muttered the other man.

  Harry grinned at him and stepped forward. The sailor swung the pin, and Harry caught his wrist, exerting all his strength to squeeze the bones. The man screamed, and the pin dropped from his fingers.

  ‘You’ve broken me wrist,’ he moaned.

  ‘I’ve a mind to break something else,’ Harry said.

  ‘Avast there,’ came the call from above him, and he looked up at the boatswain, and Mr Bird, together with the cabin boy who had run back to fetch him, standing on the forecastle.

  ‘Murdering them, he is,’ Jojo whined.

  Slowly Harry released the sailor’s wrist; the man sank to his knees, massaging the tortured flesh.

  ‘Seems to me I warned you against fighting when you came on board, McGann,’ Bird said. ‘There were reasons, sir,’ Harry said.

  ‘None good enough. Get aft.’

  Harry hesitated, then obeyed, making his way aft, the mate walking at his shoulder. Captain Passmore stood at the break of the poop, looking down. With him was Josiah Bartlett.

  ‘What’s the crime, Mr Bird?’ Passmore asked.

  ‘Fighting, Captain. Terrorising the crew, he was. I knew there’d be trouble the moment that hand of his healed. He got that fighting, too, and with his own kind.’

  ‘That’s not tru
e,’ Harry said.

  ‘You’ll hold your miserable tongue,’ Passmore said. ‘I’ll have no fighting on board this ship. Eighteen lashes, Mr Bird.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain,’ Bird said, smiling. ‘Immediately,’ Passmore said. ‘Summon the hands aft.’

  ‘Eighteen lashes?’ Harry asked, totally astonished. ‘For what?’

  ‘Make that thirty-six, for insubordination. Mr Bird,’ Passmore said.

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain.’

  ‘To the rail with you, boy,’ the boatswain said.

  Harry still could hardly believe his ears. ‘Mr Bartlett,’ he protested. ‘You’ll not permit this.’

  ‘Sad,’ Bartlett said. ‘Sad. But fighting now, Master McGann, oh, it cannot be permitted.’

  ‘I was teaching the louts not to insult your daughter, sir,’ Harry told him.

  ‘Were you, now? Good heavens. Well, in that case, Captain …’

  ‘You’ll not countermand an order of mine at sea, Mr Bartlett,’ Passmore said. ‘Else all our lives are in danger. And you yourself have often told me, fighting is not to be permitted, no matter what the grievance.’

  ‘Well, yes, so I have done, to be sure. But …’

  ‘See to it, Mr Bird,’ Passmore said. ‘You may need help.’

  Already several of the crew had come aft, summoned by the cabin boy. Harry did not doubt he could dispose of the whole lot, at least temporarily. But what then? ‘Mr Bartlett …’ he appealed again.

  ‘Discipline must be maintained, Master McGann,’ Bartlett told him. ‘As the captain has reminded me, I’ll not go against his orders. Besides, it’ll serve you in good stead when you seek to command, yourself. You’ve a broad back. Take your punishment like a man.’

  Harry stared at him in impotent anger. But he knew there was nothing he could do without Bartlett’s support. To resist his punishment could involve a charge of mutiny, and that could carry the death penalty.

  ‘I’ll remember your help, Mr Bartlett,’ he said.

  ‘More insubordination,’ Passmore snapped. ‘Seventy-two lashes, Mr Bird. We’ll make the bugger scream for mercy.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain,’ Bird said happily.

  ‘If I may enter a plea on his behalf, Captain,’ Bartlett said. ‘Thirty-six will surely suffice. He acted impetuously, no doubt. But with good intentions.’

  Passmore glared at him, then shrugged. He knew that his employer’s heart was not really in this punishment at all, and undue severity might be remembered when New York was reached. ‘Very good, sir. Thirty-six it will be. But lay on with a will, bo’sun.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir. Over there.’ Bowler pointed at the lee bulwark, where a grating had been secured on end. ‘Strip off.’

  Harry took off his shirt.

  ‘And the rest.’

  Harry looked at him.

  ‘You’ll be spilling everywhere when the last touches you,’ the boatswain said. ‘Would you ruin a good pair of breeks, now?’

  Harry hesitated, then released his belt and stepped out of his breeches; presumably the fellow was right.

  ‘Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ remarked one of the assembled crew, and there was general laughter.

  ‘Against the grating,’ the boatswain commanded.

  Harry stood against the grating, feeling the breeze on his back as his wrists were secured.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ Bowler said, attempting to force a short length of rope between Harry’s teeth.

  ‘I’ll not,’ Harry declared, and clamped his jaws together. And then heard a voice.

  ‘Oh, Father,’ Elizabeth Bartlett said. ‘Please, no. Do not flog Mr McGann.’

  Harry’s muscles tensed. She was there, on the poop, looking down on him. After not appearing throughout the voyage, thus far, she was there, now, when he was standing naked awaiting punishment. He had tremendous urge to seize the grating and leap with it over the side.

  ‘It must be, my dear,’ Bartlett said. ‘He has broken the law of the ship, and must be punished for it.’

  ‘Lay on, bo’sun,’ commanded the captain.

  Harry braced himself. It had never ever crossed his mind that he, Harry McGann, would one day stand naked against a grating to feel the lash. But then, up to five days ago, it had never crossed his mind that he would ever sail across the Atlantic, or that he would ever meet a girl named Elizabeth Bartlett.

  How he wished he had never met a girl named Elizabeth Bartlett!

  The nine tails of the cat slashed across his flesh, and he stiffened with the pain of it. Muscles tighter than ever before in his life, he awaited the second stroke; it seemed an interminable time in coming, but he knew the bo’sun would be combing the tails, making sure they were free and not entwined or stuck together with blood or flesh. And there it was. His head jerked, and his mouth sagged open; he knew a tremendous desire to sag, relaxing all his muscles, happen what may. But immediately he tensed up again and clamped his mouth as tightly as before. He would not give them the pleasure of jeering at any weaknesses, and there were only two to come — each stroke of the cat-o-nine tails counted as nine lashes.

  The third stroke made him gasp, but the fourth he hardly felt at all. Then he realised that his wrists were being released. He pushed the men aside, picked up his breeches and put them on, without a word, keeping his lacerated back turned to the poop.

  ‘You’ll need salt on that back,’ the boatswain said. ‘Over here, lad.’

  There was admiration in his tone, as there was admiration on the faces of the sailors clustering round. Two pulled up buckets of salt water to empty over his back, and he shuddered, at once with the cold of it and the pain as it stung the open weals.

  ‘He’s a tough one,’ someone said. ‘Even if he is a Papist. Never uttered a sound, he did.’

  ‘Nor leaked a drop,’ said another in wonderment.

  Bowler peered into his face. ‘’Tis no use bearing a grudge, lad,’ he said. ‘There’s them aft, and there’s us forward. That’s a fact of life, that is. For one of us to bear a grudge can only lead to a hanging.’

  *

  Never bear a grudge, Harry thought. Well, maybe the man was right, as far as taking revenge went. But he meant to bear a grudge. For the flogging, certainly. He had grown up to feel, to know, that he was a man to be respected, a man with a place in his community, no matter how small, and a man with a future, again, no matter how limited. He could never forgive those who had stripped away that manhood, humiliated him and diminished him — every one of whom he could fell with a single blow of his fist.

  Perhaps it would have been better to have taken them all on, even if he’d been killed for it. But that would have been senseless. His business was to stay alive, and remember. Bartlett in particular. Bartlett had professed to be his friend. And the cause of the business had been Bartlett’s own daughter. When he thought of her, standing there, watching him, naked, her silky yellow hair floating in the breeze … his skin crawled. One thing was certain: he would have no dealings with either of them ever again. Once New York was gained, he would seek a passage on some other vessel sailing east. Not this one, and not any other ship owned by Josiah Bartlett. And if they were ever to meet, as equals, as they had first met, as equals … well then, Bartlett would have to take his punishment like a man. That he promised himself.

  But first of all it was necessary to reach New York, in as good health as possible, even if it meant swallowing every last bit of pride. Nor was this as difficult as he had supposed it might be. If he now knew he could look for nothing from the afterguard, he had in the same moment discovered a host of friends in the forecastle. He had taken his punishment better than any of them could have done; even the two men whose heads he had knocked together came to shake his hand, and Jojo the cabin boy stared at him in wonder. With no further problems to be confronted from his mates, it was simply a matter of doing his duty. And like most of them, trying to pretend that the afterguard did not exist.

  For the next few weeks
the fine weather persisted, and the Spirit of the West made steadily westward. Now Elizabeth Bartlett was on the poop every day, taking a little walk to and fro, leaning on the rail to stare pensively at the ocean, occasionally glancing forward. Seeking him? He was sure she was. But however much he surreptitiously watched her, he was always busy when she looked at him. Because his thoughts were no longer simple admiration for a beautiful woman. There were dark corners threatening to overwhelm his mind, thoughts which only began with envisaging her, standing naked against a grating, that marvellous white back — because she would undoubtedly have a marvellous white back — waiting to be torn to ribbons by the lash. Thoughts which had to be rejected, for that way lay criminal madness.

  Only New York mattered, and suddenly getting there was not going to be quite as simple as had seemed likely so far. They had been five weeks at sea when the wind dropped, and there slowly rose out of the ocean in front of them what seemed a solid mass of grey cloud, which soon enveloped them in teeming rain. The ship rolled and wallowed, and water penetrated everywhere; dampness pervaded.

  ‘Trouble, Mr Bird,’ remarked Captain Passmore. ‘When the rain comes before the wind …’ he pronounced it wynd.

  Bird completed the couplet, ‘ … then your sheets and halliards mind.’

  ‘Aye. We’ll take no chances. Furl your sails, and set a trysail and the small jib.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain, Bo’sun, get all hands aloft.’

  The whistle cooeed, and the men went up the shrouds with a will. They had all been at sea long enough to know the truth of that old mariner’s rhyme, that when it rains in front of an approaching front, the wind will be much stronger than if the rain is following behind. Within half an hour the main canvas was neatly stowed, while the big jibs had also been taken in and replaced with another small triangle of canvas on the foremast. Thus rigged, and with the mizen still set, the Spirit of the West rolled less, and was ready to take advantage, or at least respond, to whatever the weather meant to do.