A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  The bosun ignored his charges and kept moving; he continued his instructions.

  “Leave yer dunnage here, and I’ll take you down to the orlop where the medico oughta be about now. Come on, step along now and follow me.”

  Another deck lower they went, further into the bowels of the frigate. The gloom turned to dark, and the occasional purser’s glim became the only light. Pulling aside a curtain, Tice motioned the men inside what appeared to be a small room. There was a table, several cupboards mounted on the bulkhead, and three men who were apparently asleep in hammocks slung to one side of the room. The light was better here, bright by comparison to the orlop deck, even though there was only a single oil lantern giving off a smoky yellow light and a few small candles mounted in tin holders, called purser’s glims. A short stocky man, patently unkempt, in what must have once been a white shirt but was now stained with brownish blotches across the front, stepped out of the shadows when the three men entered. He saw the bosun just outside his curtain.

  “Come in Mr. Tice. There’s nothing here to hurt you. This is a place of healing.” The sarcasm was heavy in the surgeon’s voice.

  “Aye, sir. I’ve heard that from others – most of which got pitched over the standing part of the forecourse sheet with a good Christian burial read over ‘em. It’ll be a cold day in Hell when you get your hands on me – that or when they ain’t no choice,” he added lugubriously. Tice looked around the curtain, maintaining a safe distance, and noting with a smile the rising alarm in the faces of the three seamen standing by the table.

  “These three come off’n that American merchant we stopped back a bit. They’s British what was shirking their duties in the Royal Navy hidin’ out on foreign vessels. Mr. Burns found ‘em an’ brought ‘em over. Cap’n wants ‘em checked out just like always – make sure they ain’t carryin’ no disease and they got all they’s parts in the right places.”

  As he finished speaking, he let the curtain fall back into place and over his retreating footsteps, the men heard, “You men get yourselves back up to the weatherdeck quick as ever you can, once the medico’s done lookin’ you over, and find me. Doc, don’t be takin’ too long with these coves; they’s work to be done.”

  “Stick out your tongue, lad.” Tyler started so suddenly his feet nearly left the deck, as the doctor selected him for “lookin’ over” first. “Ain’t no reason to be jumpy, son. I most likely won’t hurt you.”

  Tyler did as he was told, wide-eyed in fear and jumping at every touch of the surgeon. The other two took their turn, and after a cursory examination, the doctor pronounced them fit and sent them on their way to find the bosun.

  As he had promised, Tice was on the weatherdeck berating a couple of men; he stopped when he saw the three Americans and called them to him.

  “You lads get over here quick as you can; we gots to have you sign the ship’s articles – you can write yer names, I collect.” This last was not a question, and the bosun did not expect an answer, but of course, Tyler missed that and responded to Tice’s retreating form, “Of course, sir, we’ve had schoolin’.”

  The bosun merely threw a withering glance over his shoulder and continued to lead the men aft and back down below to the pursers’ office.

  “This here’s Mr. Beckwirth, purser. He’s in charge of your pay, and without you don’t sign the Ship’s Articles makin’ you a member of the ship’s company, you ain’t gonna get no pay.” He pointed a stubby finger at the large book which Beckwirth had opened on the table.

  “Make your mark right here, lads, and I’ll fill in your names for you, if you ain’t able.” Beckwirth smiled at the men as he showed them where to sign with the quill he handed to Biggs.

  Each having written their names in a reasonable hand, turned to the bosun expectantly.

  “Let’s get you down to…” He was interrupted by the sound of the ship’s bell and the fife playing the Nancy Dawson. “That’d be the call to dinner and grog. You can go get yer dinner and yer ration. Galley’s forward on this deck. Grog’s in the waist on the weatherdeck.”

  When the three new hands reached the open area of the weatherdeck again, they were blinking like nocturnal animals suddenly caught by the sun. Their eyes quickly adapted to the brightness of the day, and they saw a line of sailors by the foot of the mainmast, and joined it. As the line moved forward, they met some of their new shipmates. They were handed cups of grog mixed to the Royal Navy’s standard of one third water to two thirds rum. The men moved back below to get their meal, one man from each mess going to the galley to bring the food back to his mates. Since Biggs, Tyler and Pope were not yet assigned to a mess, they had to more or less fend for themselves and Biggs sent Tyler off to find the galley and get some food for the three of them.

  When Tyler returned, he found the Americans on the berthing deck sitting with a few British sailors, and joined them.

  “Yer the lad what came face-to-face with the foremast a bit ago, what?” One of the men had apparently been finishing up his chores on a gun earlier, and had witnessed Tyler’s mishap. His accent was difficult for Tyler to understand at first, and he didn’t immediately respond. When he finally figured out what the man had said, he again colored, and unbidden, his hand touched the newly risen lump on his forehead. A round of laughter, acknowledging his admission, added to his discomfort, but he joined in, hoping that it was the right thing to do. It was the first time he had laughed since being pressed, and it sounded slightly hysterical. The conversation moved on to other subjects including pressing sailors.

  “Aye, I was pressed by a shore gang in Portsmouth, in Mother Carey’s place it was…bastards didn’t even wait for me to finish me business; just barged in an snatched me right out o’ the snatch, they did. Har har.” Wallace paused in his tale of impressment to laugh at his own mental image of being pressed. He continued, still smiling. “Must be well past two years ago now. You’ll find the Navy ain’t such a bad place; I don’t recommend trying to jump ship. ‘Course if you try and they catch you, you’ll be on the gratin’ afore noon with the cat scratching yer back. You do what yer told, smartly, and don’t get in Fitzgerald’s way, you’ll be right-y-oh. That man don’t know his arse from a tops’l sheet, and takes it out on any Jack tar what crosses his path. So mind yer helm when he’s about.”

  Biggs thought their new friend, Wallace, might be giving them some good advice, and attended closely his words. It developed that Wallace, who seemed sincerely good-natured, was a topman on the mainmast, and had been to sea all his life. He had sailed Indiamen and coast-wise traders since a boy and had rounded Cape Horn three times. Middle-aged and sea-wise, he was about to sign on to an English whaler headed for the Pacific when the Royal Navy interrupted his rendezvous at Mother Carey’s. He continued to describe the daily routine and hazards of life on a man of war, interspersed with personal observations, philosophy, and homespun wisdom. He admitted two concessions to the Royal Navy which included wearing what passed, barely, for a uniform, and shaving most Sundays for the inspection before church services. Of course the subject of press gangs and sailors serving in the navy against their wills weighed heavily on the Americans’ minds, and Tyler kept pushing the good humored British sailor to talk more about the pressed men on Orpheus.

  “How many of these men are here against their will, Wallace?” Tyler in his youthful innocence didn’t quite realize just what he was asking.

  “You want me to count the officers, too, or just the jacks? Tyler, right? Lookee ‘ere, Tyler, ain’t one among us wouldn’t rather we was ‘ome with our families or lady friends than bein’ ’ere on a ship with a flogger fer a cap’n, and a bunch of officers what’ll likely get more ‘an a few of us kilt sooner than later. We lose men ever’ time we go into port, what with desertions an’ all. And the Yellow Jack. The ship sends out a gang or two to find the ones what left – or any others what’ll fill their berths. Ain’t particular ‘bout whether the ones they grab know a tops’l from a spanker; they can learn, a
nd learn they do with the cat o’ nine tails ‘angin’ over they’s heads. The lucky ones, they get the Jack and wind up in a shroud. No, boy, I don’t ‘magine you’ll find much what’ll put you in mind of that American merchant you come off’n.”

  “What of the mates, Wallace? You ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout the mates.” Pope spoke up for the first time. It seemed as though his accent had become a little more pronounced, and Biggs thought to himself that perhaps he was more recently from England than he admitted.

  “No mates in the Royal Navy, sailor. We got lieutenants and midshipmen. You already seen the first lieutenant and Mr. Blake – he’s a midshipman, and not a bad sort. Lieutenant Burns, the first, ‘e’s one you want to watch out fer. You never know with ’im wot’s gonna happen. ‘E can change ‘is course as easy as kiss my hand. As long as ‘e’s back aft you ain’t got to worry. It’ s when ‘e comes for’ard that you want to look to yer duties. An’ when he talks quiet, there’ll likely be trouble fer someone. Tol’ you afore about Mr. Fitzgerald, an’ the other lieutenant, Mr. ‘ardy, – well you’ll see ‘im soon enough; ‘e’s not a bad sort. Captain’s a flogger – a bad sort. Ain’t always fair-minded, either. ‘e does make damn sure the purser don’t short our prize shares, though. Which you lads’ll be needin to pay off yer debt.”

  The mention of prize shares caught their attention. So did the mention of ‘debt’.

  “Debt? What debt. We ain’t been here long enough to get into debt.” Pope looked at Biggs, who was equally as mystified as his shipmate. “How could we be into debt already?”

  Biggs shook his head. “He didn’t mean now, Pope. We ain’t in debt. How could we be?” Obviously, this British sailor must be wrong.

  “Oh, you lads’re in debt all right. You got slop chest clothes, didn’t you? You got a ‘ammock, didn’t you? You got a cup and dish, right? You didn’t think they was given ya out o’ the kindness o’ ‘is Majesty’s ‘eart, now did ya? Har har. No, you lads already owe Beckwirth more’n a month’s wage. An’ knowin’ ‘im, the King’ll never see a farthing o’ what you gonna pay for them slops. ‘At’s that way it works, though; don’t matter what ship you’re on.” Wallace and his mates laughed at these Americans; how could anyone be that naive!

  “That don’t seem right, Wallace; we didn’t want to be here, and they wasn’t nothin’ wrong with our own clothes. We’re learnin’ more an’ more now. But you mentioned ‘prize shares’. You mean we get prize money?”

  Biggs, having never been in a hostile situation at sea except on the wrong end, and then only once – recently – had no idea the crew shared in the spoils of war.

  “A good cruise with Captain Winston’ll get you £50 or £60. He looks for Frenchies with cargoes ‘eaded for ‘ome. Sometimes we find a Spaniard too. If we can take ‘em without what we got to burn ‘em, the prize crew’ll sail ‘em into Jamaica or Antigua, or sometimes Nassau. I guess they sell the cargo.” He paused, then continued with a smile, “that barky you was on woulda’ made a nice prize. The pickins’ been a little scant this trip. We’ll find us a fat Frenchman yet. Scuttlebutt is we’re headin’ over toward Hispanola. Likely to be a prize or two there.”

  Dinner was finished, and the men sent their dishes and cups back to the galley. Wallace rose from the chest he sat on and headed up through the weather deck to the brilliance and fresh air of the spardeck, and the fo’c’sle. For lack of something better to do, Biggs, Pope and Tyler followed along. As they reached the slightly raised fo’c’sle, Bosun Tice appeared.

  “Biggs.” Biggs turned, suppressing a response.

  “You’re assigned to the Starbowlines – on watch now. Report to Jack Toppan at the waist. ‘e’s the Petty Officer in charge of the watch. You been assigned to the maintop. You ‘ave some time aloft, I collect?” This last was rhetorical as the assignment had been made and it would not do to question the wisdom of a warrant officer in His Majesty’s Navy. “Take Tyler with you. Pope, you’ll be in the larboard watch. Yer messmates’ll show you the ropes.” Without further word, Tice moved off, heading aft to ensure work necessary to the maintenance of the frigate in Bristol fashion was being carried out. Biggs and Tyler followed, heeding the instructions they had been given.

  They found petty officer Toppan standing with a group on sailors at the foot of the mainmast. Actually, they heard him before they saw him; he was in the process of questioning, at the top of his lungs, the ancestry of one of his sailors who had unfortunately blundered where the watch captain could see him. Jack Toppan was a stocky man short of stature but long on wind; it was said he could shout orders to windward in the height of a gale, and make no mistake, the orders would be heard. He sported a droopy mustache and the long sideburns that seemed to be so popular with the ladies of the time. While not spotless, his uniform was in better shape than any of the men they had seen so far and it lent a certain amount of authority to his words and actions. A scar of indeterminate age ran from his ear, the lower part of which was missing, and down his neck, disappearing into the top of his jersey. Tyler stared at it, transfixed.

  “Mr. Toppan, sir, I am Isaac Biggs and this here’s Michael Tyler. We’re off’n the Anne. Bosun Tice told us to report to you for watch.” Biggs had waited until the diatribe seemed to die off before speaking. In fact, Toppan had merely paused for breath and was about to launch another tirade when he was interrupted. He turned to see the source of the voice.

  “First off, don’t call me ‘sir’. I ain’t no officer; I work for me pay. If you got to, you call me Toppan or Jack. Better you don’t call me anything – just do what I tell you, smart-like and right the first time. I ain’t got no time for slackers or landsmen. Either of you got any time aloft?”

  “Yessir…I mean…I do. I was captain of the foretop on Anne. Tyler was a waister, but I know my way around aloft.” Biggs was thinking about the men he and the other Americans had seen in the rigging, even though no sails were being handed or set. He decided that staying out of harm’s way was probably the best way to avoid trouble.

  “Then get up to the main yard. You too, Tyler. No time like the present to learn you a useful trade. Captain of the top is Coleman on this watch, and ‘e could use a couple of hands. Lost one overboard in some nasty weather a few days back. Got another in ‘ospital below. Been runnin’ short since. And when the watch changes, go find the purser – ‘at’s Mr. Beckwirth – and sign the Articles, if’n you ain’t yet. ‘e’ll be most likely in the gunroom or lookin’ for one of the ship’s boys. Har har har.” Toppan leered and the men around him laughed on cue at the comment.

  Tyler blinked, and his eyes met those of the petty officer. “We already done that. Wrote our names proper, and without no help, we did.” The youngster was still proud of that fact, but Toppan and his men missed the retort, laughing.

  Biggs did not laugh; Biggs was already on the bulwark heading for the ratlines, but Tyler was rooted to the deck. The comment Toppan had casually thrown out about a topman falling overboard struck him like a hammer blow. The longer he thought about it, the wider his eyes became and the more convinced he became that there was no way he could force himself to climb the ratlines and work like a monkey in the rigging; he knew he would fall, it was only a matter of time. He looked aloft, and began to shake. He stared at the petty officer.

  “Uh…sir…uh, I mean Mr. Toppan…uh, I mean…I can’t work aloft. I don’t know how. Bein’ up high scares me. I was once on a cliff at home and I looked down at the water and nearly fell over. I can’…”

  Toppan listened to the rush of words for a few seconds then cut him off with a look. The voice, when it came, inspired young Tyler to even greater levels of fear, and caused the tears to well up in his eyes.

  “Lad, you weren’t attending what I said. I just told you to get up to the main top with yer mate there. ‘at’s where I need another ‘and and ‘at’s where you’ll be workin’ on this watch. Let me give you a ‘and up.”

  The petty officer roughly grabbed Tyler, who m
ade no effort now to hide his tears, and manhandled him to the bulwark and threw him at the shrouds. Had Tyler not grabbed the ratlines he most surely would have been overboard. After clinging for dear life to the thick tar-coated shrouds for some time – to him it seemed like forever, but not nearly long enough – he glanced at Jack Toppan. Then he began to slowly climb up; his fear of being aloft had suddenly been overcome by his fear of what would happen if he didn’t obey. It took a concentrated effort for him to release his grip on the shrouds as he climbed, ever so slowly, up the rigging, each step taking him further from the relative safety of the deck.

  After what seemed an eternity to him, Tyler felt hands reaching down through the lubber’s hole at the main top. Biggs got a firm grip on the lad’s shirt and literally pulled him up through the hole in the platform which the more seasoned topmen called the lubber’s hole. Men accustomed to working aloft went up the futtock shrouds to the top, shunning the safer, but slower lubber’s hole as unseamanlike. Tyler was shaking so badly that he could neither speak nor stand up; he sat on the floor of the fighting top, hugging his knees. He kept his eyes tightly closed, but the tears continued unabated to course down his cheeks. Biggs took the boy gently by the arms and stood him up.

  “Open your eyes, Tyler. Don’t look down yet, just look around. Look there. You can still see the top hamper of Anne from up here. See? Over the larboard side.”

  The boy unscrewed his eyes to look. He wiped them dry and, while he did hang on to the rail of the fighting top for dear life, he looked at Biggs, then at the other topmen who had watched his display, and finally at the horizon and the disappearing ship which had been his most recent home.

  “Biggs, what are we gonna do? We don’t belong on no British Navy ship. What’s gonna happen to us?” The lad was barely in control, and he stared wide-eyed at his friend – his only friend in the world. His voice shook with fear.

  Biggs had had similar thoughts; now was not the time to share them with Tyler, and he figured he better do what he was told and try to stay out of trouble. He passed this wisdom along to Tyler in a low voice.