A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  Past Lower Hope and the Blyth Sands the river began to open to the North Sea. The tide was on the turn, beginning to run against the breeze, and starting up a sharp chop over which the barge gently bucked, kicking up small bursts of spray as it went. At last, Sheerness showed ahead and just before the town a broad opening that was the mouth of the River Medway. As he watched, two seventy-fours exited the inlet, and then wore in succession to the east and the open sea beyond. They had most certainly come from Chatham. Only seven miles up the inlet lay the sprawling complex that was His Majesty’s royal dockyard where his own ship lay.

  *****.

  “That’s ‘er there,” Jeffers said, pointing with his arm toward a frigate moored fore and aft in the basin a cable’s length off the victualing wharf. Charles studied the ship with an experienced eye. She was freshly painted black with the strakes along her gun ports picked out in a band of white. It was a style that had become increasingly popular among captains in the British navy, emphasizing the sleek lines of their vessels. He found the effect pleasing. Closer inspection told a different story. Between the paint and the waterline lay a broad streak of bright copper which meant that she was riding high and not yet laden with her full requirement of stores and supplies. Her yards were up and crossed, although in a haphazard fashion, the canvas sloppily furled. He could only guess what that implied.

  “Ahoy. What boat?” a voice from the frigate’s quarterdeck called as it became evident the barge intended to come alongside.

  “Cassandra!” Charles shouted back, announcing that the ship’s captain was approaching and intended to board.

  The familiar figure of Daniel Bevan, his friend and first lieutenant, appeared almost immediately at the railing. “Hello, Captain Edgemont,” he called down through cupped hands. “I suggest you come aboard as quick as you can.”

  This was not the welcome Charles would have expected. He had a premonition that all was not well on his new command. The barge hooked onto the main chains. “See that the chests are swayed up if you will, Augustus,” Charles said. Turning to Jeffers, he extended his hand. “You have my thanks for an agreeable passage.” He reached into his pocket and came up with an appropriate number of coins. “Something for you and your men’s efforts.” So as to cut short any prolonged good-byes, he took hold of the manropes on the frigate’s side and started to climb the sidesteps. Just before the tumblehome he glanced upward and saw three topmen on the mainsail yardarm eying him narrowly.

  Charles climbed up through the entry port and looked around him, taking in as much as he could. Two marine privates with bayonets fixed to their muskets stood at attention on either side. Bevan’s sturdy form hurried toward him from the quarterdeck with a noticeable limp, a reminder of an encounter the previous summer. Additional marines with their red coats and black-lacquered hats stood guard at the ladderway to the gundeck and at intervals along the gunwales. In the waist he saw a body of men along with a half dozen or so women staring up at him warily. There was none of the busy work of men preparing a ship for sea. The stationing of so many marines was peculiar; the presence of the women—‘wives and sweethearts’ as they were loosely termed—was not. There didn’t seem to be very many though. From the look of them he guessed they might be actual wives, or something close to it. There was none of the drunken whoring that was common enough when a ship was in port. It was possible, he supposed, that the men had already exhausted their pay and the prostitutes had gone away.

  “Welcome aboard, Charlie. All is well at home, I trust?” Bevan said. His expression was not one of happy reunion.

  “Hello, Daniel. Penny sends her affection,” Charles said curtly, not wanting to be reminded of the parting from his wife. “What … ?” he began, intending to ask about the presence of the marines and the lack of working parties, when he noticed a commotion at the head of the ladderway from the waist. One of the women, being prevented from entering the quarterdeck by a marine guard, called out to him. “Captain, Captain. Please, sir.”

  Bevan frowned. “For Christ’s sake,” he said angrily. “You there, get back down to where you belong.”

  Charles looked more carefully. She wore a patched shawl over a threadbare dress, frayed at the hem. “I’ll hear what she has to say,” he said. The marine stood with his musket across his body pushing the woman back so that she nearly stumbled and fell on the ladderway. “You there, stand aside and let her pass.”

  With some trepidation the woman pushed past the marine. She was no longer young, Charles saw, but not yet old. Her eyes widened with respect or fear as she stopped in front of Charles with his tailored uniform, its glittering gold epaulette and trim. “I do beg yer pardon, sir,” she said with an effort at a curtsy. “But it ain’t right, what my Tom bein’ just back from one cruise and now to be away on another wif nary a day’s leave nor a farthin’ paid.” Her lips quivered; her courage nearly spent. She continued in almost a whisper, “Us what’s left behind, we ain’t got nuffin’. My little ones, they’ll starve. Please, sir.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that your husband hasn’t been paid off from his last commission?” Charles asked. He was dismayed by this, but not entirely surprised.

  “No, sir. Not a bit of it. And now them’s sayin’ yer to sea again afore it can be done. I’m at my wit’s end, and t’other wives what have families too. What shall become of us?” This last came in a choke of desperation. Charles turned to Bevan. “Is this true? The men haven’t been paid?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I’ve been to the clerk of the cheque, twice. They weren’t helpful.”

  Charles thought it scandalous how the navy sometimes treated its seamen. The annual allocation from parliament was never sufficient to cover costs, and the answer was to push payment of the men’s salaries further and further into the indefinite future whenever they could. After all, the crews were kept on board under conditions approaching imprisonment, and flogging was always available to keep them in line. It was a wonder that mutinies were not more common than they were. He looked down into the waist and saw that a sizable crowd of men had gathered, glaring up at him defiantly. The woman had begun sobbing into her hands. Charles felt embarrassed for all their sakes. “There, there now, Missus . . . Missus . . . .” he said.

  “Twilly,” Bevan prompted.

  “Mrs. Twilly, I will look into this personally to see what can be done. I promise you that we shall not leave Chatham before the men are paid. I give you my word on it.”

  Mrs. Twilly looked up with a crooked, red-eyed smile. “Thank you, sir; thank you,” she burbled, taking his hands and kissing them in her gratitude.

  “You’re welcome,” Charles said, awkwardly attempting to pull himself free. “Now if you will . . .”

  “Could ye also find it in yer heart to give my Tom leave to come home?" she said more boldly. “It’d be for just a week. He ain’t seen his little ones in near four year, the youngest he ain’t seen never.”

  Charles extricated his hands. “No, I can’t, Mrs. Twilly. I’m sorry. Now you must go back down. You may tell Tom that he will receive his pay as soon as I can arrange it.” He turned the woman by her shoulders and guided her back to the ladderway. When she was safely on the other side of the sentry he took a deep breath and turned back. “What the hell is going on, Daniel?”

  “We have an unhappy crew,” Bevan answered. “It’s not exactly a mutiny, but they’ve made it clear they won’t work or allow us to sail unless their grievances are met. I haven’t informed anyone in the dockyard yet of our situation. I thought it best to keep it under my hat until you arrived.”

  “I appreciate that,” Charles said. “There must be some way to fix this. I’d be angry myself if I weren’t paid.”

  “It’s not just that, there’s more.”

  “About leave to go home, you mean?” Charles said. “You know that we can’t do that; none of them would come back.”

  Bevan shook his head. “You’ve heard of Captain Edward Bittington?”

&n
bsp; “I think I read he’s recently been given a seventy-four,” Charles said, wondering at the connection.

  “May god help one and all who serve under him. He did not transfer his old crew to his new command when he moved on. We’ve been given them. He’d striped almost all their backs more than once over the past couple of years. Captain Bittington is one of those officers who considers himself a strict disciplinarian.”

  Charles had a sinking feeling. “How bad is it?”

  “Worse than you might imagine. They had been at sea without a break for nearly three years. I feel badly for the poor buggers. Most of them tried to jump ship as soon as they came aboard. I’ve put a stop to that with the marines.”

  Charles’ unease turned to anger. The last thing he wanted was to embark on a long cruise with a crew full with pent up hostility from probably justifiable grievances. The fact that they had been abused by a captain too free with the cat was bad enough. That they had been turned over directly from one ship to another, while a common enough practice, would add to their discontent. Some among them wouldn’t have set foot on their native soil or visited families and loved ones since the war began six years before. All of this a seaman might adjust to—life in the British navy was known to be harsh—but to be deprived of their wages at the end of a long commission was beyond any excuse. Small wonder there were no whores aboard; the men had no money. For those with wives and families to support it would be intolerable. “You’ve been to the clerk of the cheque about their pay? What do they say?”

  “A lot of rigmarole about the crew being turned over from one ship to another, in which case they aren’t due to be paid off as they would be at the end of a commission. I think this is sheer evasiveness on their part; it’s possible there isn’t enough cash on hand to do it. A number of seventy-fours have come into the yard for refits. I expect they’ll be settled first.”

  “What about tickets?” Charles asked. To his mind this was not an acceptable alternative, but it was something. Tickets were vouchers normally issued to seamen transferring from one ship to another. They were no more than paper promises for payment of wages, sometimes years in arrears, with stoppages and purser’s charges, and the last six months earnings withheld to discourage desertion. They could not be cashed at Chatham and only promised a specified sum at some future date. In order for them to be drawn up, their previous ship’s muster book and purser’s accountings would have to be sent to the clerks of the navy board for the sums to be calculated. This, itself, could take months before the paperwork was done and the vouchers issued. And even then there was nothing the men could do except sell them to brokers at discounts of thirty percent or more.

  Bevan scratched at his chin uncomfortably. “They allowed that tickets might be issued, eventually. They wouldn’t say when.”

  “Wonderful,” Charles said.“Have you disciplined anyone since you’ve been on board?”

  “No, I haven’t. It isn’t like I haven’t considered it. I thought it best to wait until you arrived.”

  “Good,” Charles said. He disliked public whippings with the nine-tailed cat, each strand knotted at close intervals so as to tear the flesh off a recipient’s back. Thus far in his career he had never ordered one of his crew to be flogged—which Bevan well knew—relying on withholding spirits, disratings, or unpopular duties instead; he did not think that imitating Captain Bittington was the solution to his problems. Punishments that were too severe did more harm than good.

  “You can’t go easy on this,” Bevan insisted. “Once they get it into their heads that they can do as they please, there’ll be no end to it. You should take them firmly in hand now to put a stop to this nonsense.”

  “Do you mean that I should pick out a few of the leaders and have them flogged to set an example?”

  Bevan nodded. “I’d do it.”

  Charles expelled his breath in frustration. “Well I won’t, Daniel. Not right at the start. I want to go easy with the punishments for a time.”

  Bevan looked at his friend with a dubious frown. “You know, Charlie, sometimes you trust people too much. You don’t want to see trouble when it’s coming.”

  “If something happens, we’ll deal with it,” Charles said firmly. “In the meantime, I don’t want to make life aboard any harsher than it has to be. You know my feelings on this.”

  “Aye, I do. You’re as soft as warm butter. I will admit that it’s a hell of a thing for the Admiralty to put this on your plate as soon as you come aboard, though.”

  “I doubt the Admiralty is aware of our problems,” Charles answered. “They probably assume that we’ve been given a ship and a crew and we’ll go merrily on our way in blissful contentment.” With the tightest of smiles, he added, “I suppose we should be thankful; it could always be worse.”

  “Ah, oh yes,” Bevan answered. “Just to complete your day, we’re fifty hands, more or less, short of our complement, content or otherwise.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charles stood on the forepart of his quarterdeck deep in thought. He was conscious that others of his officers had collected a respectful distance away, waiting to welcome him on board. Despite his words to Bevan, he didn’t know what to do. There was justice in the men’s complaints, but his lieutenant was correct in one respect—he must gain control of his ship and establish his authority. How? One misstep and the crew might erupt into open mutiny. One misstep . .

  He glanced down into the waist and saw that a crowd had gathered around the plaintive Mrs. Twilly, doubtlessly listening to her retelling of his promises. He had blithely sworn that he would see that they were paid. It had been a mistake to make such a rash pledge. The clerks at the payment office would laugh at him if he walked in and announced, “I’d like my men’s wages, if you please.” He should have agreed to “try,” or “do my best.” The men might be satisfied with that—no, probably they would not. The crew might even have other grievances that he was not aware of. Damn Bittington for mistreating his crew, he thought, and damn the Navy Board for not promptly seeing to their payment. Damn the whole goddamned Admiralty for sending him halfway around the world to cover its political backside and giving him a rebellious crew. On top of that, he had to find fifty additional hands from somewhere. That would be nearly impossible in the middle of Chatham Dockyard with dozens of more senior captains clamoring to complete their own ships’ companies. And, since his own crew had decided to stop their work, his ship was still not fitted out or supplied for sea.

  “Don’t you think you’d better read yourself in?” Bevan prompted. Charles looked and again saw Lieutenant Stephen Winchester and Midshipman Michael Sykes, whom he recognized; along with a few others he did not, standing near the wheel. All were looking at him with concern. It crossed his mind that they would be as worried as he about the difficulties they found themselves in. One step at a time, he decided. The first thing would be to at least appear as if he had some confidence in what he was doing. He took a last look down at the men on the gundeck and saw that the crowd had mostly disbursed, although a few of the seamen stared sullenly up at him. Bevan wanted him to read himself in. That would make him legally Cassandra's commander, with every one of the considerable powers and responsibilities implied. All that was required was to read his orders aloud in front of the crew. Well, he wouldn’t—not yet. He wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him hurry. The men would be anxious about his appearance and how he would react. He would let them brood on it. It was the kind of thing a confident captain would do.

  Charles pulled his watch from his coat pocket, flipped open its cover and saw that it read two thirty-five. “No,” he said to Bevan. “I’ll read myself in at three bells in the first dog watch. Everyone’s supper will be afterward.” He made an attempt at a smile. “Come along, I haven’t yet spoken to the other officers.” With that, he pulled on the lapels of his coat to straighten them and started aft.

  “Hello, Stephen,” he said to Winchester and extended his hand. “I’m to
tell you that Ellie sends her love.”

  Winchester touched his hat and grinned. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said. Serving as second, he was also, by chance, married to Charles’ younger sister. The two Winchesters lived with a newborn son just by the village of Tattenall, and Charles had seen his brother-in-law off on the coach to London only two weeks before.

  “Good day, Mr. Sykes,” Charles said to his senior midshipman. “You are well, I trust?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Sykes answered happily. “If I may say, it’s good to have you back. I’m sorry about the difficulties with the crew, sir.” The young man had served for two years on Louisa, first coming onboard at the awkward age of fourteen. Charles had developed a certain fondness for him. Sykes looked more grown now, his features beginning to fill out and a hint of blond fuzz on his chin.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sykes. I’m sure we will have the situation in hand presently.”

  Two additional boys wearing midshipmen’s jackets fidgeted anxiously to one side. Charles assumed them to be the ‘young gentlemen’ he had agreed to take on board. Neither looked old enough to be allowed far from their nanny’s skirts. They were ushered forward to be introduced as Thomas Hitch of Yorkshire and Horace Aviemore, from the west of Scotland. Charles recalled both names, as their fathers had written him to request that he take each under his tutelage in the hope that their sons would establish themselves on the way to honorable careers in the navy. The regulations only stipulated that such young gentlemen be at least thirteen years of age. Charles guessed that Hitch probably met this criterion, if only just. Aviemore, however stood in an oversized jacket whose sleeves reached past his fingertips. “How old are you, son?” he asked.

  “Eleven and a half, sir, almost,” Aviemore squeaked in a thick Scottish burr.

  Charles sighed. The boy’s father had assured him otherwise. Oh well, it would be a larger inconvenience to arrange to send the child home than to keep him onboard. He’d decide later. He had enough problems for the present. “I am pleased to make both your acquaintances,” he said evenly. “You may return to your duties.”