Hannah

by Raymond Clarke

  Daniel gave a wry smile, resuming his stroll back to the fo’c’sle. Actually, he sympathized with the helmsman. Maintaining headway on a ship that was barely under way wasn’t easy. He propped on the starboard rail and watched the fluorescence zigzagging on the dark water. He wondered about the first mate’s order for another whale line. An additional line tub in the one boat was dangerous. They’d have to be extra careful. It seemed the ship’s officers were expecting plenty of action. God, he hoped so. Anything had to be better than his last trip on the Spring Grove, where they’d only taken thirty tons of sperm oil. As a chief hand, his stipulated lay of one hundredth would be a good return if they had a satisfactory trip. Mind you, it was all too easy to spend his share. Sydney Cove held many delights for a young single man as he remembered. A large fish jumped then dived back into the sea. A dolphin, he surmised, one of the angels of the sea. His mind returned to the whales. Tomorrow, they’d be back in business. It was a simple business, this whaling, apart from the danger in the boats. The more whales they killed, the greater the return for all on board, from the Captain down to the cabin boy. He remembered the First Mate saying they’d get at least fifty tons of oil this trip. He could only hope so.

  Daniel listened to the orchestra of the sea — the wind ruffling the bent sails, the rigging dancing in sympathy. He never tired of the pleasant, calming sounds of the ship. The sea was in his blood. His people in Bristol had always been sailors. Would he ever be happy on land? Perhaps but only if he met the right woman and he really doubted whether it would ever happen. He glanced once more at the dark, heaving sea and stooped to enter the crew’s quarters. He was dog-tired. Flinging off his boots, he moved to the far corner of the fo’c’sle, flopped onto his hammock and drew a blanket over. On the other side of the hull, two feet from his head, the water lapped and caressed the outer shell of the Spring Grove. His consciousness accepted the peaceful, mesmeric popping of the water for only a short time before his eyes closed and he slept . . .

  On watch, Daniel stood forward, one hand clutching the starboard shrouds, and peered ahead to a heaving sea. A moderate wind had come up through the night. Captain Mattison, contrary to his usual nightly caution, decided to increase sail area, even running the flying jib that billowed balloon-like in front of him. With the wind on the quarter, the Spring Grove was making steady progress to the south-south east — and the whaling area — at about six knots.

  As daybreak, the ship came to life, breakfast served and quickly eaten. The Captain himself stood at the bridge, triggering excitement and anticipation among the crew. The cooper and his mate, at their topside bench, began sharpening the cutting spades on their grindstone. Sparks flew through the air as they bent to their task, creating the razor-sharp blades that would cut like butter into the body of the whale. Nearby, two seamen gave a final cleanup to the already spotless try pots and cooling tanks.

  Daniel pivoted his head above. A lone figure stood on the main royal yard. It was the tough nut, the Irishman Paddy O’Driscoll. Barefooted, he stood straight, a hand resting casually on the mast, the other shielding his eyes from the early morning glare. Nonchalantly, he swayed in unison with the ship, eighty five feet above the deck. If there was a whale sprouting within eight miles, for sure Paddy would find it.

  Daniel watched the whaling boat crews — some of them on this trip were green hands — getting ready for a briefing by the boat-headers. The newcomers would have to learn quickly — the hard way — or be ostracized by their shipmates. That first whale would break some, Daniel knew, but there was money at stake and everyone had to pull their weight. These newcomers would experience terror and exhilaration that they’d never before experienced. The sheer size and power of the leviathan as they eye-balled it, a mere few feet away from their tiny fragile boat, would rock their senses. God help them, Daniel thought, and turned to answer the first mate‘s call.

  ‘Oi, Dan’el, hurry, man,’ he beckoned.

  Daniel met the ship’s officer at the booby hatch. ‘Yes, Jack?’

  ‘There’s good news and bad.’ The mate clapped a strong hand on Daniel’s shoulder. ‘Which do you want first?’

  ‘Give me the bad lot first. I’m a big boy, now.’ Daniel had a premonition his maritime life was about to change, one way or another.

  ‘Benjamin’s poorly with fever. The second mate thinks we should bleed him but I don’t know. The Captain’s checking him now and—’

  ‘That’s too bad. I knew Benjamin was ill but—’

  ‘And that means,’ the first mate continued, ‘we’ve got no harpooner for the larboard boat, our boat.’

  ‘And?’ Daniel queried, with a smile.

  ‘You’re it, if you want the job, for as long as Benjamin is unavailable.’ The first mate searched for Daniel’s reaction, wanting the ship’s most experienced seaman to accept the job. ‘You know what it’s all about, Dan’el. You’ve been a top bow hand so many times.’ He leaned forward to emphasize his argument. ‘Come on, man.’

  Daniel tied hard to control his excitement. ‘It’s hard to refuse, Jack, when you put it so eloquently. Ah, what about the lay? I—’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the Captain. You’ll get one seventieth, the same as all the harpooners get. So?’

  ‘Aye, Jack. I’ll do it. I only hope I don’t foul it up.’

  The first mate was jubilant. ‘You better not.’ He paused listening to the bells. ‘It’s an hour to the meridian and I‘ve got to take a fix then so, you, my dear chap, round up the crew now and get them down to the boat.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Daniel turned to shout to the deck. ‘The larboard crew to the boat.’ The crew formed quickly around him in a flurry.

  ‘Where’s Paddy?’ The first mate asked.

  ‘Up the royals but he’s coming,’ the mid-ship-oar pointed, and the crew turned to watch the irrepressible Irishman shinning down the main royal stay. He hit the deck on sprung feet and ran to the group. ‘Here I am, chief.’

  ‘So I see.’ The first mate gave a wry smile. ‘Look, men, there’s some changes. Benjamin is poorly and Dan’el’s taking over as harpooner and boat-steer.’

  ‘Good on you Daniel,’ someone said and there was a chorus of approval from the crew.

  ‘What about the bow oar, Jack?’ The mid-ship-oar asked.

  ‘Paddy here will take the bow and young James will fill in for Paddy as stroke oar.’

  The crew grew silent at this news and the youngster James Price hung his head. He was raw and he knew it. This would be his first whale and he was terrified.

  ‘You’ll be all right, lad.’ Daniel broke the silence. ‘Just do as you’re told and move fast when you’re ordered.’

  The lad nodded, looking up, eager to please. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.

  ‘But make sure you keep well clear of the line, son, well clear,’ Daniel Clarke warned.

  ‘Aye,’ the first mate agreed. ‘You know what could happen if you or an oar comes into contact with the line as it runs out, don’t you?’

  The young lad’s face reddened and he sought desperately for the right words. ‘Ah, I could lose an arm or a leg. I—’

  ‘At best, lad, but more likely you’d finish up being dragged down to Davey Jones’s locker by a sounding whale. You’d be dead, lad.’

  ‘And worse,’ Paddy laughed, ‘we’d probably lose the feckin’ whale. ‘He clapped the lad on the back. ‘You’ll be right, son. Anyone who can sing Sweet Betsy of Bristol and not get thrown overboard must be good.’

  The first mate waited for the laughter to recede. ‘All right, now, back to work. Daniel, it’s all yours. Get the boat ready.’ He glanced up at the billowing sails. ‘We’re making good time. I can smell whales, men, just out there.’ He jabbed a finger at the southern horizon, nodded at Daniel, stepped swiftly to the aft companionway and disappeared from view.

  Thirty minutes later, Daniel was satisfied. The whaleboat was ready. He took a last look over the gunwales, making a final check of every piece of
the equipment that littered its hull... paddles, oars, the drogue to reduce line run-out, flags on long poles, boat hooks, freshwater keg, another keg containing hard tack, candles, tobacco, lantern, bailing ladles, canvas nippers for handling the whale line, compass box, line tubs with 1200 foot of line each attached to the harpoons, the ten foot lances, hatchets positioned, one aft and one forward and a grapnel. Yes, he said, stepping back. This boat is ready for the sea. Daniel patted the cedar-straked hull of the larboard whaleboat and strode back to the fo’c’sle for a midday meal.

  The call came at 1400 hours resounding through the ship. ‘Blows . . . thar she bloooows. SHE BLOWS’ Hurried feet hit the deck, scurrying to advantage spots to view the lone figure standing on the main royal yard. Excited, they waited for confirmation, staring up to the top of the main mast. The lookout pointed with outstretched arm, the other hand cupping his mouth. He shouted down to the deck.

  ‘To the east, about eight miles. THAR SHE BLOWS.’ Cheers rang out from the fo’c’sle and loud shouting followed from aft.

  Captain Mattison appeared on deck bellowing orders to the first mate. ‘Tune the rigging and furl the top gallants.’ Every spare seaman leapt to obey, racing aloft up the shrouds, bare feet slipping easily over the ratlines. Within a few minutes, the whaler came about on the larboard quarter, dipping her bough into the trough, rising with ease, shaking off the green sea and inclining heavily to starboard. The Spring Grove steadied in the moderate westerly, bowsprit pointing the way to the eastern horizon and the sperm whales.

  Daniel and the big Swede clung to the windlass waiting for the ship to return to the vertical. ‘That Captain,’ the big Swede gasped, shaking his saturated hair like a wet terrier. ‘He sure is in one big hurry. Yes?’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Aye.’ He looked up at the position of the sun in the sky. They had a good five hours of daylight left, maybe six. It was a long twilight in these temperate zones. All they needed now were the whales to stay where they were sighted and not have to chase them all over the southern ocean.

  Chapter 4

  THE CANADA AT SEA

  March 1810

  John Dixon was not feeling well as he leaned on the rail of the Canada. Despite breathing in the clean, salty morning air, the headache was still there, threatening to split his head asunder. When he’d bent over to slip on his shoes this morn, he’d near collapsed with the throbbing pain that tore at his temples. The fact that he wasn’t the only member of the crew in that condition was poor compensation. Never again, he muttered, eyes searching for comfort from the peaceful wake of the Canada as it moved down the Thames. Never again, he repeated. The officers, too, he remembered, had joined in the carousel of last night’s pre-sailing party, dragging the laughing willing — and the shrieking unwilling — younger women out of the holds. The Canada’s deck became a Sodom and Gomorrah of drunken brawling and frantic love-making until the Captain unexpectedly returned to the docks at four bells. Sighting his carriage, they’d scattered in panic, shoving the convicts back down into the holds, slamming the hatch shut and scrambling, as much as their drunken state would permit, back to the fo’c’s’le and their cabins. Only the corpse-like drunkards slept on, oblivious to the disparaging scrutiny of Captain Ward as he came aboard. John was glad now that he’d gone back to his hammock earlier than most. He’d not partaken of the women, either, although he was tempted but he’d had a bellyful of gin and that was enough. Besides, he was only interested in one. She wasn’t amongst the women brought up on deck. If she had, he would have claimed her or fought for her, if necessary.

  As the boatswain’s mate, he had some authority over the crew and direct influence with the bosun and the officers. That should be enough, God willing, to protect her on this voyage.

  ‘The ship’s goin’, I think.’ Porter reported. ‘I could see through the scuttle hole up there and I seen the Woolwich docks movin’.

  Hannah Stanley smiled. ‘It’s you that is moving, Hannah P, not the Woolwich docks. Still, you’re right, my dear friend. We are under way.’ She grew pensive. ‘Who knows what lies ahead of us?’

  ‘One thing’s for sure, we can’t go back, now,’ Porter said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘True. One of the sailors told me we’ll be stopping at Portsmouth for a short time.’

  ‘Maybe we can get off there,’ Porter said hopefully.

  ‘Not likely. They’re only picking up supplies and a few more poor lost souls like us.’

  ‘You like him, don’t you?’

  .‘Who are you chattering on about?’

  ‘Don’t go coy on me, Hannah Stanley. That fellow John is who.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s soft on you.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Hannah was uncertain what she would do about John Dixon if he made claim to her. She quickly changed the subject. ‘We’ve got to get six people in our mess, so we’ve been told. Now there’s us two, but who else can we get?’

  ‘Our Rosie here, for one,’ Porter said. ‘She’s a good’un, aren’t you, Rosie?’ She chuckled to acknowledge an amused Rosie’s hand wave. ‘And then there’s the other Kent girls, too.’

  ‘Yes, Mary Davis and Frances Hudson and that . . . what’s that big girl’s name, you know, the one from near Rochester?’

  ‘Sarah Watkins. Of course, if we’re really stuck, there’s always Big Tess. Ha ha.’ Rosie leaned over and playfully slapped Porter on the back.

  ‘Ha-ha yourself,’ Hannah chuckled. ‘That’s our mess crew, well, all Kent beauties except the princess here from that funny place called Ireland. Now, girls, don’t forget when it’s your turn to get the rations from the cooks up top every morning.’

  ‘Will they let us eat up on deck?’ Rosie asked. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Oh, God, Hannah, it’s smelly down here. I can hardly breathe. There’s not enough air—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Rosie.’ Hannah comforted the fourteen-year old young girl with an arm around the shoulder. ‘I’m sure they will.’ She looked at Porter and their eyes locked in worry and understanding. Would a weakened, innocent child like Rosie survive the long voyage to the other side of the world? ‘We’ll look after you,’ she added, kissing the fevered brow and Porter nodded in agreement. They pushed Rosie back on the wooden frame and covered her with her lone blanket.

  ‘You sleep now, Rosie Posie, or else your two Auntie Hannahs will make you empty Big Tess’s chamber pot,’ Porter threatened and even sick Rosie smiled.

  ‘Sheerness is to starboard, Captain.’

  ‘Mr. Robinson.’

  ‘Yes, Captain?’

  ‘Make signal to the tow, thank you. The Canada is now free to sail.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Bosun, release the tow wire if you please. Signalman, make signal.’

  ‘Tow released. Tow boat says God speed,’ advised the signalman.

  The First Officer looked ahead to the open sea. A light wind was disturbing the otherwise calm water and he could smell the pungency of salt in the air. ‘Wind on the quarter, sir, south west, no more than ten knots, though,’ he added, helpfully.

  ‘It’ll clear us to Ramsgate, Mr. Robinson, and I believe it’s peaking at fifteen rather than ten.’

  Robinson hid his irritation. Always had to have the last word, didn’t he? ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Make sail, Mr. Robinson, topsails, lower and upper on all. Leave the jib, no courses. We need the best of vision in the run down the Channel.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  Captain Ward nodded and left the bridge.

  ‘Bosun, if you please,’ the First Officer cupped his hands and shouted from the poop to the main deck. ‘MAKE SAIL.’ An instant scurry of feet coincided with the bosun’s repeated order. ‘Make sail, me hearties, all topsails. Make sail. Look lively, there.’ Robinson watched the mad race up the ratlines and the gradual unfurling of the sails. The Canada picked up speed, dipped her bowsprit down to the sea as if to acknowledge her new prowess, and the topsails stood out proud, filling then billowing in the following wind . . .
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  On the poop deck, the tall, gaunt figure of Captain Ward paced to and fro impatiently, every so often glancing with suspicion behind him at the second officer and the helmsman, as if daring them to deviate from his orders. Boatswain’s mate John Dixon noticed the helmsman sweating profusely and the second officer seemed unusually nervous, not surprising when the ship’s master himself stood a yard or two away, observing every move. The Captain stopped suddenly, shuffled his feet and peered down at the main deck. ‘Are they all here, well, Mister?’

  ‘All except the galley hands, Captain.’

  ‘Leave them. Make sure, though, that they are told.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  Captain Ward came forward and gripped the rail of the poop. He looked out over a sea of expectant faces, the crew of the Canada who would take his ship across the world to Sydney Cove. ‘Now listen up. I don’t intend to say this more than once so pay attention. We are currently abreast of Beachy Head and the village of Eastbourne to starboard. We are tacking into a moderate south-wester, but expect to be off Portsmouth tomorrow evening. We will anchor overnight and in the morn take on some stores and more prisoners from a hulk. Only the officers and selected crew will be going on shore.’ Captain Ward paused for effect before continuing. ‘While we are in Portsmouth, the convicts will remain below but the hatch will be removed to air the orlop. When we depart Portsmouth, the duty officer will allow, weather and circumstances permitting, small groups of the prisoners — at a time — to come on deck to air and wash their clothes and air their bedding. During the time they are on deck, they are to be left alone to do their chores while you do yours. I don’t want to flog anybody on my ship, crew or convicts, but believe me, I will if there is any repeat of the disgusting behaviour that took place the night before we sailed. The Captain looked directly at his First Officer, Bosun and Boatswain’s mate who stood together in a group to port. Nervous shuffling of feet heralded their discomfort as the Captain’s eyes raked them.