‘You’ll have to give as good as you get. Don’t forget, the rules for midshipmen are different from the rules for men before the mast. You won’t get flogged for fighting a fellow middie, and you won’t have to run the gauntlet if you steal from him. You’ll have to look after yourself with your fists for the first few months, until they realise you’re as good as them, if not a damn sight better.
‘And if they become unbearable, then we’ll have to remind them that Lord Nelson himself came from a very ordinary background.’
I knew a lot about Nelson, but was curious to learn more about his family.
‘His father is only a parson. The family are well-connected but hardly have a penny to rub together.’
Robert’s reply made me laugh. I said, ‘Where I come from, parsons are considered among the best sort of people.’
The conversation was making me uncomfortable. Still, I thought, having to deal with a few snooty boys would be child’s play after the brutal attention of bosun’s mates.
The tailor’s shop had a beautiful carved wood and glass front. When the bell chimed as we pushed at the door, a fawning assistant appeared at once. The smell of the place, with its polished leather shoes and starched and pressed linen shirts, spoke of luxury way beyond my pocket.
‘Good day,’ said Robert. ‘My friend Mr Witchall here will soon be going to sea. We shall require a uniform for a midshipman.’
I was measured and asked to come back in two days.
On my return I brought Bel with me. ‘Ma and dad, they’re mightily impressed by all this,’ she said with a mischievous twinkle. ‘Overnight, you’ve gone from “that sailor” to “Young Samuel”. They don’t think you’re so bad after all.’
Robert met us at the shop. He and Bel had only met once before and had not taken to each other. She thought him aloof and pompous, especially for someone so young. He said nothing to me about her, but he rarely spoke to her and I couldn’t help feeling he thought she was beneath his attention.
Out came the new uniform from its boxes, each item wrapped in thin crinkly paper. My transformation began. I went to a curtained booth and stripped to my undergarments. I felt a mixture of pride, curiosity and fear. I was about to change from Sam Witchall, grocer’s son, merchant seaman, and no one in particular, to Midshipman Witchall, Royal Navy, officer in waiting. As soon as I donned this uniform I would be treated differently by the world around me. My hands began to tremble. This was it. I was going back to the Navy. The Navy that almost cost me my life on more occasions than I cared to remember. The Navy that treated its men with cold contempt and cruelty. The Navy that kidnapped sailors from the streets and their ships to crew its men-o’-war. And what’s more I was joining them – the ones responsible for the cruelty and the kidnapping. Was I doing the right thing? Would I become as callous as some of the officers I had served under, or would I be soft on the men and earn their scorn?
I thought then and there to run out of the shop and not stop until I had reached the inn for the Norwich stagecoach. But Robert and Bel were there. Something, perhaps pride, perhaps cowardice, probably a mixture of the two, made me stay.
I pulled on my breeches, made with a buff yellow cloth fabric from China known as nankeen. Then came a finely tailored linen shirt, a nankeen waistcoat and a black silk handkerchief to tie around my neck. As I removed the jacket from its box, I could see it was a beautiful piece of work – a blue tailcoat in heavy cotton, lined with white silk, and adorned with small gold buttons, each embossed with an anchor. I sat down on the chair provided and pulled on my black leather shoes. They were a perfect fit, and I hoped I had stopped growing, for a new pair six months later would be way beyond my means. Finally, there was the hat – three-cornered with a gold loop and cockade.
This uniform felt strange on me – like dressing up for a part in a performance. It reminded me most of all of dressing as a grand gentleman for the village Christmas play when I was a boy. I felt like a fraud, but I was dying to know what I looked like in this magnificent outfit.
Pulling back the curtain, I stepped out. Robert and Bel were standing apart and had not said a word to each other while I was changing. Robert cheered and Bel began to clap, sheer delight on her face. ‘Sam, you look like a proper gentleman,’ she said and kissed me on the cheek.
Robert smiled broadly. ‘Quite the picture, old chap. You look the part to a T.’ I did too.
The assistant fussed around me, checking the fitting, asking me to stretch and bend my arms, enquiring about my shoes.
‘Now let’s have a look at the dirks, and the rest of it,’ said Robert. I selected a brand new dirk to hang at my belt and shuddered at the price of it – several months’ work as a boy seaman. ‘And we shall need a watch coat,’ said Robert, and I tried on several heavy coats. Just the thing for a freezing night watch. Robert ordered more shirts, breeches and stockings and a large sea chest to keep them in.
The purchase that excited me most was my telescope. Robert insisted we visit an optical instrument shop to buy one ‘and damn the expense’. We chose a leather-covered silver brass model. ‘Got to have your name on it, so no one can steal it,’ said Robert. I held it in my hand, with Samuel Henry Witchall, R.N. engraved on the draw tube, and felt delighted at my good fortune.
CHAPTER 16
HMS Victory
Our posting was decided within days. I was visiting Robert when the despatch arrived. He hurriedly tore it open.
‘It’s HMS Victory, Sam!’ He could not have looked more delighted. ‘We’ll need to catch the Portsmouth coach tomorrow. We’re to serve with Lord Nelson again. What a marvellous honour!’
I grinned in amusement at his bulldog enthusiasm. ‘Well that will be interesting,’ I said, trying to sound a bit excited.
He caught my mood in an instant. ‘What’s bothering you, Sam?’
‘I’ve never served on a First Rate,’ I said.
‘Does it matter?’
I did not know whether I could be totally open with Robert. I owed him so much I did not want to disappoint him. I chose my words with care.
‘I’d prefer to take up my first midshipman posting on a Navy ship I know well, like a frigate or a 74.’
‘First rates aren’t that different from a 74,’ said Robert. ‘You’ve got three gun decks rather than two. A hundred or so cannon rather than seventy-four. Eight or nine hundred seamen and marines, rather than five hundred. There’ll be a couple of dozen midshipmen too, so you’ll not stand out in the way you would on a frigate. Believe me, I felt very conspicuous on the Miranda.’
I thought I’d be honest with him. If I couldn’t be honest with my closest friend on the ship, I couldn’t be honest with anyone.
‘Lord Nelson is an extraordinary man,’ I said carefully. ‘But he’s a fearless commander. And sometimes, being fearless is close to being foolhardy.’
I remember well overhearing Lord Nelson on the quarterdeck of the Elephant, during the Battle of Copenhagen. He seemed to relish the danger. This set a tremendous example to the men aboard his ship, but when I heard him say ‘I would not be elsewhere for thousands’ I thought him strange, as any of us on that quarterdeck could have been killed at any second.
Robert wasn’t having this. He grasped my arm and spoke fervently. ‘Sam – we’re weeks, maybe days away from being invaded. D’you want to see Emperor Napoleon on the throne? D’you want to see us all speaking French? D’you want our empire to become the French Imperial Empire? Of course you don’t. I can’t think of a better man to lead us than Nelson, even if the fellow is a damned philanderer!’
We both laughed at that. Nelson’s abandonment of his own wife for Lady Emma Hamilton was common knowledge. I was glad Robert mentioned it. Perhaps he wasn’t too starry-eyed about the Admiral.
I took a deep breath. ‘When you join the Navy,’ I said, ‘you have to expect that you might be killed. I also know I’d like to survive this posting! Lord Nelson likes to lead from the front. That’s what makes him the h
ero he is. All of us on the Victory, we’re going to be right there at the front, bearing the brunt of the battle. That’s what serving with Lord Nelson actually means.’
‘Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori,’ said Robert. He was making me feel stupid again. ‘It’s Latin. “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”’
‘Do all the middies speak Latin?’ I asked, trying to change the subject. I was anxious about my new comrades-in-arms.
‘Most of them, I expect,’ said Robert. ‘But don’t worry about that. While they were wiling away the time studying Greek and Latin at Eton or Winchester, you were climbing up the mainmast to set the topsails, or fighting the Spanish. That’s worth a hundred dead languages in this profession.
‘Now, before we go to sea we have an extremely important venture to attend to. We shall call at Fortnum and Mason’s to stock up on supplies! Let’s see if we can fill these chests to the brim.’
This was another unfamiliar luxury. I had never visited this famous shop, but I knew its reputation as a provider of exotic groceries. Robert had been there many times before, and knew exactly what to get. ‘Crystallised peppermints, marmalade fruitcake, anchovy paste, rhubarb and ginger preserve, goose foie gras en gelée, whole baby pears in calvados …’ The assistant went scurrying off to every corner of the shop to locate these delicacies. ‘They’ll all keep for months on end,’ Robert said to me. We also stocked up on horseradish sauce, fruit and nut chutney, lemon curd – anything with a bit of a zing to make our salt meat and ship’s biscuits more bearable.
I returned to my lodgings to settle my bills and gather my belongings. I was severing the ties of my ordinary life and preparing to go to war. I went to see Bel but she was neither at home or at the milliner’s shop. I wrote a hurried note telling her I would let her know when I would be back in London, and prayed that I would see her again.
Left alone with my thoughts, I wondered why I was doing this. I did not believe God was an Englishman, but I felt in my heart that he would want us to vanquish the tyrant Napoleon. Did I want to die for my country? Robert professed he would be willing to. I ardently hoped I could avoid that fate.
More than that, I was concerned about being found wanting by my fellows and the ship’s crew. I was told that midshipmen called the ordinary sailors ‘the people’, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I wasn’t one of them any more. But would I deserve their respect? Would I be worthy of my rank?
When I had fought before, I had been under threat of execution for showing fear before the enemy. Every move had been watched by marines or officers with the power to shoot me dead if I flinched from my duty. I had also been so frantically busy, ferrying gunpowder from the ship’s hold to the guns, that I had barely time to think. Now I would be the one in command. I would be the one thinking and ordering and the prospect was much more frightening than running around doing my duty.
As we rattled and jolted on the coach to Portsmouth, I took a special pleasure in looking at the late summer fields, now filling with hay bales as the farm workers gathered in the harvest. I did not know when I would see life on land again, if at all.
At last the spires and mastheads of Portsmouth stood out above the trees and chimney pots. We spent our last night on shore in a tavern and ate a fine pork joint. Next morning we took a supply ship out to the Victory. Stepping away from the quayside and on to the bobbing boat, I had a fearful premonition. ‘Let’s pray that we both set foot on land again!’ I said to Robert.
‘And let’s pray that we both fight bravely and bring honour to our ship and our country!’ said Robert. I did find his zealous patriotism a little wearisome. Seeing he expected a response, I raised an imaginary toast: ‘Ship and Country!’
That’s what Richard would have done. He was a master at playing the game. Being a midshipman meant acting a part. Under intense scrutiny from both the officers and the crew, I would be required to wear my patriotism on my sleeve.
It was 20th August and a bright summer morning. Victory had been back in England a mere five days after arriving from the Caribbean. Nelson, we were told by the officer of the supply crew, had gone at once to London. The ship’s crew were busy making repairs and entertaining their own visitors aboard ship. ‘It’s not a sight for sensitive souls, Jack Tars enjoying themselves in harbour, so just prepare yourselves,’ he warned.
I thought it was a great shame that these men were denied the chance of shore leave. They were imprisoned, as I had been in the past, while their officers were allowed to go ashore. I thought to say it, then decided not to. Play the game, Sam. But at that moment, I also could not help feeling a burst of glee. I was now among that number. I would be able to go ashore when the ship arrived in harbour. I had leave.
The fleet was moored at Spithead, the broad stretch of water separating Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. As the boat bobbed towards this great line of ships, I wondered which one was Victory. It soon became clear. Approaching from the stern, I was astonished by her size. The mainmast stood taller than a church spire.
The great cabins at her stern rose like a grand three-storey town house, the windows decorated in intricate gold and black. In the past, when entering a Navy ship, I could only wonder what comfort lay behind those windows. Now, I could expect to visit these luxurious oases to dine occasionally with the Captain or the officers. Perhaps Lord Nelson himself would invite the midshipmen to dinner. This change in fortune made me light-headed.
Robert stared up, his admiration written all over his face. ‘They say she cost more than sixty thousand pounds to build. Seeing her, I can say she’s worth every penny.’
In those moments, before we disembarked, I felt so proud to be boarding this gigantic vessel, and I forgot my misgivings and fears. Country bumpkin Sam Witchall was now a serving officer in one of the Royal Navy’s most famous ships.
The supply boat bumped alongside, and we clambered up the boarding steps to the entry port on the middle gun deck. Our sea chests were winched aboard. Looking around, I could see that 24 pounder cannons stretched either side from the bow down to the officers’ wardroom. A midshipman of similar age to us marched briskly up and introduced himself as William Duffy. ‘Good morning, gentlemen, and welcome to the Victory. Captain Hardy is expecting you.’
We vaulted up the companionways to the upper gun deck and then the quarterdeck. I was so busy trying to acquaint myself with the size and magnificence of the ship, I barely noticed the sailors all touching their caps as we walked by. It didn’t feel right, but I would get used to it.
There was another distraction too. Most of the crew were down in the lower gun deck, where there seemed to be some kind of riot going on. The noise was not angry, just boisterous. I could make out the sound of women quarrelling and men cheering and heckling as they would at a boxing match or cockfight. The smell of stale beer and spirits drifted up with an intensity that almost masked the stink of the bilges and the usual smells of hemp and tar.
Hardy was there in his cabin at the end of the quarterdeck. Whenever I went into the Captain’s cabin of a ship, I was always amazed at the amount of space he was given. Twenty men could probably sleep in these quarters.
An imposing, stubborn-faced man, Hardy was easy to remember. We had met briefly before. He greeted Robert and me politely but formally.
‘So what have we here?’ he said, peering at an Admiralty letter. ‘Neville. You’ve been on the Elephant. Did you see action in Copenhagen?’
Robert was about to speak when Hardy turned to me.
‘And you, Witchall. I hear you have a most interesting history.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Did he want me to tell him? Did he know? An awkward silence hung in the air. I felt uncomfortable.
He peered at me. ‘You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?’
‘Copenhagen, sir. I was on the Elephant too, and at the oars of the boat you took out to the Danish line.’ I didn’t want to tell him he had been on the court martial that had sentenced me to
death. I had hoped he wouldn’t recognise me at all.
‘Of course you were,’ said Hardy vaguely. ‘I have it on good authority you are both brave and resourceful boys. Neville, you are approaching six years’ service. You will soon be eligible for the Admiralty exam. I hope to see you serving as a lieutenant before long. Witchall, you still have a great deal to learn. Tell me, can you instruct the people in the operation of the guns or small arms?’
‘I’ve been in combat several times, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been a powder boy on the guns and I’ve been a boarder.’
‘And how are you in the sails? Can you be relied on to climb to the main topgallant royal and ensure the topmen perform their duty with spirit?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. What about the sea sciences? How’s your navigation?’
‘I can operate a sextant, sir, and I know my constellations. But I’m anxious to learn more about trigonometry.’
‘That’s what I expected,’ said Hardy. ‘Now’s your chance to catch up. I’ve seen a few fellows from the lower deck blossom into fine officers, and I dare say you’ll be no exception. Enrol with the schoolmaster. He’ll teach you the science you need to navigate a ship. Work hard, Witchall. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do. All the midshipmen your age will know their navigation backwards.
‘For the moment, I’m assigning you both to Lieutenant Pasco, the flag officer. You will serve on the poop deck and also assist any quarterdeck officers as required.’
That was it. ‘Duffy will show you to your quarters.’
Robert had warned me that the midshipmen’s berth down on the orlop deck would be crowded. But I had paid him no heed. I was used to crowded quarters. In the Navy a seaman had no more than fourteen inches to sling his hammock. The orlop deck might be damp, airless and without any natural light, but very few of the crew slept down there so there was bound to be space.
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