by Alaric Bond
HIS MAJESTY’S SHIP
by
Alaric Bond
Fireship Press
www.FireshipPress.com
His Majesty’s Ship - Copyright © 2010 by Alaric Bond
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-935585-29-9
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC014000 FICTION / Historical
FIC032000 FICTION / War & Military
Address all correspondence to:
Fireship Press, LLC
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART ONE: At Anchor
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
PART TWO - At Sea
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART THREE - In Action
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
About the Author
Other books from Fireship Press
To Tim
PART ONE
AT ANCHOR
CHAPTER ONE
“I'll miss you, Rosie.”
She stopped folding the clothes and looked at him doubtfully.
“Go on, in a couple of days this ship’ll be at sea. You'll have enough to do without thinkin' of me.”
“Mebbe you're right.” Jenkins sat back against the smooth oak knee that marked the limit of their small space on the crowded deck and fiddled aimlessly with his tobacco box. It was made of tin, with a horse's head embossed on the lid. It was also empty. He'd had the box more than ten years yet had never really looked at the decoration before.
“I could be around when you gets back.” The lower gundeck was filled with a constant clatter of conversation, although her soft words found their mark.
“You won't know when that'll be.”
“I won't, but I could look out.”
“You'll be wi' someone else, most like.” Strange how he couldn't say, “another man”.
“Might be, there again...”
That was one of the things he always forgot about women. Men teased, but with women there was a sexual edge that definitely raised the stakes. He felt a lump growing in his throat. The ship was being cleared of doxies; within half an hour they'd all be single men again. Single men, after six weeks of marriage; the longest time Jenkins could remember with one woman. Vigilant had been in commission for almost as long as they had been at war; he'd grown used to both, and didn't suppose the coming trip would hold any surprises. But then there had been many other doxies in his past, and he had thought exactly the same about Rosie.
“We had a good time, Clem.”
“Didn't get no shore leave.”
“Didn't expect none. 'sides, costs less staying on board.”
“No privacy.”
She met his eye and smiled. “We done all right.”
The voice of Clarke, one of the boatswain's mates, cut through their intimacy. “Come on, come on, you got to be off afore the next bell.” He walked through the crowded gundeck, the knotted rope's end of his starter swinging in gentle parody. Without stopping the petty officer swooped down on a piece of discarded female underwear, and swung it aloft, before it was roughly snatched from him with a squeal and some uncouth laughter. Then his eyes travelled to the quiet couple by the knee and for a moment he almost paused. The coarse smile softened and, looking away, he moved on with a maturity and understanding that would have surprised many.
“They don't seem a bad bunch,” said Rosie.
“No, reckon we're all right. Captain's a seaman, at least.”
“Make a difference, does it?”
Jenkins nodded.
“Well, that's me finished.” She stood up from her bag, and brushed her hands together, her dark hair hardly touching the deckhead.
“You're going then?” It was an odd question for a seasoned campaigner and again their eyes met; this time it was the woman who broke the spell.
“I have to, 'less I grows a beard and signs on.”
Together they made their way to the entry port, and joined the crowd of men and women who waited there. For most of the time they were silent then, as her turn came, he suddenly spoke out.
“I don't know how to find you, I mean, where you live, an' all.”
Without speaking she pressed a small bone brooch into his hand.
“Ask at The Crown, see Mrs Powell, she’ll know where I’m about.” Then she kissed him once, and was gone.
The noise of the ship slowly broke into his thoughts, and he was roughly pushed aside by a couple of drunken women who shouted and stank with equal force. Turning away he looked briefly at the brooch before placing it in his tobacco box, and making his way back to the area of deck that had been their home. Rightly his quarters were further forward, but that space had been taken by others, and the small patch of gundeck next to the knee had accommodated them well. With the ship working up he'd have to return to his proper berth, and Jenkins slowly began to gather his few possessions together.
“She gone, then?”
He looked up at Clarke, the boatswain's mate, searching his face for some glimpse of humour, and finding none.
“Aye, she's gone.” he said.
“Never mind, there'll be others.”
Turning, Clarke caught the spectacular rump of a large woman with his starter. The sound of the laughter passed over Jenkins.
“Aye, maybe there will,” he said.
*****
The sun was low in the sky, and the spring afternoon air had cooled considerably. Shutters were starting to appear over the Portsmouth shops, and a raw breeze sliced through the narrow streets and alleyways. The elderly master's mate was on his way to a warm fire, and stopped reluctantly when the boy approached him.
“Which ship are you looking for?” he asked, the impatience evident in his voice.
“A f-frigate,” the lad stammered slightly and appeared awkward. He added a mumbled “sir” as an afterthought.
The warrant officer considered the boy, or perhaps youth was a better description. Slightly below average height, although still with a bit of growing to do, and dark serious eyes. The man put him at fourteen; clean, reasonably fit and quite possibly mad.
“What's her name?”
At this the boy faltered, and the officer half expected him to run.
“I, I'm not sure, I don't know, sir. I was jus' lookin' for a frigate.”
So, his assessment had been remarkably close. “You're looking to join a ship?” he asked, more gently.
“Yes, sir.”
“Royal Navy?”
He nodded.
“I see,” the old man said, and he did; all so clearly. But it was too cold to stand about. “Walk wit
h me and tell me about yourself. An' don't call me sir, I was never that sort of an officer.”
The couple strolled easily, once the youth's initial shyness had worn off. The man learned about the small house in Leatherhead where the boy had grown up, and the old sailor who worked as the town's carpenter and unofficial naval recruitment officer, or so it appeared. The boy's father was a schoolmaster, and the idea of his eldest son joining the Navy sounded very much against his wishes.
“But he knows you're here?” the man asked, pausing to look the lad straight in the face.
“He knows,” the dark brown eyes looked black in the shadowed light. “He would have sent me as first class volunteer, but it didn't work out.”
The old man nodded. It was the fastest way to the quarterdeck for anyone not connected with the Navy, but to become a King's Letter Boy needed money, or the right connections. Captains could grow rich on the considerations of wealthy parents eager to be rid of troublesome offspring, and in a world where much depended on influence, finding a berth for the younger son of a lord would do most officers nothing but good. It was doubtful if a simple school teacher would find anyone willing to give away such a valuable position.
They reached the harbour wall as the lad came to the end of his story. There was a pause as the warrant officer considered him.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Matthew Jameson.”
“So how did you get here?” he asked, more for something to say.
“I walked,” Matthew replied simply.
It must be over sixty miles from Leatherhead, three days—two at a push, and yet the youth seemed happy to stroll with him, no limps or complaints. The man eyed him carefully; clearly this was more than a dream-struck boy. He pulled his watch from his pocket.
“All right, my lad. It's gone six, if we stay here much longer you could end up in the Navy, likes it or not.”
They turned from the sea, and began to retrace their steps as the officer continued.
“I can't promise you a frigate, in fact I can't promise you nothin'. You'd be better off trying for a collier and learn to sail without His Britannic Majesty's discipline, but I can tell you're set, and it'd be wrong of me to put you off.”
Matthew's step had picked up and he was almost skipping as he continued.
“Keep yourself clean, obey orders, and never let your mates down. Other than that, you've got to trust to luck. Oh, and you'll have to try and speak more clearly.”
“It's a stammer. My father said it would go in time.”
“Belike it will, but lose it—if you want to get on and give orders.”
They stopped outside a whitewashed building where an ensign flew from a jack rigged over the door. Matthew had noticed it when they passed by earlier, but had been too intent on his story to give it thought.
“You're certain?” the officer asked, and received a nod in return. “All right, this here's the Rondey; go inside an' they'll look after you.”
Matthew viewed the place with a moment's hesitation, before moving forward. The man stopped him.
“Take care of yourself,” he held out his hand almost harshly. Matthew took it, feeling the well remembered roughness of the village carpenter.
“Thank you,” he opened his mouth to say more, then closed it, feeling suddenly foolish. He pushed the door open in front of him, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.
For a moment the elderly officer stood and looked after him. His seafaring days were over, and he was not sorry. This lad would find a different navy to the one he had joined, thirty-seven years ago. Probably a better one, but certainly no less tough. For all his belief that it was not dreams that led him, the boy was in for a shock. If he lasted out he might carve a career for himself. He might find the life to his liking, and even prosper. He could get himself noticed, encouraged and promoted, only to finally be sent ashore when he had no more to give. And then he would find there was little for him to do, little that anyone asked of him, except maybe to send another kid off in his wake.
The wind was suddenly icily cold. The old man shivered, drew his watch coat about him, and set off for the boarding house that was his home.
*****
It was a mere pile of books, but they moved HMS Vigilant from being a purposeless hulk to a commissioned ship of war; and they were all heaped in front of her captain. At thirty-eight Shepherd was no stranger to the position. In the fourteen years that he had held post captain rank Vigilant was the fourth ship he had commanded, and the first to be classed as a line-of-battle ship albeit, as a sixty-four, the smallest of the type.
He had been in command for almost two years, having commissioned her back in 'ninety-three, just after the French declared war. Together they had sailed with Hood at Toulon, and later met Howe's fleet coming home after the drawn-out action that ended on the first of June. They had been satisfying times, but for the last seven weeks Vigilant had been penned up at Spithead, and the next cruise, following a bunch of worn out merchants down to St. Helena, looked like being about as exciting.
At that moment, however, Shepherd had other matters on his mind; matters that ambushed him on occasions like this and kept him from his proper work. In all his time, never had the urge to break away from land been so great. For a moment he gazed into the distance, before bringing himself back to the problems in hand with an effort that was very nearly physical.
He must think about the crew; they had been idle for too long. The wedding garland had been hoisted after eight days, but even the novelty of women on board had done little to ease men who were used to the activity and strain of life at sea. Three had deserted in the first few days, and even after one had been caught, dragged back, and punished in front of the entire crew, there had been a steady wastage of one or two a week ever since. And it was always the better seamen who deserted, the ones who would be readily accepted on board a merchant ship, and paid handsomely for their risk. The consequence was that he was over twenty topmen down, and almost equally lacking in ordinary seamen. There would be the usual offerings from the press, and the local assizes might produce some landsmen, but it took a long time to train real sailors, and that was what he lacked most. Of course a spell at sea would knock a few of them into shape, and a decent cruise to the South Atlantic was better for training hands than beating about on some God forsaken blockade.
Shepherd's mind, dwelling on the intake, naturally moved on to the new lieutenant. Curtis had been taken ill with tubercular consumption and transferred to the hospital at Haslar, where he seemed destined to stay for some while. In his place they had been given an enigma by the name of Rogers. Shepherd was naturally cautious about unknown officers. In a relatively small world the usual reason for a man to be anonymous was fast and silent promotion, frequently bought by means of interest, favours or outright bribery. There could be few other ways for a man to progress without creating something of a name for himself.
Unfortunately the habit was becoming far too common. Shepherd knew one captain who had made post before the age of eighteen, and a flag officer's son who openly boasted about being rated midshipman and allowed to compile sea time before taking a commission, while he was still in his cradle. Tricks like that might work in the army, but when at sea, where a ship and every life on board could so easily depend on the judgement of one man, it was plainly ridiculous.
The call from the sentry outside the door interrupted his thoughts, and Shepherd was annoyed to realise that for the last five minutes he had been doing little, other than staring into space. At his curt word the door opened and Dyson, his first lieutenant, entered.
“Message from ordinance, sir. They'll be ready to load at noon.”
Dyson was a solemn man, several years older than his captain. Shepherd had retained serious reservations when he was appointed as there had been a number of rumours circulating about him, and his methods. It seemed that Dyson was known for being rather a cold fish, with a taste for discipline that was almost bor
dering on the unhealthy. However his references had been good and so far Shepherd had been pleasantly surprised by the efficiency of his second in command. He was able to carry out most tasks without the fevered activity exhibited by some executive officers, and Shepherd was quick to appreciate that discipline in a ship-of-the-line was more important and harder to enforce than the frigates he had been more accustomed to.
“Very good. Have you alerted the master?”
“Yes, sir.” Dyson's face bore no expression.
It was the duty of the sailing master and his assistants to supervise the loading of any stores. Taking on shot and powder would affect the ship's trim and alter her sailing abilities.
“I was wondering if we should send the starboard watch to dinner early, sir. That would give us the entire afternoon to see it finished”
“Can you do it in the time?”
“Yes, sir.” Dyson was reassuringly positive.
“Very good, make the arrangements.” As Dyson turned to go Shepherd noticed a mark just behind his right ear. It was a hint of soap, and it stood out quite plainly. Clearly the lieutenant had shaved in the dark that morning, and missed the lather. More importantly, no officer or servant had bothered, or dared, to advise him of the fact. It was a small point, but one worth remembering.
*****
“Vigilant.” The lieutenant fairly spat the name out, before settling himself into the stern of the lugger. Unseen by him the three man crew busied themselves with loading his luggage and casting off. They had carried too many bad tempered young officers to be surprised at one more. The cold wind was excellent for the short passage to Spithead, and the small craft fairly shot through the dark, crusted waves.