by Alaric Bond
“Tain't no more'n fourteen of 'em,” Simpson grumbled, while Jenkins worked the line in with the serving mallet. “Hardly enough to fill two messes. An' most'll be lubbers, used to livin' in style!”
“Meybe there'll be a few warm 'uns amongst 'em?” Jenkins said reflectively.
“Some'll have bounty.” The two men stopped work, as the same idea occurred.
“Crown and Anchor?”
Simpson grinned, twirling the end of his red pigtail in the air meditatively, and nodded.
Betting was illegal in ships of the Royal Navy, although an innocent game of Crown and Anchor could always be spiced with an unofficial wager on the side. Jenkins and Simpson were past masters of the art, especially when the raw recruits might know nothing of the inflated value of money on board ship, and have little idea of the game.
“Couple of rounds’ll soon sort the men from the muggers!” Jenkins laughed.
“And you'll be joining the muggers if you're not so very careful!” The approach of Johnston, the boatswain, had gone unnoticed by both men, so intent had they been in their planning.
“I want this stay wormed, parcelled and served by six bells,” the boatswain shouted, inches from their faces. “Come on, larboard party's almost reached the 'ounds!”
Jenkins and Simpson fell into work with a will. Neither particularly minded the boatswain bawling them out, in fact of all the petty officers he was one of the most respected. The rattan cane he carried was used more as a symbol of office than a scourge.
“'e gone?” asked Simpson after a while.
Jenkins nodded, and both stopped work. “Aye, for present,” he looked across the deck where two men were working on the larboard forestay.
“Them's not at the hounds,” he said, in a tone completely free of malice. “Them's hardly three ahead o' us!”
*****
The rating committee consisted of the captain, first lieutenant and sailing master, together with the boatswain, gunner and other heads of department who would appoint the new men to their posts. They sat behind a long table set out on the upper gundeck, with a marine sentry to each side. Dyson, sitting on the captain's right, picked up the rough list sent by the impressment officer when the men were delivered.
“No Billy Pitt's men here, sir,” he commented quietly. Shepherd nodded. The recent quota act brought in by Pitt's Tory government had proved a mixed blessing to the Navy. Certainly the chronic shortage of men had been eased, but the introduction of criminals, vagrants and other undesirables was starting to prove a strain on the officers responsible for training them. He placed the list back on the table his face, as always, void of expression. There were other reasons why Dyson was wary of quota men, reasons that he had not discussed with another officer, reasons that he almost dare not contemplate.
The quota had already collected its fair share of intellectual criminals; the kind that would have normally avoided the press by claiming the status of gentleman. It only needed a few of these crooked bookkeepers or lawyers' clerks to talk to the men; point out how bad their shipmates' lot really was. With a level of pay, and conditions that had hardly changed since Cromwell, the men were ripe for rebellion. In Dyson's opinion it was only time that kept them from revolting en masse. When that dreadful day came it could mean the end of everything, for an outright mutiny would lay England open to invasion, and all because a parsimonious government preferred to force men to serve, rather than entice them with better wages and more reasonable conditions.
There were a total of fourteen names on the list; hardly enough to make up for the men who had run in the last few weeks, but it was all they would get. The captain nodded at Dyson, who was to preside over the board.
“All right, sergeant, let's have them up.”
The men were led into the officers' presence, and stood, bedraggled and in the main part bitter, glaring back at their betters.
“At the call of your name you will take one pace forward and give your age and experience,” the sergeant chanted.
Dyson looked at the first name on the list.
“Richard Kelly.”
Kelly stepped forward. “Thirty years old. I'm a tailor, sir, an' I ain't been to sea afore.”
“Where do you work, Kelly?” Dyson's voice was quiet and studied.
“I've me own business. In Common Lane, Southsea.”
“Do you own the property?” A freeholder would be exempt from service, although it would be strange if the impressment officers had not spotted his name on the role.
“That I do. I owns it, an' I pays taxes.”
It was a bad start, especially as the others would be encouraged to argue if they saw the first man set free.
“Beggin' your pardon, sir.” The marine sergeant stepped forward and turned to the prisoner. Placing one hand on the man's jacket, he gave a sharp pull. If Kelly really was a tailor he was a poor judge of cloth, as the sleeve fell away in the marine's hand.
“Tattoos, sir.” said the sergeant, pointing to Kelly's arm.
He was right, all could plainly see the colourful designs that no normal shopkeeper would dream of sporting.
“Those are sailors' tattoos, Kelly,” Dyson said, simply. If it is true that you own your own business, you will have a record we can check. If not, you may well be a deserter, and as such, liable to the penalty for desertion.” Dyson let the words sink deep, noticing how the man raised his head slightly and swallowed.
“As it is you can count yourself lucky that we are due to sail shortly.” Better a healthy, able hand than one weakened by the cat. “Make sure you give me no reason to look into your past for as long as you are in this ship. Now, what skills have you?”
“Captain of the foretop, sir.” Kelly said, quietly. “In a previous vessel.”
“Do you wish to volunteer?”
There was a brief pause. “I do, sir.”
“Very well,” he looked at Shepherd for confirmation, before continuing. “You'll be rated as a topman, and I will be keeping my eye on you. Read him in, Mr Morrison.”
The purser had the ship's muster book open, and pressed his finger at the space for Kelly to make his mark. He would be given a number which he would keep for as long as he served aboard the ship. He would also be allocated a mess, which he could elect to change if he wished. Kelly scribbled on the spot, making himself eligible for any punishment his officers cared to set for him.
“Kieran Crehan.” Dyson called the next man, and the Irishman with the head wound stepped forward.
“American citizen, sir.” He said in a broad brogue.
Dyson looked at him coldly, as a murmur of laughter spread through the men and some of the officers.
“You are an American?” he said, with just a hint of incredulity.
“That I am, sir.” There was no humour in Crehan's voice as he continued. “Born in Derry, but captured when serving under Admiral Hood, sir. I took the country as me own after the war ended.”
It was a reasonable enough explanation, but Dyson had to continue.
“What are you doing in England?”
“Second mate of Katharine Frances, a merchant brig, due out at the end of the week. I came ashore on ship's business. I has papers and a protection and I'd like to have words with the American consul, if you'd be agreeable, sir.”
Crehan delved into his jacket pocket and placed something small on the table. Dyson reached out and took it. It was paper, rather than parchment, although the bold heading and emblazoned arms of the Republic appeared impressive.
Dyson looked up. “This does not make you an American, why you can purchase these for under five pounds in any pot house, as well you know.”
“It has my description there, sir.”
“Height under five feet ten, and twenty-four years of age,” Dyson read. “There must be more than eighty men on board this ship who could answer to that.” More to the point, if they gave Crehan a discharge, a far more accurate description would be needed, and that document would be
come a very real and valuable protection in itself.
“You hail from Ireland: you are Irish.” The small muttering that had started amongst the recruits and onlookers ceased as Dyson spoke again. “This country has protected you for most of your life, and is currently at war. What gives you the right to ignore your responsibilities and bargain a separate peace with our enemy?”
“I have fought for Great Britain, sir. An' now I've a mind to stand with the Americans. An' I would like to send that message to the consul, sir.”
Dyson knew it was important to keep asking questions, while deciding in his own mind what course of action to take. “Why did you not show your papers to the impressment officer?” It was an important point. The regulating captain would have soon spotted a forged protection. For a split second Crehan hesitated, and his eyes lost a little of their intensity.
“Knocked me cold, they did, sir. Was out all the time. They might even have called me name, but I wouldn't have known,” he swallowed. “Only came round when they dropped us in the boat to come here.”
“Really?” It was the first piece of Crehan's story that rang false. The press were known for their rough tactics, but they were also liable for a charge of murder if any man wrongly arrested subsequently died. The treatment Crehan described did not sound likely, although he had a head wound that appeared fresh. Dyson was on the point of standing him down when Crehan continued.
“You can ask any of the men, sir. They know what happened, they'll speak for me.”
Dyson looked along the line and naturally picked out Matthew as the youngest.
“You there,” he pointed, noticing the way the boy's face blanched two shades of white. “Is what this man says correct?”
Matthew opened his mouth to speak but, as often happened, the words would not come. This time it was not just his stammer; he simply did not know what to say.
“The child has a stammer, sir.” said Crehan, there was a hint of worry in his voice that was not lost on Dyson. “Ask another man. They'll be tellin' you.”
But the first lieutenant's eyes stayed fixed on Matthew. “What is your name?” he asked, quietly.
“Matthew Jameson, sir.” It was barely a whisper.
“I see that you are down here as a volunteer, Jameson.” Dyson continued, almost kindly.
“Yes, sir.” It was no louder.
“There is a good future for any volunteer in this ship. A very good future.” His eyes sought out the young man's and locked on. Then, in a tone that was almost hypnotic, he continued. “Now, is what Crehan states the truth?”
Again he opened his mouth, but no more.
“He's nought but a boy what cannot speak, so he is.” This time the panic was evident in Crehan's voice. “Ask any man, sir. They'll tell you!”
“I'm asking Jameson,” Dyson continued. “Does this man speak the truth?”
Matthew looked along the line of officers. Men wearing different uniforms, most of which meant nothing to him. Everyone was silent, even the normal noises of the ship seemed to have been suspended as they waited for him to speak. Crehan, in front of him, did not look round, but he knew he would be listening as hard as anyone. He opened his mouth.
“Come on, Jameson,” Dyson's voice was soft, and encouraging, and his expression held their eyes together. “Come on, Jameson. Tell me. Tell me the truth.”
“No, sir,” said Matthew finally. “No. He's lying.”
CHAPTER THREE
HMS Vigilant was a third rate line-of-battle ship, the first two grades being reserved for more powerful three-deckers. She was also one of the smallest of her rate, officially carrying only sixty-four guns, rather than the seventy-four more commonly found in ships-of-the-line.
Built at the Adams Yard on Bucklers Hard, she was of the Ardent class, sharing the same lines as Nassau, Agamemnon and Indefatigable. Over forty acres of forest had been cleared to provide the two thousand oak trees needed for her frame; trees that had first seen life during the reign of James II. Her ironwork alone weighed more than one hundred tons, while thirty tons of copper bolts and thirty thousand treenails were used in her construction.
She was ordered in 1779 when the first American War was depleting Britain's ships, and launched in 1783 at a cost of forty thousand pounds, not counting her armament or copper sheathing. For several years she had been laid up in ordinary before finally being refitted in November 1792 and commissioned early in the following April.
Her optimum complement was six hundred officers, men and marines and she displaced just under fourteen hundred tons. From the height of her main masthead an horizon over thirty miles wide could be swept, and her lower deck battery, although lighter than that of a seventy-four, was made up with the latest Blomefield pattern gun that weighed nearly fifty hundredweight each; guns that could send their twenty-four pound shot over two thousand yards, and still penetrate the hull of another warship.
When fully provisioned Vigilant could stay at sea for more than three months at a time; longer if fresh water was available. She was the culmination of several hundred years of design and experience, and enclosed in the 160 feet of her hull was everything necessary to conduct a war at sea.
On that morning in early May she rode easily at anchor. With the wedding garland only recently lowered, the crew had been detailed to scour the ship free of all memories of the women. Men swept the decks clear of sand and brick dust, before scrubbing them with liberal amounts of vinegar and water. Lower, in the bilges, sulphurous fires were lit in cast iron braziers, the acrid fumes filling the damp ship, and causing most of the crew to choke and retch in a manner considered highly beneficial to their health. Ports were opened on the lower gundeck, and fresh air and light allowed into places where both were relative strangers. The boatswain and the sailmaker supervised the laying out of the sails, having each taken in rotation from their lockers, and hung from the lower yards to air in the spring sunshine.
While at anchor the purser had been provisioning the ship under “Peter Warren”, or petty warrant victuals, sending to the shore for fresh meat and vegetables, so as to conserve his precious store of preserved food. Now he pored over his lists, making certain he had just enough of everything to keep the ship at sea, and not an ounce more. Pursers paid a personal bond of up to twelve hundred pounds to assure the value of the goods they requisitioned. It was up to each to see that this was done as economically as possible, as any money outstanding would go straight into their pocket. They could benefit from their position in other ways; by seeing that meat was issued at fourteen ounces to the pound (officially to allow for wastage, of which there was notoriously little), and make a handsome commission from the halfpenny per man, per day, they were allowed for turnery ware. The purser also ran the only shop permitted on board, and gained from the sale of clothing and equipment, as well as small luxuries such as tobacco and raisins. Because of his somewhat capitalistic approach most members of the crew, officers as well as men, treated the purser with caution, suspecting him of the most devilish schemes to rob them of their due, and in the main they were right.
The purser was now in front of Matthew who was the last to be rated, and read in.
“Listing you as a boy, are they?” the older man said.
Matthew nodded.
“Speak up!” The marine sergeant was almost finished with the new recruits and had other matters to concern him. “You'll get nothing in this ship for staying quiet!”
“Yes, sir.” his stammer must have been noticed by the rating board, although no comment had been made about it.
“Make your mark there, laddie,” Morrison continued, indicating a space below a column of smudges, symbols and the occasional signature. “You have the number seven hundred an' sixty-nine, Think ye can be remembering that, do ye?”
Matthew nodded, before hurriedly stammering out a confirmation.
“Who will ta'e the lad?” The purser looked to his steward, who consulted the watch bill.
“Fletcher's mess is
light two men, but they already got a boy. What about Flint, he's taken Crehan?”
“Aye, Flint will do, send the lad down.”
Matthew felt himself pushed away towards the large staircase that led below. The Irishman was directly in front, and as they trooped down into the depths of the ship, he turned to the boy.
“Sharing the same mess, so we are,” even in the half light the man's expression was unmistakeably filled with menace. “Now isn't that a wonderful piece o'luck?”
*****
“Mess subscription's a guinea a week, paid one month in advance.” Carling, the captain of marines, had a neutral face that seldom bore more than the most rudimentary of expressions. It was blank now as he addressed Rogers, although he had already made his mind up about the new officer.
“Sounds fair,” said Rogers, reaching into his purse and handing over four gold coins. “What, pray, do we get for our consideration?”
“The mess subscribes to additional wine and cheese, plus fresh vegetables and meat when we can get them. We have nine laying hens, a goat, a sheep and two pigs, one about to produce. We also take a copy of the Naval Gazette, in addition to a newssheet or paper every day we are in an English harbour.”
Rogers nodded, his face equally bland. “No cow?”
“No cow.” Carling did not explain that the majority of the officers found it hard to find the guinea a week which was more than half their earnings.
“I may wish to purchase a cow,” Rogers said evenly. “Never could stomach the taste of goat's milk.”
“That's up to you.” Carling remained impassive, although he was conscious that Rogers had nettled him in some subtle way.
“You could procure a cow for me?” The lieutenant continued. “I assume that is within your duties?”