His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  The voice was getting nearer, but so far Matthew was certain no one else had moved. His head ached, and he had the odd taste in his mouth he had experienced the morning before.

  “All right, you've had your lie in!” Another voice this time, closer and with more force. Matthew felt the man next to him stir, and waited while he clambered down to the deck. “Out or down, out or down!” A whack cut into Matthew's hammock at about the small of his back, the blow was cushioned by the mattress, but the shock was still sufficient to start him out and on to the deck below. He stood for a moment, a faint wave of dizziness sweeping over him. All about men were climbing from their hammocks, coughing and yawning. A man in a dark uniform with a stiff hat was passing quickly amongst them, a length of knotted rope in his hand.

  “Out or down, out or down, I say!” he swung the rope's end to and fro indiscriminately, hitting men in their hammocks or as they staggered to their feet. By now only one hammock was still occupied, and the man with the rope approached it with a look close to relish on his face.

  “A sharp knife, a clear conscience, and out or down is the word!” he whipped out his own knife and slashed through the clews at the head of the hammock. The man inside dropped to the deck like a stone, landing painfully on his head and shoulders with an impressive thud. Matthew watched in horror as the body rolled over, and then realised it was Jenkins, the one who had laughed so much at his own efforts the night before. It was his turn to be laughed at now, something which the other members of his mess took full advantage of, as Jenkins rose gingerly to his feet, one hand rubbing his skull.

  “Come on, lad, we're for the quarterdeck first thing.” Flint pushed him gently towards the companionway and Matthew obediently began to walk, feeling vaguely guilty about leaving his hammock still hanging with all the others.

  On deck it was dark, although the cold fresh sea air was welcome. Flint led his mess forward to where a pile of large flat stones had been left.

  “You right, lad?” Flint enquired, as he collected a stone for himself and one for Matthew.

  “Yes, I...” The pain in his head was suddenly quite acute. It had been the same yesterday, and he wondered if he was sickening from something.

  Flint glanced at him. “Tell me.”

  “My head hurts,” Matthew stammered, feeling foolish as Flint's look of concern changed to a grin.

  “Bad case of fat head, by all likes. It's nowt to worry over.”

  “Aye, It'll go with the fresh air,” Jenkins, who was more than entitled to a headache, assured him. “'s what comes of sleeping with two full watches below. Told you, 'taint half so bad at proper sea quarters.”

  The men had formed up into a line, facing the cabins that marked the stern end of the quarterdeck. One of them sprinkled handfuls of white sand onto the deck, and another followed him, splashing sea water. Flint began by pressing his stone into the sand, and rubbing it backwards and forwards along the deck strakes in an odd polishing motion.

  “We're gonna smooth the decks.” Flint muttered. “So as we don't catch no splinters when we gets about.”

  Matthew had heard of this daily ritual from Jake, although the old man had said nothing about starting off in the middle of the night. The sand was fine but sharp, and Matthew found his stone hard to shift at first. With a little more effort it began to move, and soon he was stretching forward and back with the rest of them.

  “These 'ere are holystones,” Flint informed him. “Past twenty years the Navy's been takin' 'em from an old church on Wight.”

  “Aye, an' bloody great bibles, they are too.” Jenkins added.

  “All right, lads, turn about.” Flint stood up and inspected their work. Though wet, the scrubbed area of deck appeared white and smooth in the half light. The men turned so that their backs were to the cabins, before kneeling down and beginning again. This time they were resting on the area they had just scrubbed, and the deck was moist and gritty with sand. Matthew felt the damp though his trouser knees, although that was soon forgotten as his belly and back muscles began to object to the punishment.

  “Get's better, after a while.” Flint muttered. “Do this for a couple of weeks, and ya won't know yerself.”

  “That's if somtin’ else don't kill yer firs,” Crehan added some way down the line.

  Matthew determinedly turned his mind from the Irishman's threat, although at that moment endless mornings of this particular exercise seemed a bleak enough future.

  “It's just talk, lad.” The man on his immediate left was also Irish, although he spoke softly and without Crehan's unpleasant nasal twang. “An' as for the stoning, you'll not be seeing a proper sailorman with a belly now, would you?”

  Matthew set himself to the work and the line moved forward slowly, oh so slowly, while the bare deck lay before them all like an unvanquished enemy.

  *****

  At first light a marine drummer appeared, and mounted the poop, the highest deck and right at the stern of the ship. For two seconds he held his sticks in the air before bringing them down on his drum, and beating out a rousing tattoo. In every commissioned ship at the anchorage the ceremony was performed and soon all of Spithead vibrated with the stimulating rhythm.

  Simpson broke off from his scrubbing to go below. He was the cook of Flint's mess, and it was one of his duties to collect the men’s rations from the stewards’ room, where the holders would be bringing them up from store. The drumming continued as he explained his purpose to the marine sentry, and passed down one companionway. It would carry on now until the port admiral's office took a fancy to fire a gun. The official definition of daybreak was when a grey goose could be spotted a mile off. On the sound of the gun, all ships would hoist their colours, and signals could be passed to and fro. It was the way of the ship, the way of the Navy, and on that particular morning it irritated Simpson.

  Clambering down the next companionway, he joined the queue outside the stewards’ room. As mess cook he was responsible for what had to be taken to the galley, and labelling it with a lead seal. Other items such as butter, fruit and any luxury that might be going, would also be under his charge and it would be up to him alone to distribute them to the men. This he would do fairly, as all men took turns in being the mess cook; besides Simpson had long ago discovered that the world had a habit of getting even.

  Still, it irked him, as did most things at that moment. The strict routine, the pattern for everything that the Navy seemed so fond of; all the humdrum work that had to be measured into strict timetables and organised patterns. He made no allowances for the difficulty of organising several hundred men to do several thousand tasks on a daily basis, he just longed for a break, a chance to order his own life and set his own way of living it.

  This was not a new sensation for Simpson; indeed it was one he had experienced many times before. And usually, as now, after a period of relaxation, when the ship was not fully worked up and men could do pretty well as they pleased. The first days back to normal routine were very hard for him to bear; he felt frustrated, controlled, and longed for a way to end the monotony.

  The chance came when he was heading from the galley back to his mess. Some of the lower deck ports had been opened; odd because it was not a Saturday, and the deck had only been vented the day before. The quickening of his heart gave him the idea before he had even thought of it himself, and after stowing the day's dry provisions in the pewter containers, he stepped back and looked furtively along the deck.

  A minimal number of men were about and the only officer, a midshipman, seemed more interested in berating two hands who appeared to have spilt something on the deck outside the wardroom. They were to the stern, whereas Simpson's mess was amidships. Silently he stole towards the bows, trying not to attract attention or look behind him as he went.

  Luck was with him, he passed the manger, where the only hand was the simpleton who tended the animals. The forward ports were cut deep so that their angle of fire almost covered the bows and were ideal. They al
so sat in the lee of the manger, so that he was all but hidden from the causal glance. It was slack water, the first of the flood not being due for ten minutes. He would be passing directly under the heads which were currently in use, but that consideration meant little to Simpson. He began to breathe deeply, both from excitement, and in preparation for what was to come. He peered through the port, pulling his red pigtail tight against his head. The bulwarks were thick and the port ledges deep enough for a man to kneel on. Looking up and back he could see the forechannel where the marine sentry would be on duty. The channel jutted out by well over a foot, and he guessed that he would be shielded. But it was only a guess, a chance he would take, one of many, but worth it, if he wanted to end the dreadful monotony.

  Silently he eased himself out of the port, until he was facing the side of the ship, his forearms out straight and his hands gripping the inside edge. His feet were touching the water; once he straightened his arms most of his legs would be under. A distant report of a gun echoed about the anchorage making him start with fright, and almost sending him into the water. From above the drumming stopped, and he heard the whistle of the boatswain's pipes as Vigilant raised her colours. He smiled to himself as the tension left him. It was as good a time as any; Simpson relaxed his arms, feeling the crisp seas creep up his legs. His hands released their grip and he allowed himself to slip into the water.

  This was the hardest part; a sentry on any one of the other ships at anchor might have spotted him climbing from the port. He had to gather his breath as quickly as possible; the hunt could be raised against him at any time. The water was cold and heavily tainted, as he had expected. Two breaths, three, and hold: without a ripple he pressed himself under, diving down and seeking safety in the depths.

  He opened his eyes, and immediately saw the single anchor cable that stretched down to the sea bed. It made an excellent guide and he swam on, hoping that he was far enough under to be invisible to the watching marine guard. On, and past the cable, now it was more difficult. He had to surface within the next few seconds, or his lungs would burst. With luck he would be under the shadow of the bowsprit, if not he could expect to be fired upon.

  On his way up to the surface he expelled what was left in his lungs, so that when he finally broke into clean air he just gasped a breath, before descending once more. He carried on, not knowing what had been noticed above, only conscious of the need to put as much distance between him and the ship as he could. In an anchorage like Spithead he would have to continue this porpoise-like progress until he could be sure of swimming without detection. It only needed one man, one bright sentry on his, or another ship and the alarm would be raised. Men from every available vessel would be drafted into finding and bringing him back. And should it happen, should he be unlucky and caught, there was little he could hope for; the Navy had a way of treating deserters, one that served not only to punish the crime, but to dissuade any who might be harbouring similar ideas. But then the world had a habit of getting even; his thoughts came back to mock him as he swam on, teeth set in grim determination.

  *****

  Flint was aware that something was wrong when Simpson failed to return. They finished their portion of the quarterdeck, just as “up hammocks” was piped, and he engineered a place next to Jenkins on his way back to the lower gundeck.

  “Simpson's not back from cook's duty.”

  Jenkins hardly moved his head, but Flint knew he had heard.

  “Don't think he might be back at 'is old tricks, do yer?” he continued.

  This time he got a faint grimace and a nod of the head in reply. Flint was not surprised, in fact of all in his mess, Simpson would have been the first he would have picked as a likely runner.

  “Better lash up his hammock, for ‘im, eh?”

  That triggered a definite reaction; Jenkins was not the kind who took to doing other men's chores.

  “Lash 'is 'ammock?” he looked at Flint as if he had just suggested something immoral. “You wants me to lash 'is 'ammock?”

  “It’s up to you; you're his mate.”

  Jenkins mused; clearly the bonds of friendship had strict limitations.

  “Otherwise he'll be missed,” Flint continued. “You want that?”

  “Daft booby shod've run after'ds,” Jenkins muttered, but Flint knew he could be relied on for that much at least.

  *****

  Breakfast was burgoo, a dish based on oatmeal, served out of a pewter tub by O'Conner, who had been detailed by Flint as the new mess cook. Matthew took his wooden bowl and held it up. As boy of the mess he had the last of everything, although the burgoo was served in generous measure and there was more than enough to fill his bowl. The other men were eating, some using wooden spoons, others their hands, a couple adding vinegar or salt to the mash after tasting. Matthew cautiously dipped a finger into the stuff and was pleasantly surprised. It was porridge, different to any he had tasted before, but the oatmeal had a certain flavour; sour, but not hopelessly so. He scooped out a handful and another after that. It wasn't what he would have chosen to eat, but at his age he wasn't fussy.

  “Taste's all right wit' molasses,” O'Conner, the friendly Irishman, informed him. “Otherwise a drop o'rum spices up nice.” Matthew smiled; he would have liked to make small talk, but had learned that his stammer could turn light conversation into an ordeal for both parties.

  “You're one man short, Flint!” The men continued to eat, but there was a noticeable wariness about the table, and all conversation ceased.

  “What's that yer sayin', sir?” Flint looked up at Lieutenant Gregory as if he had been simply passing the time of day.

  “You're one man short,” Gregory persisted, looking down at his watch bill for confirmation.

  “Two men joined us yesterday, sir.” Flint did not normally like to play the fool, but a man's life was worth the indignity.

  “I'm accounting for that, an' there's still one man short,” Gregory cleared his throat. “Where's your divisional midshipman?”

  “Mr Pite? He's not been to us yet, sir.”

  “I see, well, I'd better check.” The divisional inspection was not for a good half hour; Simpson was unlucky that his absence had been noted that much earlier. “Answer your names as I call, Flint I know, O'Conner?”

  “Sir!”

  “Simpson?” The silence was emphasised by men at the other tables who, guessing that something was up, had stopped eating to listen.

  “Simpson not here?”

  Flint looked about. “Now that you mention it, sir it...”

  “Don't bull with me, man. I'm not a Hoxton newcome!” Indeed Gregory had begun on the lower deck and knew their ways, and their insults, as well as any of them. He turned on his heel and headed away. For a moment there was quiet at the mess table, and then O'Conner returned to his breakfast.

  “Ah, and he was a hell of a man, so he was.” He said after a while. It seemed a reasonable epitaph.

  “Aye,” Jenkins added. “An' I'll give anyone a sip to an 'ogshead he's not seen no more 'ereabouts.”

  The men laughed, and returned to their food. Dead or deserted, it made little difference; none of them expected to see Simpson again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The loss of another man did not trouble the captain for long although, as with many small irritations, the annoyance lay more in that it had happened so often before. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind; there were other matters to contend with. The convoy was now fully assembled and would be ready to sail on the afternoon tide. The only problem remaining was the incompetence (he could give it no other word) of the commodore.

  Shepherd was aware that commissions in the Honourable East India Company were greatly valued; indeed an exact price could be placed on them, as they were frequently purchased. Such a policy should not shock him, when his own service was littered with the sons of admirals, lords and politicians who only carried the King's commission because their fathers knew someone, or something, of note. Sheph
erd trusted that such trash would be kept a long way from salt water however and certainly never given the command of a ship.

  He had the commodore's order of sailing in front of him now; the fact that a civilian should have had the gall to instruct an officer of the Royal Navy only fuelled his resentment further. The commodore’s flagship would be carrying a retinue of diplomats, bound for the Far East; doubtless these petty officials, acting on advice from their wives for all he knew, were behind some of the more extreme directions; “all ships to reef at dusk, to avoid the possibility of waking passengers should sail need to be shortened during the night.” He drew a deep sigh and allowed the paper to fall to the floor.

  And to sour the lemon he could not take a straight course; send the document back, with a pointed reference to the merchant shipping act which spelt out the differences between a courtesy rank in the merchant service, and a King's officer. Instead he was forced to beat back and forth, countering the suggestions, and proffering the normal tried and tested arrangements that would no doubt be returned with idiotic questions, and impossible alterations. In addition everything had to be versed in prose so obsequious and sycophantic it would make a bishop sick. Shepherd gloomily predicted that the valuable hours before sailing would be wasted in sending messages back and forth to the flagship, with the only measure of progress being the falling level of ink in his bottle.

  Two things that could not be changed were tides and weather. As far as the former was concerned, the first of the Solent's double high was due in three hours and if the wind held, Shepherd was determined to sail with it. He picked up his pen, and began to scratch notes. Later he would call for Lindsay, his secretary, and dictate a letter that obeyed the rules in every respect, but first he had to decide what he really wanted to say.