by Alaric Bond
“Nipper work's wet'n foul,” the boy next to him, who looked about thirteen, informed him. “Best wear your number three's next time.”
The entire conversation meant nothing to Matthew, although he understood from the boy's expression that he intended to be helpful. A heavy cable was in the process of being released from the bitts, a massive wooden frame polished by years of use. Five sailors pulled the cable straight, and ran it alongside the lighter line that ran to the capstan. Matthew felt he had to ask a question, and automatically went through the necessary stages of gathering his words, breathing deep, and closing his eyes, before addressing the lad.
“I've not done this before.” he said, opening his eyes again, to gauge the effect.
“No?” the boy did not seem surprised. “Nuthin' to it, no harder than herdin' cats.” Though younger, he was years ahead of Matthew. “You got to bind the anchor cable to the messenger, that's the line goin' round the capstan.” He pointed to where marines were forming up at the far end of the deck. “Messenger's a loop, see? We lash the cable to it with these nippers.” He held up his length of line. “Then you follows your nipper along as the Guffies wind the capstan. When you gets to the end, you unwraps it, and run back to the beginning again.”
Matthew nodded. It seemed simple enough, although he wasn't at all sure if he had the coordination. Then it occurred to him that he didn't know what knot to use when tying the anchor cable to the messenger. He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by a bellowing from one of the boatswain's mates.
“Look lively there! Form a line, crown buoy's up, let's get this cable in an' dried!”
The boys spread themselves along the line of the messenger, and began to strap their nippers, binding the two cables together. Matthew tried to watch what knot they were using, but they all seemed to just wrap the line about. To be safe he tied a reef, in the way Jake had shown him.
Another squeal from the boatswain's mate's pipes and the marines, looking unusually scruffy in their working clothes, began to turn the capstan. There was a loud clapping sound that increased with speed and before long the cable and messenger were moving along the deck at a brisk walking pace.
All too soon it was Matthew's turn to untie his nipper. The others had come away as if they were only wrapped about, and as he fumbled with his knot he wondered how they could manage it so quickly.
The hitch had turned itself into a granny, and seemed impossible to undo. He began to panic, it was past the place where he should have loosened his line, and soon the messenger would be up to the drum of the capstan.
He strained at the knot, as the marching marines came closer and closer. If he didn't free it soon, he would be among them. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he struggled again with the knot.
“Avast there—avast!” the roar from one of the boatswain's mates came from close behind and made his feet almost leave the deck. The capstan came to a halt, and the line stopped, just as Matthew was about to collide with the outermost marine.
“Now then, what's this?” Clarke stepped forward and examined Matthew's knot. “Fair bit of knitting you have there, youngster!”
The line of boys laughed, but the marines stayed silent.
The boatswain's mate brought out a knife and cut through the knot. “Don't tie it, wrap it!” he said. He took Matthew by his ear and dragged him back to where the last nipper was about to be unleashed. Pulling the ear down, he stopped with Matthew's nose about an inch from the messenger.
“You see?” he could see perfectly. The line was wrapped round, three turns and a half hitch. There were no knots.
Clarke let go of his ear, and blew on his pipe. Immediately the line began to move again, and Matthew ran back to the end of the queue of waiting boys.
He knew his face was red, and was ready for the teasing that he guessed would be inevitable. Instead the boy in front of him merely grinned and once the line took up speed they were all too busy to think more of the incident.
In no time they were working on line that had spent the last seven weeks on the bottom of the anchorage directly beneath the heads, and Matthew began to understand what the first lad had been talking about. He was wet through and covered with green slime, but then he was not alone, and as he hurried back along the deck he noticed that they were all grinning. It was like a weird relay race, where everyone was on the same side, and each getting steadily wetter. Then they were lifting the anchor itself; the clank from the capstan pawls slowed, and the nippers needed four or five turns to hold. The massive cable seemed to groan as it was dragged along the deck lifting the seventy hundredweight of anchor from the dark bottom many fathoms below. Before long the capstan stopped, and the boys stood back from their work, panting but excited.
“Starbolins dry and stow, larbolins, cat n' fish!” yelled the boatswain's mate, as the marines removed the capstan bars, and began replacing them as deck supports. Matthew knew that he was larboard watch, but the ludicrous instruction was beyond him.
“Come on!” said the first lad and Matthew followed as he ran for the companionway.
On the deck above another bank of marines had been turning the upper level of the capstan, and were now formed up in three lines. The boys ran up to the main deck, and on to the forecastle, where the dripping anchor was hanging at the bows.
“Anchor's stowed at the catshead,” the boy informed him, pointing to a heavy wooden beam that jutted out over the larboard bow. “Fish tackle raises the flukes to the side, an' we strap the crown.” he explained.
Matthew opened his mouth to ask more, then closed it again. He watched as the others went about securing the anchor, finally helping when the line was passed about the heavy ring at the end.
The lad stood back and grinned at Matthew. “Y're lucky we'd singled up day 'for yes’day.” he said. “Otherwise we'd 'ave it all to do again with starboard 'ook!”
Matthew had grown used to feeling incompetent amongst men, it was almost a natural feeling; he was young after all. But now, with lads of his own age and younger, he wondered if he'd ever really settle to the work. Something of this must have shown on his face, as the boy gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder that almost produced tears.
“Next time you'll know.” he told him, then grinned. “An' you'll wear som'at different!” He was right; they were both damp with slime. “Come on, let's watch the topmen!”
Matthew followed his glance up to the mast where the men stood at the yards, waiting to release the sails. Topsails and forecourse, Dyson had ordered, so the mast nearest to them had a row of men along the two lower yards. They stood, with feet resting on a thin line, and their bodies bowed over the yard, while at each yardarm a man sat astride looking inwards.
“Most times they make sail while the anchor's comin' up, but tide's with us an' there ain't no hurry t'day.”
Matthew nodded, hoping his lack of speech would not be taken as unfriendly.
“They got to 'lease the yard arm ends firs', followed by the bunt.” the lad continued. Matthew gathered that the bunt was the middle part of the sail, and he tucked the information away for future use. “If they does it all together the sail can fill 'fore the all the gaskets are loosened. Best way to get pulled off the yard, they say.”
Matthew nodded wisely, although the men's perches seemed perilous enough as it was. Ahead the convoy was under sail and creeping from the anchorage. It was time for Vigilant to tag along. A shout from the quarterdeck was quickly followed by another whistle and the sail began to be let out. Matthew and the boy watched in awe.
The sails were not the white silken affair of stories, but dark patched canvas that smelt of mould and had a line of damp running just below the yard. The forecourse flopped heavily as each section was released, until it was almost within reach of Matthew. Above, the topsail, a subtly different shade of grey, was also released, and for a moment it seemed that the wind had died. Then, with a slight rustle, followed by several loud claps, the sails began to billow with gracefu
l ripples.
“Let go an' 'aul. Let go an' 'aul!” The yards creaked round as the afterguard at the braces hauled them into the wind. Now the sails were full and proud, the sheets tightened and the ship began to heel. It was as if a hibernating animal had finally stretched itself awake, and Matthew was transfixed.
“It's a sight an' there's no mistakin',” the lad next to him was clearly as impressed as Matthew. The deck leant slightly and the bows began to rise and fall. A faint murmur issued from the stem as it cut through the water.
“It's beautiful!” Matthew stammered, eyes fixed on the sails.
The lad grinned at him. “Aye,” he said. “It s-s-certainly is!”
*****
Tait approached the captain and removed his hat. “Shore boat's making for us, sir”
Shepherd sighed. That would be from the port admiral's office. Probably nothing more than someone forgetting to sign a return, but the unexpected delay was infuriating when his mind was already at sea, especially when he had his own personal reasons to be free of the land.
“All right,” Shepherd said testily. “Back mizzen top's, let's see what they want.”
The lighter came alongside smartly enough and stayed for no longer than two minutes. Shepherd was about to pace the quarterdeck when he decided he would be better off seeing to the matter personally. He hurried down to the entry port where a small group had assembled. There seemed to be a great deal of talking, and someone was rattling a chain. He drew closer and the group separated as the unexpected presence of their captain was felt. Shepherd noticed one of his lieutenants, and automatically addressed his question to him.
“What's going on here, Mr Timothy?” he asked, and opened his mouth to add more, when the cause of the confusion became obvious. Hands and feet were bound by chains, and the face was dirty and bruised, but there was no mistaking the red hair, and that pigtail. The port admiral must have acted quickly to get him sent back on board; probably glad to rid himself of the problem. The problem was firmly in his hands now, and so, in effect, was Simpson.
PART TWO
AT SEA
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vigilant emerged from the shelter of the Isle of Wight and met the full force of the channel. Her fabric, spoilt by many weeks at anchor, grumbled and groaned as it was forced to flex once more, while the fresh rigging stretched and sagged at the unaccustomed punishment. Johnston, the boatswain, stood in the waist, looking up at his beloved masts and shrouds and tapping his cane on his leg with annoyance.
“Take another turn on the larboard t'gallant backstay!” he bellowed to one of his mates positioned above him at the fore crosstrees. He turned to Jake, who had just brought a message and was now eager to leave. “You sees, it’s important to keep all stays even and regular,” he said to the boy. “They can do it easy enough using t’lanyards that run through the hearts.”
Jake nodded wisely, rolling his eyes only slightly as his better continued. “Problem is the masts are flexin’.” He held his hands up to demonstrate. “That means if you tighten up at the wrong time, when they’re slack, like, an’ the masts springs back, you strain the housing in the foretopmast hounds.”
There was a pause that Jake felt obliged to fill. “That bad is it, Mr Johnson?”
The man snorted. “It’s never happened in any ship I served in, and I’m damned if it’s going to happen now.”
Jake edged back as the boatswain’s attention returned aloft. “Handsomely, handsomely, now,” he bellowed, using the word's original definition, and slowly and with care the slack was taken up, and the shroud tightened.
“Fastening her up, are you bosun?” Gregory approached, looking up appreciatively at the rigging, while Jake grabbed his chance and departed.
“Aye, sir.” Johnston touched his hat briefly. “Cordage they gave us fair stretches like wool. We've taken in about as much as we set.”
Johnston trusted Gregory more than most, in fact he held a grudging respect for any commissioned man who had risen from the lower deck. However talented or educated an officer may be, none, in Johnston's view, would have the necessary understanding of a ship unless they had started out as an ordinary hand. But then captains and lieutenants might only stay for a year or so whereas the standing officers, like Johnston, had been with Vigilant since her re-commissioning, and would remain devoted to her until one of them was of no further use. Consequently he was inclined to be a bit of an old woman as far as the ship was concerned, jealously guarding her from danger and openly mistrusting any officer who might command her badly.
“How's she feeling?” Gregory asked, He too held a good deal of regard for the boatswain. The man knew Vigilant like his own child and loved her every bit as much. Johnston swayed back and forth slightly before answering.
“Trifle light in the bows, sir. Nowt to worry 'bout though. Know more when we wear.”
A loud crack cut the air, and both men looked up to see part of the mizzen forestay fly forward in the wind. Immediately the boatswain let forth with a stream of orders in a voice intended to carry to every part of the ship.
Standing next to him Gregory watched for a moment, before turning back and making for his rightful place on the quarterdeck. The boatswain had recently been charged with cap-a-bar; the misappropriating of government stores. The case revolved around a length of supposedly used three inch hemp that was meant to have been returned to the dockyard, but mysteriously ended up at a commercial chandler. The single black thread that identified government rope from standard mercantile was an obvious give away, and Johnston had grudgingly admitted the theft when confronted with the evidence. There was little unusual in the crime; boatswains were often nicknamed “missionaries” due to their talent for converting anything that came their way, and with his good record Johnston would probably get off with nothing more than a reprimand.
A thief he may be, but there was no question that Johnston held the ship's interest dear, and with him in charge Vigilant could be manoeuvred and sailed with absolute confidence. It was not something that would even be commented on publicly; no boatswain was ever commended for a shroud that held, or a spar that stayed firm, but when an action could be lost or won on a ship's ability to manoeuvre, it was important nevertheless. Gregory reached the quarterdeck ladder and clambered up. Mintey, the oldest midshipman, was sharing the watch with him. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, next to the binnacle. Gregory nodded; Mintey had failed his examination for lieutenant at least four times, and yet he was well liked by the crew and seemed perfectly competent at his work.
“Boatswain's sweating her up,” Gregory said and gave a half smile. Then, as he opened his mouth to say more, it happened.
A fiddle block, a heavy double pulley with a metal loop to one end, fell from the maintop and hit the deck almost midway between them. The action made both men freeze mid step and it took a second or two for them to realise how near to instant death they had come. Gregory was the first to recover; looking up at the main top he drew his breath in and bellowed.
“There, in the maintop!”
The head of one of the topmen peered down at them.
“Keep hold of your tackle you lubbers, or I'll see you all on report!” He pointed at the fiddle block, now in the hands of Mintey, who was examining it with interest.
The man knuckled his forehead and withdrew before Gregory was certain who he was.
“Trouble, Mr Gregory?”
It was the boatswain, who must have heard the block fall.
“Your mates are not too careful with the running tackle,” Gregory said.
Johnston looked at the block. “Sorry about that, sir. We've had a deal of bother, an' it ain't al'ays easy to keep the traps together.”
Gregory nodded; with the ship just out of harbour there was bound to be a few mishaps; it was simply fortunate that no one had been hurt.
“Shall I note it in the log?” Mintey asked. Gregory was conscious of the boatswain stiffening slightly. A mention in the l
og might well bring forth an official reproof, and the man was in enough trouble already.
“No, let it be,” Gregory told him. He could see no need to record the matter; a block falling from a top was something to be expected, expected and dismissed without further thought. It wasn't as if anyone had done it on purpose.
*****
Critchley, the master at arms, led the small procession towards the punishment deck. Simpson scraped after him, flanked by corporals to either side, while two uniformed marines, their pipeclayed straps glowing in the half light, marched stiffly behind.
“Got a nice little berth,” Critchley said, glancing down at the dull metal bilboes that lay waiting for him. “Strap you up safe, 'till the cap'n decides what's to do wi' you.”
Simpson said nothing as the chains were removed from his ankles. His mind ran back over the day's events: the pawnbroker who had turned out to be a crimp, and sold him to the impressment men. The laughter as they dragged him through the crowded streets, streets where he had only recently walked as a free man. The brief time in the Rondey, before being packaged off in the lighter. And now he was back in Vigilant, the ship he had written off in his mind. Back and facing punishment, twelve lashes at the least—the most? Flogging round the fleet or, with his record, even the noose. He felt the anger well up inside.
“Teach you to run from this man's navy!” The face of the master at arms was fat and gloating. It hung in front of Simpson as the bilboes were clamped about his ankles.
“An' I'll be watching you.” Critchley continued, while the chains were released from Simpson's wrists. “Watching you for as long as you're in this ship. If you survive punishment, you can say goodbye to shore leave, boat work, or anything that takes you off the board.” He paused, drawing breath with satisfaction. “We're in for a long commission, laddie, an' you’re gonna be around for all o' it!”