by Alaric Bond
Jenkins, who had endured the time as well as any, fell in with O'Conner while the preparations for grog were made.
“That were a waste of time,” he muttered.
O'Conner looked at him cautiously; to openly criticize the divine service was not encouraged. “Why would you be saying that, then?”
“Blasted chaplain rumbles on about loving your fellow man,” Jenkins pulled a sour face. “Then the captain chimes in and says you’ll get hanged if they catch you.”
*****
The coffee was hot, sweet, and very strong; just the way he liked it. Shepherd sipped appreciatively, it was his first enjoyable drink of the voyage; the new steward had taken that long to correctly interpret his wishes. He sipped again, and pushed his chair back from his desk. He was part way though a letter to his wife. This may well be a futile affair as pure chance would dictate if they ran across a homeward bound transport on the way to St Helena. And as they were expecting to come straight back, there would be no point in transferring post on their arrival. Still, the exercise was good for reminding him of his home, even if it roused feelings that were hardly to be expected of a husband separated from his wife.
He had married early, as a midshipman, when he had been stationed in a frigate based at New York. His wife was the daughter of an army captain who had been posted to America, and liked the country enough to return when he resigned his commission. Despite inevitable friction during the American War, Shepherd supposed he was as happily married as any sailor had a right to expect. That was until the beginning of 'ninety-two when Anna's father died, and her sister decided to visit England to stay with them.
Sisters they were, although Katharine was nine years younger and the twenty years that they had been apart, living different lives under different conditions, had created two very diverse people. Anna was not one for airs and graces, but she knew her rôle in society, and had never let him down as the captain's lady. Katharine was far more down to earth. Her face was unfashionably tanned and she had a direct way of speaking that initially amused Shepherd, although he had been alarmed to notice other feelings that also began to stir.
Since the summer of 'ninety-two she had stayed with them in their house near Reigate. Shepherd had already been on half pay for two years, and yet they were moderately well off due in no small way to the estate of Anna's father. This was one of the main reasons why Katharine could move in and stay almost indefinitely. Besides it would hardly have done for an unmarried lady to set up house on her own, so what reason could he have had for objecting to her presence? And as the summer wore on he found that any latent protest melted completely in the warmth of her company.
They had taken to walking together, the two of them (Anna never cared for being out of doors), as well his dogs, and any house guest who happened to be staying. Shepherd took a landsman's delight in the Surrey countryside, and would have been happy to wander for days, were it not more seemly for a professional man to waste his time in other ways. But the presence of a foreign relative gave him full licence to show off his county, and who could be a more respectable escort than the sister of his wife?
After the walks it seemed only natural for Katharine to accompany him on his regular trips to London. While Shepherd reminded the Admiralty of his existence, she would tour the shops in Bond Street, to meet up with him in the evening. He remembered their conversations in the Hotel with almost as much pleasure as the silent rides back to Reigate in his carriage.
With a twinge of guilt Shepherd replaced his cup, and picked up his pen afresh. He re-read his last sentence and went to add more. His phrasing was careful; he knew Anna saved all his letters, and was sentimental enough to read them again if ever she was missing him. He also knew that fresh correspondence was greeted with great delight and read several times over, before inevitably being passed on for Katharine to enjoy as well.
*****
“I wanted to show you this, sir.” Pite offered the serving mallet to the first lieutenant.
“Yes?” Dyson felt the interrogative might have been unneces-sarily sharp, and continued in a softer tone. “What of it, Mr Pite?”
“Mr Rollston, the Cooper, found it in the middle hold, sir. He an' Mr Morrison were trying to salvage some of the provisions. This was by the cask that had sprung, sir.”
Dyson weighed the heavy mallet in his hand thoughtfully. “And you think someone used it to start the barrel?”
“Yes, sir.”
He was probably right. There were marine sentries stationed at all sensitive points, from the spirit room to the gratings (the latter being to dissuade the lazy from urinating into the bilges). But the middle hold carried mainly victuals of low appeal, and did not warrant a guard.
“Yet there was no one else in the hold when you investigated?” It would have been impossible to start the cask, and then escape without notice. The orlop had been filled with men seconds after the barrel had been broken.
“No, sir. Just me and Mr Smith. But then I wasn't looking for anyone. Whoever did this could have hidden himself away until we'd gone.”
Yes, there would have been no need for a rapid exit. And with the ship in the middle of a storm, no one would have commented on one empty hammock, when the normal occupant might well have chosen to sleep on deck. The only deadline would have been to be back for divisions, and that would have presented little problem.
“So, it seems our Irish friends are up to their tricks.” He sighed. Not for the first time Dyson felt wearied by the problem. Secretly he was not without sympathy for the United Irishmen and their plight; morally, in fact, he felt their cause was just. But any atrocities that had been committed under British occupation would pale into insignificance, once the French took control. And take control they would, despite their numerous assurances to the contrary. So far they had overrun Spain and Holland on the grounds of spreading republicanism while most of Europe waited to see where the stain was to spread next. And to live under French occupation would be to accept a regime far more unjust, far more tyrannical, and far more oppressive than any it replaced.
“Very well.” he said. “Thank you for this. There is little we can do at the moment, however.” He paused, and allowed the boy a dry smile. “Let's hope the forthcoming exercises sap a little energy from our revolutionary companions.”
*****
The next day Matthew was passed fit by the surgeon, and allowed back to general duties. An exercise with the great guns was scheduled, and he approached his station a little tentatively, suddenly unsure of the reaction he could expect from the other men. Flint was the first to great him.
“Good to see you back, lad.” he grinned, and laid a fatherly hand on Matthew's shoulder. “Sure you're ready?”
“I'm ready.” It was true; it had never been otherwise. The rest of the men also seemed pleased to see him, and Matthew felt more settled than at any time since joining the ship.
“Larboard battery, prepare for broadsides!” Lieutenant Timothy's voice rang out, although all were expecting the call.
“Know what you have to do?” Lewis asked.
Matthew nodded.
“Get at it then!”
“Load with round shot, maximum elevation!” It was Pite this time, the young midshipman controlled the forward half of the lower battery.
Matthew started his run almost as soon as Pite began to speak, and came to a halt at the mouth of the main hatch. Apart from the occasional change, when first or second reduction was called for, the powder charge remained constant. Let others worry about bar or canister, round or grape shot, his duty was to supply the charge, and that was what his mind was set upon.
He stood at the mouth of the main companionway between the lower gundeck, and the main magazine. Glancing down, he saw Mintey, the oldster midshipman, with two lads either side of him. It would be their responsibility to pass the charges up, and his to stuff a cartridge into one of the cork and canvass carriers that hung from the deckhead. Once sealed, the carrier would
be slung over his shoulder, while he raced it back to Flint’s gun. Below, in the main and forward magazines, the gunner's mates would have the flannel cartridges ready when they were needed. The standard British rate of a broadside every three minutes meant that just over seventy charges (counting the carronades) would have to be sent up in that time, should both batteries be in use. With each charge weighing roughly a third of the shot, over a hundredweight of explosive would be moved from one deck to another for each minute the ship was in action.
But today there was no danger. The charges Matthew carried were made up of nothing more volatile than silver sand and wadding. Gun drill was mainly for the men, those who would manhandle the two and a half tons of iron into the right position to hit the enemy, and to go on doing so long enough and fast enough to secure victory.
Flint, with his steady eye and nerve, was the captain of number three gun. It was up to him to see that every man did his work, delivering a safely loaded weapon for him to prime, sight and fire. Jenkins assisted him in this although, as the designated topman, he could be called up in the unlikely event that the captain altered the sail pattern during an engagement. Lewis worked the flexible rammer and was also responsible for clearing any wounded out of the way, while O'Conner looked after the loading of powder and shot; a responsible job, and one that depended on Lewis's care with the sponge, for if he was to ram a charge on to a burning ember that Lewis had missed, O'Conner would be the first to know of it.
The actual manhandling of the gun was done by all, assisted by five members of another mess who worked quietly and well under the charge of Copley, a heavily built former weaver.
“Stand to your guns!” Timothy blew a silver whistle just as Matthew poised to catch the first charge. The exercise continued without words apart from a muttered oath when one man was clumsy, or not as fast as his fellows. Matthew ran with each charge, dodging past the other guns and men in a way that soon became fluid and automatic. Quarter gunners supervised the distribution of the charges, ensuring that each gun was fed almost simultaneously. In action the cartridge would then be stripped of its casing, and laid seam down into the feeder, before being slid into the nine feet of waiting barrel. The captain would feel for the flannel package with a small length of wire placed down the touchhole, shouting “Home!” when he had made contact. For the exercise an empty feeder was inserted, and the captain mimed the actions.
“Shot your guns!”
At Flint's gun a twenty-four pound round shot was offered to the barrel, and immediately withdrawn, before Lewis went through the pantomime of ramming it tight.
The port was opened and the gun hauled into the firing position. It would be fired using the linstock; a device similar to that found on muskets. Flint had been checking the operation of this while the gun was being made ready. In action, should the flint or mechanism break, he would use the slow match burning in a bucket to his right. He primed the pan using a mixture of fine powder and spirits of wine from his priming horn, then pulled the hammer on the linstock back to half cock.
The elevation sights were on the side of the cascabel, where they could be measured against a mark on the carriage. Most experienced gun captains were used to their gun, and ignored these, preferring to set elevation when sighting down the long tapered barrel. It was this taper that caused the belief held by many that a shot rose on firing. Men easily forgot that their sighting line, along the barrel, was at an angle several degrees off that of the bore.
In this exercise maximum elevation had been called for. Lewis and Jenkins raised the breach of the gun with their crows of iron wedged against the carriage. The quoin, a wooden wedge which when moved in and out to elevate or depress the barrel, was whipped away in one easy motion and the breach allowed to rest on the wooden bed of the carriage. Quoins were inclined to fly out during firing, so there were three replacements hanging from a deck beam above.
The hammer was pulled back to full cock as soon as the gun captain was happy with his sighting, and his raised hand signalled the gun as ready.
“Fire!” Timothy's words coincided with the captain of number one gun standing to one side and slamming his right fist, which held the trigger line, into his left palm and shouting “One!” The hammer clicked forward making a small explosion in the pan as the priming powder ignited.
The same procedure followed a fraction of a second later with number two, followed by Flint on number three, and on up the battery. To fire a complete broadside at the same instant would eventually damage the fabric of the ship, but a ripple fire ensured that the force was staggered evenly along the hull.
“Serve your vents!” The touchholes were closed on the imaginary blast of hot escaping gas, while Copley led his team in moving the gun back against the breaching lines. This was one part of the exercise that was harder than the real thing; in action the gun would be hurled inboard by the recoil and left ready for reloading.
Lewis made to swab out with the other end of his flexible rammer that held a sheepskin wad which would be soaked in sea water, while Matthew and the other squealers brought further charges, and the procedure began once more.
At fifteen minutes to midday Timothy blew his silver whistle for the last time, and ordered the guns to be secured. The men were exhausted, although they went to collect their spirits in good heart. Timothy, making his way up to the wardroom, fell in with Tait.
“Lose any limbs, did you?” Tait grinned.
Timothy shook his head, “Some of the new men are a bit raw, but a few more drills will see 'em right. Give me a week, and I'll have them up to scratch.”
“A week?” his friend pulled a worried face. “We'd better tell the captain; he'll have to keep us out of trouble till then.”
*****
For the next few days the wind stayed low, barely giving steerage way. Each morning the sun shone anew, making the deck steam, and while the rest of the convoy wallowed in the welcome sunshine, the men of Vigilant began to work. Topmasts were put up, and taken down, sails were set, reefed, and changed. The boatswain took advantage of the time for replacing some of the cordage that had proved weak during the recent storm, and there were team races, watch against watch, and division against division, covering everything from moving guns to shifting stores. The watch bill was rewritten a hundred times, the men being sorted as fresh talents or weaknesses were discovered. All hands were summoned at any hour, and armed boarding parties called for with a moment's notice. Signals were hoisted that confused and annoyed other ships in the convoy, and boats were launched and raced, both under sail and oar. Vigilant was taken under tow, manoeuvred, and in one glorious exercise, all but abandoned. The marine NCOs gave instruction in edged weapons and small arms fire, with further competitions between messes as to who could sink a pottery bottle left floating half a cable from the ship. The men took turns to fire in volleys, and the water bubbled about the vessel until one lucky hit smashed it, to everyone's satisfaction.
And all the time the constant practice with the great guns. Men were moved from the twenty-four pounders, up to the twelve pounders, on to the carronades and back again. Positions on the gun were changed. Warrant officers and midshipmen were lent their own gun, and took pride in handling it as well as any regular crew. One exercise, a brainwave of Gregory's, involved gun crews practising blindfold, to simulate the conditions that could be expected in a night action when the smoke of the lower deck would sit like an impenetrable fog. At first the men crashed into each other cursing and swearing and one gun captain broke a finger in his linstock, but eventually their skill increased, and they became proud in consequence.
In fact, after the initial reluctance, the men took to the exercises well. For some it was the first time they had found a purpose in life, and the learning of new skills and abilities did much to boost their confidence. Others, the seasoned hands, found that they were excelling in certain tasks, and welcomed the chance to shine in front of their peers almost as much as the minor promotions that often follow
ed. The captain took the opportunity to watch his officers under pressure, to see how they behaved when they were called upon to think, rather than simply obey or interpret orders. By the following Sunday he felt he had welded an efficient force from the raw material given to him. The men seemed happier, and good humoured, while most of the officers went about their business with more control and efficiency.
Divine service the following week was a far more spirited affair, so much so that even Bryant, an interested spectator to what had been going on, drew fresh vigour from the bellowing of the hymn and the good natured tolerance that now met his stumbling sermon. The captain also felt happier in himself, and watching the crew that was now one to be proud of, had little hesitation in ordering the end of the intensive exercises and a mess night for that evening.
*****
Matthew was now truly a part of Flint's mess, and enjoyed the evening more than any other he could remember. Supper had been cleared away, and the men took to yarning during the dog watches. Beer was passed along the table, as each in turn vied to tell a more outrageous story than the last. There was laughter, and teasing, and insults and tattle-tale.
Lewis, who had drunk less than all, bar Matthew, had just finished telling them about some adventure, real or imagined, and the others were showing symptoms of wanting to sing when, as if to a secret signal, there was silence and all turned to see the seaman that now stood at the head of their table.
“Was it us you'd be wantin?” O'Conner's voice was completely flat and neutral as he spoke to the man.
Crehan nodded his head once. He was wearing a blue chequered shirt, unbuttoned down the front, and a grubby bandage could be seen about his chest.
“You're wantin' to come back to the mess?” Flint asked him.