by M. C. Muir
‘Well, I can tell you, you’ll not get much conversation from him. Deaf as a post he is. Same as all gun captains. It’s the firing that sends ’em deaf. Mark my words, if we sees any action, you’ll be running the deck with cartridges under your shirt like the other powder monkeys.’
‘I don’t care what I do. I can run and I learn quick too.’
‘Aye, but you’re no thicker than a streak of whitewash,’ Muffin said. ‘I doubt you’re strong enough to lift a cartridge.’
‘I’m stronger than I look, and I can work hard. I’ve been working since I was eight years old and I’m used to getting mucky. Me ma says, I got a decent brain between me ears and if I don’t use it, it’ll get rusty. She also said you only have to show me a chore once and I’ll pick it up in quick sticks.’
Bungs leaned back and laughed. ‘Listen to him. Now he’s wound up, we ain’t going to stop him.’
‘Me ma always said, that if you don’t ask, you never learn. That’s what me ma said.’
‘Well, you’ve got a flapping tongue in your gob, that’s for sure, but don’t forget your ma ain’t here to hold your hand or wipe your arse for you.’
‘I’ll be right,’ Tommy said, rolling back his sleeve and holding out his square plate for the knuckle bone which was dropped onto it. Bungs leaned across the table, grabbed the boy’s arm and examined the long black scars running down his left forearm.
‘What’s this then? Looks to me like you’ve been a powder monkey before. Be wary lad, I don’t take kindly to liars.’
Tommy looked puzzled. ‘I told you, I don’t know what a powder monkey is and I ain’t never been one before.’
‘Perhaps you should ask your ma, she might know.’
‘Stow it Bungs, don’t make fun of the lad,’ Muffin mumbled.
After taking a closer look, Bungs released the lad’s arm. ‘So how did you get them marks? What did you do afore you came here?’
Tommy didn’t answer.
‘I reckon you was a sweep. That would account for the soot fixed under your skin.’ Bungs laughed. ‘And with that mop of hair, you’d have made a fine brush. I can just imagine you sliding up and down them great chimneys easy as a greased piston rod. Am I right?’
‘I weren’t no sweep,’ Tommy said, ‘but I worked hard.’
‘Aye, and you’ll work hard and long on this ship. But with all your cheek, I’ll bet, you’ll be kissing the gunner’s daughter before the week is out.’
Tommy looked blank.
‘Don’t scare the lad,’ Muffin said.
‘Won’t do him no harm. I’m just learning him a thing or two.’
‘Oh, yes, I can imagine the kinds of things you’ll learn him. Probably scare the living daylights out of him.’
Bungs’ eyes widened. ‘Don’t scare easily, do you lad?’
Tommy hesitated and Bungs was quick to sense some apprehension.
‘Afraid of falling overboard and drowning, are you?’
‘Sea don’t worry me,’ Tommy answered boldly. ‘I can swim.’
Bungs smirked. ‘So, we’ve a got us a mermaid amongst us, have we? Flowing golden locks and swims like a fish. You ain’t got a tail have you?’ he said, leaning over to peer under the table. ‘Well, I can tell you right now, swimming’s not much good when the ship founders in the middle of the ocean. Best to drown quick smart, that’s what I think.’
Tommy ignored him. He was more interested in ripping the last sinews from the knuckle-bone and sucking the marrow from the middle.
But Bungs wasn’t done. ‘I can tell you, if you float around for long enough, bobbing like a piece of cork, the sharks’ll get you for sure. Bite your legs clean off.’
‘Don’t scare me,’ the boy said.
‘What about the millers that comes in the night, then?’ Bungs added, with a sneer.
Tommy frowned. ‘What’s millers?’
‘Rats, lad,’ Muffin explained. ‘Fat rats. That’s what millers is.’
Tommy sucked the grease from his fingers then rubbed his sleeve across his mouth.
‘Aye. They crawl over you in the night and chew your ears, or nip your nose, or feast on the fleshy bits you like to play with down your breeches. I’d keep me blanket tight under me chin, if I was you,’ Bungs hissed.
‘I’m not afraid of rats.’
‘Me neither,’ said the cooper, changing his tone. ‘Quite partial to a bowl of fresh pink baby ones. Stew up nicely, they do, with an onion and a lump of butter. Beats salt pork any day.’
Tommy looked at the other men to see if their mess mate was joking. It was obvious he wasn’t.
‘So, tell old Bungs, what is it that scares you, lad? Most folk have something they’re afeared of. Is it spiders? How about them that’s as big as your hand with long hairy legs? Or bats – ready to latch onto your neck and suck the life-blood out of you? Or what about snakes – slithery blighters, full five fathoms long and thick as the foremast?’
Unperturbed, the boy shook his head.
‘Must be something. What about ghosts then, or sea monsters?’ The cooper’s eyes sparkled. ‘The ones with tentacles that slide over the rail, suck onto the deck and pull the ship down to Davey Jones’ locker.’
‘I’d like to see that,’ Tommy said, grinning to the cooper’s goading.
‘Tell him about the Flying Dutchman,’ John Muffin added. ‘That used to scare the daylights out of me!’
‘Later maybe. You’re a Nancy, Muffinman. This lad here is made of stronger stuff, aren’t you lad?’
Tommy nodded. ‘My ma said, there’s no point worrying about stuff that scares you – so I don’t.’
‘I might like to meet that ma of yours one day. What’s her name?’
‘Eliza Wainwright,’ Tommy announced proudly.
‘So tell me, young Wainwright, where did you get them powder burns from, if you’ve not served on a gun before.’
‘Leave the lad.’
‘I weren’t talking to you, Muffinman.’
‘Well, I were talking to you, Tinkerman.’
‘So how come you’re so talkative these days. Never used to say boo to a goose on the last cruise. Put your rags out to wash this week, have you?’
Muffin leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure. You haven’t changed, Bungs. Still the miserable old fart, you always was.’
‘That’s it!’ said Bungs, rising up from the chest and pushing the swinging table in Muffin’s direction, but his mate was ready to fend it off.
‘Watch out, Bungs, bosun’s mate’s listening!’ The timely warning came from the next table.
‘Why should I care?’ Bungs said, flopping back onto the sea chest he’d been sitting on. ‘I’ve been round long enough and served on more ships than they’ve ever seen. It’s about time they learned to show a bit of respect.’ He turned back to the lad. ‘Not that I get any from the likes of this scum down here. But don’t you worry, young Tom, if you stick with me, I’ll look after you and you’ll have nothing to worry about while you’re on this ship.’ The cooper grabbed his plate and wooden tankard and slid from the table.
‘What are you looking at?’ he demanded of the West Indian who hadn’t taken his eyes off him throughout the conversation.
‘You’re a funny man,’ Eku said, flashing a smile which revealed two decks of perfect teeth.
Bungs swung around and was about to reply when the sound of the ship’s bell chimed from the belfry on deck.
John Muffin laughed and patted the black seaman on the shoulder. ‘You’ll fit in nicely,’ he said. ‘Bungs’ bark is far worse than his bite, but he needs someone to bark at.’ Then turning to Tommy, he offered some advice. ‘Don’t ever take him seriously, lad, and you’ll be fine, I promise you.’
Once the last of the midshipmen arrived, having made an embarrassed apology and shuffled around to find a place to stand in the captain’s cabin, Oliver was able to address all his officers, including most of the warrant officers.
‘G
entlemen, let me formally welcome you aboard Perpetual. I have already spoken with Mr Parry and our sailing master, Mr Greenleaf, informing them of our ultimate destination. I am sure you are all eager to learn that fact.’
Almost everyone in the cabin nodded.
‘You will have noted that our hold is filled to the deck-beams with supplies – sufficient to last us for a nine-month voyage. I can now advise you that after a brief watering stop in Madeira, we sail for the west coast of South America. Once we have navigated the Horn, we will head north to Peru. Hopefully, from the Cape, our only stop will be to replenish wood and water.’
After considering the mixed expressions on his officers’ faces, Oliver continued. ‘I can see those of you with an appetite for action appear disappointed. Perhaps you are under the impression that we are sailing beyond the reach of French ships. Heed my words – do not allow this preconception to make you complacent. The French will happily take the war into the Pacific to court the favours of the Crown of Spain. And do not forget that we will be crossing the sea-lanes of well-guarded Spanish treasure ships.’
The young midshipmen’s eyes widened.
‘As such, the dangers we face come from several sources – pirates, privateers, the French, and even the Spanish who exhibit an extremely patriarchal and proprietorial responsibility over their South American viceroyalties and, in particular, over the royal treasury in Buenos Aires.’
The captain continued. ‘For those of you who have not sailed with me before, let me advise you that I have doubled the Horn many times. It lies in a fickle stretch of water that deserves respect but, as our passage will be in the months of the southern summer, I anticipate no major problems with snow or ice.’
Mr Hazzlewood and Mr Smith exchanged knowing glances.
‘Our mission, Gentlemen, is to locate a ship of the line – Compendium, Captain Crabthorne. She is a 28-gun frigate, and on board is the new British Ambassador to Peru. Compendium sailed from Portsmouth several months ago, during the peace, and should have returned to England by now. However, she has not been sighted and there has been no word of her from ships returning from either Rio de Janeiro or Valparaiso.’
‘Is she an ageing vessel?’
Oliver smiled. ‘Most British frigates, including Perpetual, are relatively old but they are also reliable and fast – hence the reason so many are still at sea, and, I should add, more than any other class.’
‘But if she was lost around the Horn, no one would know.’
‘That is true, Mr H, but with no word of wreckage, we must assume she is still afloat.’
‘Perhaps she’s been taken by the French as a prize,’ the sailing master said.
‘Believe me, French pride would not permit them to keep such information secret for very long. Gentlemen, my orders are to locate Compendium, to provide assistance if she requires it, then to escort her to Peru in order that Captain Crabthorne can complete his mission. If she has been taken by enemy forces, then we are to make every effort to retrieve both vessel and crew. However, if no trace is found of either Compendium or her captain, we can only assume she has met will misfortune. We must then satisfy ourselves that there are no survivors. After that, our ultimate destination is Callao.’
Several of the junior officers were eager to ask questions. For most it was to be their first time around the Horn. For several the first time across the Equator.
‘I thought the Spanish galleons were legends from the past.’
‘You can be assured, gentlemen, that the treasure ships and the valuable cargoes they carry are real. South America, and Peru in particular, is the greatest source of silver in the world. And with only a few minor exceptions, the southern part of the Americas is also the greatest source of the world’s gold. I am sure you have heard of El Dorado, the mythical man covered in gold dust.’
A few of the young officers nodded.
‘The natives of the region have their own names for the precious metals, based on their colour, I assume. They refer to gold as the sweat of the sun and silver as the tears of the moon. Rather poetic, would you not agree? And from the vast stores of wealth held in the fortified strongholds of the viceroyalties, great quantities are regularly transferred to Spain. Perhaps not in the ungainly galleons of old, but in seaworthy ships possibly disguised as traders. The Admiralty believes that at least three or four major shipments of gold and silver bullion are consigned across the Atlantic every year.’
‘But apart from the precious metals, what is Britain’s interest in South America?’
‘A good question, young man. The answer is both commercial and political. I am sure you are all familiar with the triangular trade, the route taken by the slaving ships. They sail from the major ports of England, to the coast of Africa, and from there to the West Indies, before returning to England. What you may not be aware of is that more slaves have been traded to South America than have been consigned to the Caribbean. While most have gone to Brazil, it is thought likely that 300,000 or more have been delivered to Peru on the west coast, mainly to work in the silver mines.’
The captain set his gaze on his junior officers. ‘In my opinion, this is a triangle with four sides. An economic and geometric conundrum which you can discuss at length with the sailing master.’
He continued. ‘Are you also aware that sixty per cent of Britain’s trade is based on imports of sugar, tobacco and rum? While these commodities come mainly from the plantations in the Caribbean, South America is a growing source of these commodities, a fact Britain is not ignorant of. I suggest, to improve your minds, you extend your reading beyond the Seaman’s Almanac and Naval Gazette.
‘For the interim, however, I can advise that our immediate destination is Madeira, and thence Rio de Janeiro.’
Mr Hazzlewood asked a question that was on the tip of several tongues. ‘Will the men be allowed ashore when we reach Brazil, Captain?’
‘That decision I will make when we anchor in Guanabara Bay.’
Casting his mind back to the incident that occurred when he last visited Rio, he preferred that no one went ashore. But he knew the hands would be weary after their transatlantic crossing, and stepping ashore would provide an opportunity for them to work off their pent-up emotions before facing the challenges awaiting them at Cape Horn. Despite his earlier observation about that passage, Oliver was fully aware that even in summer it could prove slow, arduous and oft times deadly.
‘Wherever we make landfall, I warn you now that should any man from your division return later than the specified time, the letter R will be placed against his name and he will be treated as a deserter under the Articles of War. You all know the penalty that offence carries. And the Articles apply equally to every one of you assembled here.’ He paused studying the faces directed at him, noting the varying ages and the variety of expressions they held. ‘I trust we will have a safe voyage and succeed in our mission.’
As the men streamed into the mess, it was quickly abuzz with the sound of muffled voices and clatter of wooden tankards.
‘Eh, you, catfish face,’ Bungs bellowed, pushing a man out of the way as he plonked his plate on the table and attempted to sit down next to the cooper. ‘Find yourself another stall,’ he bellowed, ‘because you ain’t feeding your face here!’
The man looked bemused, held his ground and rubbed his whiskers.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said,’ Bungs barked. ‘Go sit with the other warrants. You’re not my mess mate and you’re not sitting here at my table.’
‘I don’t see your name carved on it,’ the man said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Looks like this is a spare place. Just thought I’d be sociable.’
Bungs shoved his own plate aside and raised himself till he stood a full six inches taller than the other man.
‘Suit yourself,’ the seaman said, turning away. ‘I’ll go find them what’s got a civil tongue in their head.’
‘Calm down, Bungs,’ Muffin called quietly. ‘He don’t mean no harm. Just wan
ts a chin-wag. You said yourself you wanted to hear some new yarns. Beside he’s been aboard a lot longer than us. He’s the chippie who sailed into Gibraltar with her. Him and his mates have been working on her while she was in the yard. Besides, he ain’t done you no harm, has he? You’ve only been on board a couple of days. How do you know what he’s like, if you don’t give him chance to natter?’
‘I don’t care how long he’s been aboard. He gets right up my nose. And you,’ he yelled, pointing his blackened forefinger at the man seated against the hull, ‘can keep your tuppence worth to yourself, if you value your teeth!’
Tommy fixed his eyes on the table and waited till the cooper was eating, before turning to John Muffin who had already relaxed against the hull with his eyes closed. ‘What’s he done to get Bungs all in a lather?’ Tommy whispered.
Muffin thought for a moment. ‘I think it because that fellow is the ship’s carpenter.’
Tommy looked at him blankly. ‘So, what’s wrong with that?’
Muffin spat the lump of pork he was chewing into the palm of his hand, looked at it, fingered it, then stuck it back in his mouth and swallowed. ‘I know what your problem is,’ he said, looking straight at Bungs. ‘He reminds you of Percy Sparrow. He even talks like Chips did.’
Bungs didn’t reply.
Tommy waited for Bungs to explode, but he said nothing.
‘So where’s this Percy Sparrow now?’ Tommy asked.
‘Fiddler’s Green.’
‘Where’s that – somewhere in London?’
Muffin huffed. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, lad. That’s Davy Jones Locker at the bottom of the sea. Have you heard of that?
Tommy nodded.
‘You’d never believe it, by the way Bungs used to speak to him, but the pair was the best of mates. Bungs always used the same tone like he did just now. Argued all the time, the pair did, and Bungs always had to get the last word in. But Chips would just smile, or make a joke of it and ignore him.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But I never seen a man more broke up than Bungs was when Percy Sparrow died. But that’s what you get all the time at sea – some make it home and some don’t.’