by Jan Needle
Coppiner was getting pleasure out of this, great pleasure. Some of the soldiery were too dim to milk a situation, but not this young skinny redcoat. He would be rewarded for his pains.
“I know your officer!” the Navy captain bawled. “And although you may not recognise the marks of rank I bear, I am his superior!”
“Sir?” said the marine. “The lieutenant is my officer, beg your pardon, and his orders were implacable. I cannot disobey, sir, rank notwithstanding. That I understand.”
“Rank notwithstanding? Do you know who I am?”
This was too rich to be borne. Coppiner, galvanic, uncoiled his long body and sloped across the deck to snatch the door back with a bang. Kaye goggled at him.
“Indeed I do, sir,” said Coppiner. His voice was hearty. “Lieutenant Kaye, well met! Lieutenant Kaye!”
Kaye’s nut-brown eyes bulged dangerously. His face was dark with anger.
“I am Captain Kaye,” he hissed. “I am captain, Coppiner, and very well you know it!”
“And I am a lieutenant,” responded the lieutenant, calmly. “I would ask you to address me by my rank, sir, in front of commonality. And indeed, sir, by the by, I was not aware their lordships had confirmed. Are you yet a captain? Or is it acting Captain Kaye?”
All the “commonality” were as stony as the grave. However much they might appreciate this struggle, they knew to the last bone that they must not make commentary, by word or look or gesture. Even the tiny black boy’s eyes were glazed expressionless. Indeed, his body had gone rigid when the shouting had begun; beneath soft velvet was a hardened knot of fear. Coppiner, a master of the slanted insult, moved it on.
“Of course,” he added reasonably. “I know you are a hero now, which is why they made you up. So I am prepared to hail you prematurely, if it pleases you. Never let it be noised about that Coppiner despises heroes, eh? I must indeed congratulate you, Lieuten — Oh! Captain Kaye, sir. Come — may I shake you by the hand?”
As he extended it, and Kaye, defeated, shook, three men and a boy most visibly relaxed. Tom Tilley looked at Taylor, and their eyes agreed: Coppiner was a bastard, a right royal one. From their acting captain, there arose a smell of sweat.
“Now, sir,” said Coppiner, briskly. “Forgive me for recalcitrance, but I ha’ not forgot. You are come to me today, to my most humble kingdom, to top off your company. Remind me if I err, but it is the Indies, ain’t it? You are filling up to go and save the planters from their fear of blacks. The natives are revolting, they do say. As to the planters… well. But you must go and hold their hands, and tuck them up in their distressful beds o’ nights. That is correct, sir? Have I remembered right?”
Still sore, the tubby captain decided to let it lie. Coppiner was insolent, but then he always had been. At least it looked as if some men would be forthcoming. So often in the past, that had not been so. He shrugged.
“You have the right of it in part,” he said. “We are headed for Jamaica, true, because there is Maroon activity. There was a revolt on another island some time past, and the Squadron has the whole Carib to patrol, as well as looking out for Johnny Frenchman. The Jamaica planters fear they’re left too open to attack.”
The old lieutenant nodded. It was like a pleasant conversation, Kaye felt. He was beginning to relax.
“Aye, I remember it,” said Coppiner. “When the black men rose and terrorised the white, their masters.” He fixed a steely eye on the little velvet boy. “I hope you have no such vicious schemes afoot,” he told him sternly. “You would not cut your master’s throat, would you, while he lay sleeping?” He smiled at Kaye. “Antigua, was it? Where the throats were cut?”
Coppiner’s suggestiveness was subtle this time, although the small boy stiffened as if in fear of retribution. Strangely, perhaps, because in theory he had little English, hardly none at all; and was anyway assumed half-witted.
Kaye’s nascent relaxation congealed back into hatred of this twisted man.
“You’re well informed, sir, for a prester,” he responded insultingly. “But I have little time for banter, Coppiner. I — ”
“Lieutenant Coppiner. And you say ‘prester,’ sir, despite I am neither meteor nor a priest?”
Kaye’s grip was getting tenuous. The soldier’s eyelid had begun a twitch. When officers fell out it was the men who suffered, everybody knew. Even Taylor, the coolest of cool men, had licked his lips.
“Lieutenant Coppiner,” Kaye gritted. “And I am — ”
“Captain Kaye. Yes, for a courtesy. And I have a little sickener for you, Captain, because — I have no men. I am sorry for it, but there it lies. Despite my best efforts, the coop is empty, I have none. You must grant me pardon.”
There must be an explosion soon. Tilley stirred his mighty shoulders, letting out a tiny sigh. He wondered if he could get away with killing Coppiner, or breaking some few bones at least. He thought maybe he might soon, and be lauded for it. He might also get to stuff the soldier’s musket up his arse.
“No men? But you had warning yesterday. Indeed, the word was put out at the Rondy near a week ago. The Office — ”
“Is full of jumped-up little clerks! I am a receiver, Captain Kaye. I do not collect the men myself, do I? When you were on the Impress, did you not leave me dry sometimes, or am I wrong in memory? If I get men delivered, I have men to place; if not, I don’t! I receive, sir! That is all I do — receive.”
Kaye gritted out the words.
“You had men yesterday, and the day before. You knew my needs; you knew the timing of my orders. I was frank with you, Coppiner. Too frank.”
“It is your memory that’s at fault, not mine,” said Coppiner, quite mildly. “Lieutenant Coppiner, remember?”
“Lieutenant then!” said Kaye. It came out as half a shout. “And you had men, did you not? I was told it at the Rendezvous. You had half a dozen for me, according to the clerk! This mission is important, sir! Their lordships are behind it to the full! My vessel has been half-rebuilt. We are taken off the Impress; there is heavy work afoot! You had men for me, and I need them still. Now! I need them now!”
What little light there had been in the passageway was fading fast. The reeking air was still, and, in the pauses of the argument, it was extremely silent. None of the creaks and groans of a living ship, no sounds of wind and cordage from the outer world. The sailors were sick of the bickering; tiny Black Bob seemed close to tears. And the press master, who had a rhythm all his own, made a decisive move. He slammed his cabin door and locked it, turned abruptly, and shouldered through without a by-your-leave. The others, save the soldier-guard, followed him, there was no other choice. As he passed a lantern, guttering in a recess, Coppiner picked it up. He curled a lip at Captain Kaye, neither smile nor scowl but impertinence.
“They died,” he said. “I thought I’d told you. I have a handful still, three or four left over from a different source, but I fear you will not relish them. Indeed, sir, they are almost diabolical, not fit to scrub your shitty heads. But it’s all you’re getting, because it’s all I’ve got. I wish you joy of ’em.”
He knew his hulk, he knew each stinking passageway, each hatch and opening. The lantern threw a blur of light that left the others blundering, but Coppiner’s pace was sure. He walked a hundred feet to a descender, and as he clattered down they had no choice but to follow his dying glow. Kaye stayed closest to him, being a clumsy man in most need of guidance, and there were squeaks of pain from Bob as the lanyard round his neck was jerked and hauled upon. Tilley and Taylor, seamen born, kept up with practised ease. In terms of space, to them, this sad old ruin of a ship was prodigal. But Christ she stank.
Two decks down they reached the main holding area. By this time their eyes had grown more accustomed, and there were dim smoking lights at intervals along the sides. They revealed a vast expanse of dirty planking, not a mess bench, not a gun. It was like a courtyard, or a crypt, with mounds of rusty chain and ring-bolts, a prison for the scourings of the Press
before Lieutenant Coppiner sent them to the ships he chose for them. He was proud of his ability, was Coppiner, to match such men to ships. To mismatch, rather. His pride was in mismatching. Mayhem for captains, and no blame to him. He revelled in it.
“You see,” he said to Kaye, holding his lantern high. “Nobody. They died like flies, the bastards. Yours are down there, and they are even worse. The only good thing is they’re from the Indies, ain’t they, the tender nabbed ’em as they reached the Nore. What joy, eh, to get a sniff of London then be shipped straight back again? Ah, ’tis a noble thing, a sailor’s life!”
Kaye made no comment, although the news excited him. So Coppiner had been holding out, as he had thought. He’d said the men were diabolical, no good for him, and now they turned out to be West Indies hardened. That in itself was wonderful, given the rate of death among new Caribbean hands. He had heard it said that six out of ten might die if they were unlucky with the fever-rate prevailing. Clearly, Mr Vinegar had planned to keep them from him, and had failed.
However, he still could not see “his men.” Then he caught a movement in the gloom, in a corner of the ’tween-decks, at one end. The grim lieutenant gave a grunt.
“Aye, that’s them. Captain Kaye, I am a fair man, as you know. I would not advise them, sir, you’d be better off with rats, as far less vicious. Leave them here to rot awhile, I’ll foist them off on some poor unsuspecter without your perspication. Away, sir, they are not fit!”
Kaye did not reply. Transparent oaf, he thought. Prime seamen, clearly, and inured to the malodours and the fluxes of the West. And you would try to keep them from him, would you? He strode across the decking with clear purpose.
“How many? What are their names; what were their ships? They’re Englishmen, of course?”
There were three of them together, and one not far apart. The huddled three were lightly bearded, pale-skinned, pale-haired, and curly. As Kaye and Coppiner got nearer, followed by the seamen and the boy on lanyard, they turned a gaze upon them that was like the odd gaze of an animal, three pairs of eyes but singular. Although of slightly different ages, the men were virtually identical, peas from one pod, a creature with three faces but one look. Their bodies were close-touching also; in the gloom one could not sort or separate. Three faces like sharp axes, long, angled noses; high bones underneath the eyes; pale eyes of the lightest grey; thin, hard, unforgiving lips, tight compressed.
“Not English; Scotchmen,” Coppiner responded. “From Aberdeen, someone has told me. Not them; they tell me nothing, do you, boys? They’re Scotch, from Aberdeen. First fisher folk, then slavers. Ain’t that so, boys? Ain’t it?”
“And they are brothers?” said Kaye, a note of wonder in his voice. Coppiner laughed, dryly, as if to call him fool for statement of the obvious. Indeed, the sharp axe faces were so clearly of one mother born, the wonder was if she herself could tell them one from one. Their clear eyes gazed at Kaye.
“Scotchmen, eh?” he said, heartily. “Well I have been to Scotland, boys, and fine seamen you will be, I’m sure of it. You will like my ship, the Biter. The cook is from those parts, Geoff Somebody his name. Do you know him?”
Coppiner’s lined face twisted to a derisive grin. Tilley coughed into his hand. Even Bosun Taylor smiled. He was relaxed, though, as if his captain’s comment was the soul of sense.
“Raper,” Taylor murmured. Then, louder, “Geoff Raper, of Buckie, I believe. No insides, one leg. If you’ve ever met him, you’ll not have forgotten, that’s for certainty.” The Scotsmen’s eyes did not even flicker. They were self-contained, indifferent. “She’s a good ship,” Taylor ended lamely. “Man could do worse than ship with us.”
“They have no choice,” said Coppiner, concisely. “If you want them captain, they are yours. Let it be remembered for the record, though, that I’ve vouchsafed my opinion. They are the lowest scum. I’d only have them on my ship in irons. It is my fairest warning.”
“You make a meal of it,” Kaye said dismissively. “I’ll wager you I have lower scum on board my ship than these McTavishes.” He paused, as if he’d just remembered something. “Christ, talking of Geoff Raper, can they speak English? Our pegleg cook can’t hardly, he’s like a bag of porridge with a voice. You, sir — speak me some words. What is your real name? Not McTavish, I’ll be bound?”
Whichever one he’d spoken to, not one of them replied. There was a silence for a moment then, strangely, Coppiner stepped in.
“Not McTavish but Lamont,” he said. “Captain Kaye, my time is getting short, I must move on, and getting these grim brothers to converse is something you’ll do easier with a rattan in your hand. They are Scotch and they are painful. If you want one other man I have an Irish, and he is worse. He came off the same returning fleet as them, and they were fighting even when they were being took. Like them, he knows the Indies, though. He claims he shipped out as a freeman planter, then fell down on his luck.”
“A dirty Irish, eh?” said Kaye. “There’ll be no truth in that freeman shit, then. The Irish are not free men ever, are they? Not in their nature. Where is the dog?”
The man had been in sight the while, although in a dim corner, leaning on a grown-oak knee. His dark and hairy face turned on them now, and he raised a hand in mock salute. He spoke words that sounded like a greeting, but they were not English, or if so were no wise comprehensible.
“You, sir,” snapped Kaye. “You are in England now; I command that you speak our language. Can you speak it? Can you?”
“Sir, I can,” he said. “And I can sing in it, as well. Can you speak Irish? Now that’s a question.”
“Ah Christ, an imbecile,” said Kaye. He turned to Coppiner. “All right, Lieutenant Prester. Three good men, one bad and imbecile. It is a fair crack, in this day and age. Let us go aft and sign the papers. I must to the Rondy, then the Office.”
The Irishman, arms wide, had started singing. His voice was deep and mellifluous, although the words could not easily be caught. The standing men and the small black boy, caught off their guard, were listening. The voice rose powerfully, filling the reeking gloom. The last lines were clear and beautiful, throbbing with a sort of irony.
Leave old England, westward go
Sail for the Indies —
Where golden grass doth grow.
His face broke into a smile, and he broke into Irish once again. He spoke several sentences, and he was clearly mocking.
For a moment when he’d finished there was silence. Who would speak first, Kaye or Coppiner? Who was aggrieved the most?
The man spoke, himself.
“It is a West Indies song,” he said. “An old song, but we sing it still.” His voice was sombre. “Men go there with high hopes, and are betrayed by them. There is no golden grass. I was two years finding out, three years escaping. Now you will take me back again. I curse you for it, Captain. I curse you for it. Where golden grass doth grow…”
*
Later that night, talking to the mirror with a bottle in his hand, Lieutenant Coppiner was lavish with self-praise.
“I played him for a booby and I won,” he said. He took a giant quaff of wine, sweet, heavy, red, and watched it running down his chin. He took another quaff, and laughed. “They bring me men who should be hanged,” he said. “They land me with their rogues, their rats, their scum, their dregs, and tell me I must set them up on ships, which is impossible. And then I get Lieutenant Kaye — a captain, pah! — and play him like a penny violin.”
One more mouthful, and self-pity began its cruel blight. He saw it in his mirrored eyes, he opened lips to speak again, but found that he could not. Oh God, they’ve made him post, he thought. And me they praise up to the skies, I do their filthy work for them, and I will never, ever rise. I rid them of their awful scum, I fill their ships for them, and Slack Dickie is their latest captain.
Coppiner, dead drunk as usual once he’d wet his lips, dropped the bottle and lay down beside it. It was his baby, leaking at the neck. Peter Cop
piner wept tears for it, gently, because his baby made him ill so very quick, because he could drink so little any more. He could still ease any man into a ship, though, however terrible that man, if he could find a penny violin to play. The three Scotchmen were murderers, it was thought. They had fled from the Carib rather than be hung. Now Richard Kaye would take them back again.
“And he thinks he has a bargain,” thought Coppiner. “I would that I could join him in the West to see!”
He pulled the bottle across the planking to his face, placed the neck between his lips, and sucked.
“I wish you joy of them,” he mumbled, as the wine leaked down. “Great joy.”
TWO
In the months since he had seen her, Will Bentley’s ship, the Biter, had been transformed. At first, racing towards her in the two-man wherry hired at the bridge, he did not recognise her lying at the Deptford tiers outside the basin. Both topmasts were taller, and her topgallant poles seemed white and willowy. Indeed, the whole ship gleamed, with yellow paint and varnish in overwhelming evidence. Her stern was somehow higher, her sprit more raked. From a standard old ex-coal tub, she had taken on a raffish air. And all her canvas, at the yards, was new and creamy white.
“Is that the Biter, then?” he mused, aloud. The boatmen glanced at him but did not bother to reply. It’s a fine Navy officer that doesn’t know his own ship, they probably were thinking. And also — typical.
But Biter had been changed completely. As they swung round across the ebb and nudged up to the boats tethered at the boom, he could smell fresh linseed, cord and tallow, and discern new cleanliness. Above the waterline, at least, she could have been a new-builder, although below it he noticed quite long fronds, and was obscurely comforted; this ship still had her dirty secrets. As he passed his coins and climbed up the ladder like a gentleman, he wetted dry lips. Ah well, he thought, it was either this or hanging, when all’s said.
