by Jan Needle
The first man that he saw when on the deck was the sturdy boatswain, Taylor, who recognised him with frank surprise — but moved with characteristic speed and seamanship to catch Will’s sea bag that came flying across the rail from the wherry, unannounced.
“Ho, Jem,” said Bentley, with a brittle bonhomie. “I thought I’d come to the wrong ship.”
“Perhaps you have.” Then Taylor caught himself, and added almost formally, “Nay, sir, she is the Biter still, but a little different. It is more Navy fashion, sir. We are not pirates any longer, nor yet ruffians of the Press. Captain Kaye is a captain; he is Post. We have to say our prayers on Sundays.”
Will had liked Jem Taylor in the times before, a liking that was mutual. But the slackness of Kaye’s vessel had been notorious and could never have been let to last. Both of them knew it, standing there. They were awkward.
“She is looking fine,” he said. “And is Captain Kaye on board, or any other officer?”
“No, sir, it is you so far. How should I call you, sir? It was indicated… well, Captain Kaye… it’s said you are Lieutenant Bentley, now?”
Bentley could feel a reddening. And you thought (he would have liked to say) that I was still in jail. But he did not. He muttered gruffly: “Aye, I am Lieutenant Bentley, Acting. I have not… ah, to hell with it!”
The poop-break door was opening, so they were off the hook. A tall, heavy man was stooping out, a man dressed in London finery, a city man or merchant. Behind the silk and ruffles, Will saw to his astonishment that it was a man he knew.
“Ah yes, sir,” Taylor breathed. “It is Mr Gunning. He has sold her to their lordships, sir, but he is helping Captain Kaye to work her up. As you can see, sir, he got a noble price.”
John Gunning, full-lipped and curly, was figged up in such finery that Bentley could hardly stop from goggling. He was a London mariner who had somehow got the Biter years ago, had owned her lock and stock, and then been hired by the Navy as a tender to the Press. Old and cranky, she had served their lordships well, not least because Gunning had been part of the agreement, and acted as a sailing master and provider of a crew. Now, it seemed, the Navy owned the ship but not the man, who was richer by a good and solid lump. He was bearing down upon them, like a summer storm.
“Mr Bentley!” he said. “Now well met, sir, well met indeed! And where is your companion, Mr Holt? Not far behind I hope, sir — you are sailing in the morning! Not I this time, though, no, not I! I have had my fill of working for my living, sir! I do the other thing!”
Before Will could reply there was a high-pitched flute of laughter, and a clatter at the doorway once again. A vision of young loveliness — or at least a Thames-side doxy of most garish hue — tripped out, controlled herself, then clutched at Gunning’s arm for steadiness.
“No longer pirates, eh?” said Will, hardly loud enough for Taylor to pick up. “Well, if this is the Navy Royal, their lordships will have fits!” Jem grinned and they shared a minor pleasure. The maiden though, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, was staring at Will, swaying.
“Oh, Jack!” she said to Gunning. “I know him, Jack, I know him! It is my little peach, remember? That night that we and Ellen, was it? And Eddie Campbell!” She reached a hand out for Bentley, who, horrified, stepped back. She gave another high-pitched squawk of laughter.
“You play the virgin still I see, sir! Oh Jack, can I have him, Jack? Will you buy him for me, to be my pet?”
Will, looking round for succour, noticed only that more men had come up on the deck, most likely just to stare. He recognised some of them with another shock. His life had been so strange and circumscribed in the past months that his mind had blanked these sailors out, as if assuming they had died. But he had been rotting in a filthy jail, not they; they were not traitors as he’d been held to be. They stared covertly, but still they stared. If Biter was his home once more, it was a fearful homecoming.
For a moment he was tempted to acknowledge that he knew the girl, then decided that in that direction rocks and sandbanks lay. With a ferocity he did not feel, he snarled at the boatswain to clear the decks of gawpers, or to find them useful work to do, on pain of flogging. Jem Taylor got his drift instantly, and went bald-headed at the first group with a rope’s-end flying in his fist. Bentley turned a grim face to Gunning.
“Mr Gunning, sir, well met,” he said. “I understand you’ve made a killing with their lordships, and I wish you all benefit of it. However, I am in command of Biter as of this instant, and I would ask you what your business is on board.”
“Ooh,” said the painted lady. “Ooh, Jack, he’s stern.” But her voice was not half so brazen as before, and Gunning put a hand out to make her quiet. He could be a wise man and a brave one, Bentley knew, when he was not in drink. What were the chances on this sultry afternoon? Good, it would appear.
“Now, Sal,” said Gunning, “be quiet or I’ll throw you overboard. Mr Bentley here has work to do, and we are in his way.” To Will he added, with grave politeness, “I came on board to talk with Captain Kaye. I have been aiding him to get the ship in readiness. You are going very far. Tomorrow. I had come to bid farewell.”
Something in his gaze was speaking very plain to Bentley. It occurred to him the “tomorrow” was for the doxy’s ears. Whether or no, he did not bother challenging. He nodded, and the other smiled.
“Captain Kaye will be here later but I cannot say exactly when,” said Will. “But there is very much to do, sir, so if I may…?”
“Indeed, sir. Come, Sal — this is Sally Marlor, by the way. She has helped your captain with his… with his furnishings. He will not object to Sally having called. And I, sir, I would wish you good voyaging. You have got a perfect ship, at least; she is fit from truck to keel. You have my word on it.”
Nods were exchanged, and Sally Marlor tried blowing a small kiss, but quite half-heartedly. Gunning took her to the side, whistled up a wherry, then lifted her with facility across the bulwarks down to the waterman’s arms. Bentley turned away and stalked towards the cabin. In front of him a man appeared, slinky and obsequious, whom he recognised as Josh Baines, called Rat, or Ratty, who was asking if he might carry any dunnage. His question was ignored because it was his place to carry it, naturally, and Bentley let himself into the after world without another word. There was more space there now, under the new-raised poop deck, with two not insubstantial shuttered-off cabins on either side for the officers and any other persons of importance the Biter might have to accommodate. Baines went to one of them unbidden, as if he knew for certain it was Bentley’s. He put the dunnage down and touched his forelock, but did not dare to speak. Bentley ignored him.
The cabin that he had been allocated was most noticeable for the carriage gun that squatted squarely in its middle. Of course, when they went into action, his walls would fall, his cot would rise, his cupboard, writing desk, and washstand would be stowed away by keener hands than Baines’s. Then his bed and work and thinking room would become a station in a fighting ship, drenched in sweat and smoke and maybe blood, but he would be above it, on the deck. Strange life, he thought: strange bloody life indeed.
“Who else is here?” he asked abruptly. “There are four berths. Are they taken?”
The little rat-faced man adopted the look of acute dishonesty Will knew so well. The tongue flashed out to dab the lips, so like a rodent it could scarce be borne. His eyes looked up and under from his ginger brows.
“The officer of marines,” he said. “He’s here. Lootenant Savary. Must have lots of friends though, in our opinion, sir, on account he’s young to be a man of power; well…” He smiled, not pleasantly. “He’s about fifteen, by the look. Only got four sodjers, though, so not no problem, is it?”
“Are they installed on board then? Where are they all?”
“All of ’em on shore, sir. Something about their uniforms, or their guns, or summat. All due back tonight, Jem Taylor says, for what that’s worth, sir, beg your pardon. About Jem Taylor, s
ir. Can I make so bold, sir? Word in your shell-like, like?”
“Where are they installed, I asked you, Baines. They’re meant to buffer us from you people, ain’t that the scheme? So where are they quartered?”
Baines, rebuffed in his scurrility, merely swallowed.
“Below where we’re standing, sir. They slings their ’ammacoes afore the gunroom. That’s a laugh, though, ain’t it? Four sodjers strung out on a washing line to guard one little snotty, eh?”
Bentley had a jolt of interest. A little snotty, on this most benighted ship?
“What, a midshipman? Are you sure of this? Is he on board?”
Baines smirked, gratified to have stirred real interest. The tongue flicked out once more.
“Ho no, sir, not yet awhiles. But it’s truth, not rumour. It’s set in iron, cast. Some nephew of the captain, sir, or some such relative.” He almost laughed, about to be quite daring. “Poor country cousin, sir, is favoured with the betting men. Some waif he’s got to give a place to, you knows the form.”
The tongue again, projected by anxiety. The shifty eyes showed fear he might have gone too far in insolence. But Bentley relished such unguarded information. At times, on board a ship, such blatherings could save men’s lives.
“I heard a rumour we were set to sail tomorrow,” he said casually. “That’s set in iron too, say you?”
Baines snorted his contempt.
“That’s that big bugger Gunning, ain’t it? For to mystify his paint-eyed tart, that Sally-thing. If she thinks we’re off tomorrow, she’ll stay away from us and leave him be, won’t she, for fear his Missus comes along to wave goodbye. Mebbe she’s got her dander up, the wife, and he needs Sally clear a while, or maybe there’s another tart bespoken for a shag. If he’s not dead drunk he’s whoring, is Jack Gunning’s lay. His weakness, too. And now he’s got some gold, sir, well, bugger me!”
“But does she think he’s going with us, this Sally Marlor? I don’t understand. He’s not, is he?”
“’Fore God he’s not! He’s got what he wanted out of the Biter: he’s got money coming out of every pore. He’s took the Office for a pretty penny, a lovely guinea, then a ransom more. They say her bottom’s like a pear; when them West Indies worms get teeth to it we’ll be learning to be fishies or we’ll die.”
“Rubbish, man,” said Bentley testily. “Their lordships don’t disburse so blindly. They’ll have had her planking gone through with a fine-tooth comb. Speak sense.”
Baines smiled for once with genuine amusement, it would appear. He nodded, with unusual vigour.
“Well, we’re all in her so we’d best believe, I guess,” said he. “Although Gunning’s friends get everywhere in these parts, everywhere that deals in ships, so I’d like to know this fine-tooth bottom-feeler’s name, sir, if you’ll pardon me doobly-entender, because I’ll bet my little sister’s tits some money greased around! You know Gunning, sir. Do you think to understand him in his wiles? And where is Lootenant Holt, sir? Is he still in pris — ”
The merry outflow stopped, and a look of terror crossed the rodent face. Baines, in his self-induced excitement, realised he had strayed into dangerous waters.
Bentley, who was shorter than most of the Biter’s former crew, was, however, level with Josh Baines. He stared into the hot and slippy eyes, his grey ones diamantine.
“If I smacked your face for that, Baines, I would smack it very hard,” he said coolly. “You must not forget how I deal with insolence, never. Lieutenant Holt will join us in a day or two. And shortly after that, as I believe, the last of our ship’s company, and arms and vittles, will be got in readiness and perfection.”
“And Gunning can spend some time with wife,” said Baines, forlornly. An attempt, Will thought, to get out of the mire he had set himself. “Perhaps he’ll come for shake-down runs. The sails and rigging is all new, an’ all. She’ll need at least one man knows how to handle her, that can sail her proper like a…”
He tailed off, the look of terror back. Now he would insult their seamanship, would he? But Bentley did not care.
“The last cabin is for the master, I presume? Is he appointed yet?”
“No, sir,” Baines said, gratefully. “No master yet, and only half a crew of men. Well, we’ve got a company, damn near, but half of them are still in irons, till we clear out of London River, like. They look to run, is Captain Kaye’s worry, and he’s damn right in some of ’em. They had an easy life, did Gunning’s lads, and if we took their shackles off they’d be overside like water fleas. Don’t blame ’em, neither.”
“Gunning’s lads? What mean you, Baines? Good God, you don’t mean…?” In front of him, Baines dissolved in laughter. “By God, you do! Well, what a demon trick!”
John Gunning, when he’d rented Biter to their lordships, had also rented out a good half the company that sailed her. They, naturally, had scorned the proper Navy men, and mocked them into fits of fury sometimes because they, not slaving for the government, drew more pay, got leave ashore and lived nearby, and best of all could never be impressed. Why should they be, indeed, when they were working on an Impress tender? And now, with Biter wholly bought, not on a hiring fee, well… What, exactly?
“Let me understand you, Baines. Friend Gunning, having sold his ship to make an easy penny, has betrayed his gallant crew into the bargain? What, all those surly ruffians that used to work the ship with such ill-grace and never lend a hand? He’s pressed them on the Biter? Well, kiss my arse!”
“It was a pretty bloody do, sir. Big John and Cap’n Kaye must ha’ dreamed it up over a pint of wine or six, then got Tom Tilley and Jem Taylor to put up the other strong-arms for the fun. Billy Mann and Hugg took the London loafers for a farewell in a spirit house when we was rumoured for the Indies trip, then word was put about that one of Gunning’s shag-in nights — if you’ll beg my pardon, sir — was on. You can guess the rest.”
Will could. He had stumbled onto one of Gunning’s “shag-ins” himself, and it was a prime enticement, certainly. He pictured drunken revellers, the thoughtful Taylor waiting, the giant Tilley and the massive Tommy Hugg. With Slack Dickie Kaye and Gunning in the wings, perhaps, with pistols, if he knew his bold commander. No, not Gunning though — he’d surely need to keep well out of it. It was a close and tight-knit bunch, East London sailormen.
“Friend Gunning kept well clear?” he said. Baines nodded.
“You know the score on that one, sir. Naught to do with good old Jackie, oh dear no. ‘If you’re betrayed, lads,’ he would have told ’em, ‘it weren’t by me, my dears. Blame the King’s Navy bastards. And when they lets you out of irons, give them kicks and steel.’”
“But they won’t believe it, though? When they’re released, they’ll know that he was lying, surely?”
“Who knows? It was us Navy men as give them broken heads and clapped ’em into irons, so we’ll find out who they blames when they gets free. They’re ugly, Mr Bentley, sir. Oh yes, indeed.”
My God, thought Bentley. Another happy ship for me to sail on. They’d have to be in irons now until the Biter sailed, unless Kaye had armed guards in mind on mast and deck. How long was that to be? Not long, said Kaye, not long. But then with Slack Dickie… Great heavens, it was shaping, it was shaping up.
“They ent the worst ones, neither,” said Josh Baines. “He’ve brought us some in from the Press. Old Vinegar’s palmed off the dregs of the receiving hulk, but Cap’n thinks — ”
That panicked look was back, and gone. Interrogation, with Josh Baines, could be rewarding if you knew the signals. Will regretted all the months he’d scorned to even give him space to live in, a piece of unconsidered scum.
“Old Vinegar is Lieutenant Coppiner, I presume. And Captain Kaye thinks what? That he’s done well?”
He was verging on the dangerous himself. He smiled encouragingly, and Baines responded, caution to the winds.
“Well, ’tis what Jem Taylor told us, leastways,” said the Rat. “On the pull back f
rom Coppiner’s old hulk, says Jem, the captain was cocky hoop because he reckoned Vinegar had tried to keep them from him, these lot, but he’d wheedled and tricked until he’d called his bluff. He reckoned Coppiner was desperate not to let ’em go, probably because he’d promised them to some other captain, for a bribe. I stayed back at Rondy after we’d saw them, so I didn’t hear all this. But to me, it looked… well, begging your pardon, I’d say Coppiner would have give his mother’s life to have got shut of them.”
’Fore God, thought Bentley, Kaye had said he wanted pirates. Below decks it sounded as if he’d have more a magazine, already primed to blow.
“How many of them, then? And will they team up with Gunning’s lucky crew? It sounds good luck we’ve got some soldiers this time round, don’t it?”
Baines blinked at the joke. Soldiers on board were not good in a sailor’s eyes, not ever, for whatever reason. But he could not contradict, could he?
“There’s three,” he said. “Well, four if you count the Irishman. The Scotch have sworn to kill him though, it seems; they don’t like dirty Irish, as who does? He’s a Papist and they’re not, and he mocks them in a foreign language and it gets them steamed, or so it’s said.” He smiled briefly. “I steers away from ’em if possible, sir. They seek to catch men as they walk past. They broke two fingers on one of Gunning’s men because he sat too close. Tilley tends ’em mostly. He’s big enough to kill all three.”
So, thought Will. Three Scotsmen and a Hib. And a gang of betrayed Londoners, and all the Biter’s old originals, and four soldiers and a man-child officer. No master yet, and Kaye, Slack Dickie Kaye — who was, however, reckoned as a hero! And Sam, who, when he’d seen him last had been still pale and weak and racked with injury and pain. Good God, he thought, there’s no one there could even con them down the London River on a summer’s day!
“And what of the Biter’s Navy lads, then, Baines?” he said. “Now we’re no longer on the Press, but must sail across to distant parts and maybe even fight. Aren’t they for running while there’s still a chance?”
