by Jan Needle
Lieutenant Savary was beautiful, and very like a maid. Will had not conversed with him in any intimacy, but had got the general picture: like himself, a second son or third, no prospects of inheritance, no interest in the church, so therefore bound for army or the sea. Unlike Will, he could not do mathematicals perhaps, or maybe did not relish water. Bad luck, if that were true, bad luck indeed. There was plenty of it between London and Jamaica.
“You are disgusting, Sam,” he said. “We do not even know for certain Kaye has such tendencies, let alone this officer. In formal conversation Savary sounds as manly as the next man, although his voice is somewhat light. You must not let your humour make things hard for him.”
Holt grinned, but not repentantly.
“It’s true Dick Kaye do like the maids as well,” he said, “far as we know it, anyway. But this bold redcoat’s then a target either road, ain’t he? Thinking on, though, Black Bob might thank his lucky stars. He might get furlough off from tamping!”
Black Bob appeared at this point, eyes downcast and meek, barefoot and timid in loose shirt and short slop britches. He moved fast and lightly towards Geoff Raper’s chimney pipe to get his master’s coffee, but Sam halted him with a call. The small black face rose upwards fearfully, then recognition lit the eyes. He knew Will as a kindly sort, and Sam included, so it would appear. No word, however. He stood silent, a sweet and fragile mite.
“Bob, well met,” said Sam. “Talkative as ever, so I see.” He smiled, and Bob did not. Sam shrugged. “Ah, well then. Tell the captain, if you please, that I am here. Lieutenant Holt would wish to present himself on board. And Lieutenant Bentley is desirous of a quick word, also.”
The boy bobbed like a dipper and hurried off. At the hatch he almost knocked into Jem Taylor, boatswain, who touched him on the shoulder, gently. Will noted with some sort of minor pleasure that Black Bob allowed the touch and did not spring away in fright. In the past few days, Will had observed, the neger child had displayed blank fear of almost every soul on board.
Taylor came across. He held a hand up, half salute, half greeting.
“Sir, sir,” he said. “Lieutenant Holt, you’ve come on board.”
“Acting, Jem,” replied Sam. “Not got that label yet; we’ve got to face the old crustaceans at the Navy Office, both of us. Who knows, in a few days I might fail so bad I have to call you Sir! How goes the Biter? She is very clean and smart. If the wherry men han’t known her, I’d’ve shot right past.”
Taylor’s frank, blunt features became more quizzical, amused but guarded all at once. Grey eyes swept both their faces.
“Easy done, sir. Some might say a wise man would ha’ took the opportunity. But aye, she’s smart, for which Lieutenant Bentley here can take the credit. Though I must add, sir, that Captain Kaye is much renewed also. He’s not so very… slack.”
Even for a good and trusted man who knew them well, this was bold, thought Will. Slack Dickie was the captain’s secret name, but secret from Kaye only, no one else at all. However, though men knew it, it was surely not for bandying around? He said rather stiffly: “I’m glad that you have noticed our regime, Mr Taylor. Our regime, not mine, our captain is the deus behind this machina, if you take my meaning. You are of Rome, as I believe? You know the Latin.”
Taylor nodded, twinkling.
“Of Ireland, thus of the Romish faith, though raised in London, sir. But I know the Latin word for God, and can guess the rest, beg pardon. And I will say, if permitted, Mr Holt, sir, that Mr Bentley says it truly. Captain Kaye is a differen— I am proud to serve with Captain Kaye. His conduct of the rescue off the Goodwins, sir, was marvellous. The seamanship and daring brought a tear to many eyes. I do not think we’ll get too many runners, sir, before we’re clear for sea. The men are looking out to get there. To where the golden grass doth grow.”
“Golden grass?” said Sam. “Are you puddled, man? What golden grass doth grow?”
“A song, sir. There is another Irish in the hold, who speaks our native tongue as well as English. Black eyes and bruises and a sense of the ridiculous, but he has a song for everything. It is what drew men to the West Indies in the olden days, he says; even the grass was pure gold. It ain’t, though. He came back a destitute.”
Sam eyed him carefully.
“Well, that’s pity then, ain’t it? Might ha’ kept me from a debtor’s prison, to name but one of us. But he hasn’t spoiled the story for his keener shipmates then, you say? They still believe there’s money for the picking? Does that make him the captain’s friend or theirs, I wonder, in the scheme of things? And black eyes and bruises also, did not you say? Wherefrom them?”
Jem Taylor shook his head.
“He’s not the only man come back into the arms of Old Vinegar from the far Carib,” he said. “There’s three Scotchmen whose talk makes old Geoff sound sensible. They don’t like Mr Ashdown, our singing Irishman. They dislike him enough to be a threat to his bollocks and his bones. If he goes overside on the voyage, we won’t have far to look, sirs. I’ll put down coin on that.”
“Do we know why they hate him?” Sam said. “Is it badness or is there history in it? All from Jamaica, eh? It will be history.”
“Did they attack him, then?” asked Bentley. “What, on board of here? But they’re in chains, aren’t they? Why was I not informed they had got out? Now that is slack!”
Black Bob, unseen, had taken drink to Captain Kaye, and then come out again. He stood at the poop-break watching them, waiting to be noticed.
“The captain’s orders, sir,” Taylor said to Bentley, placidly. “He told me that in the daytimes, when we had soldiers watching, the new-pressed men were to have the deck for liberty. Two of Jack Gunning’s scarpered overside within ten seconds, so fast the bastards didn’t touch the capping on the rails. The Scotchmen would have gone an’ all, but they saw Ashdown looking for something to float himself on, and jumped on him instead. He couldn’t swim, so they aimed to ditch him overside, I guess, when they’d bashed his mug a bit. By the time me and Tom Tilley had got him clear of them, another Gunning man had jumped, who couldn’t swim neither, so nearly drowned, but we fished him out eventually. Tilley’s big, sir, but we had to lay all three out with a handspike before they would desist. Hence Ashdown’s bruises.” Small smile. “Captain still thinks chains is not the answer, sir. Beg to disagree.”
Kaye, extraordinarily, was now standing at the poop door alongside Black Bob. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his face was open, frank, and smiling. Clearly, he could no longer wait for Bob to pass his order.
One minute later they were in the cabin, and in another five had put their proposition. And Richard Kaye had laughed them both to scorn.
FIVE
The cabin of the Biter, like the rest of the sad old coal tub and her men, had been transformed. No money had been spared, and it was higher, broader, lighter, and luxurious. The transom was pale paint and scrollwork, the table glowing rosewood, and every chair a minor work of art. There was a writing desk with drawers and doodahs in the high French style, an escritoire Kaye called it proudly, a carved rack that held his spyglass and a brace of gleaming pistols big enough to knock down castle walls, and a lightweight table spread with charts. On them, casually, lay a set of compasses and a rolling rule. As much good to Dickie, Sam thought sardonically, as a cutlass of spun sugar.
“Behind that screen, my sleeping quarters,” Kaye said with a smile. “You remember my requirement on the old Biter? A bed fit and wide enough for sleeping on, not like the normal shipboard run? Well this one would suit the King. Their lordships demurred, they grumbled like old penny-pinching shrews. So I paid it all myself, and hang the lot of them.”
His hazel eyes were clear and innocent, as if he were a boy. Beside the ornate screen stood Black Bob, eyes down. No separate bed for him that Will could see. Extraordinary.
When Kaye had shown them everything, after effusive greetings to his “new second, the brave pirate Mr Holt,” he had let them sta
te their hopes concerning Deborah. He had clearly found them very, very funny.
“Good God, sir,” he said to Will, “it is a common strumpet! It was the tittle of the officers at the Lamb! The story of how your own impressers dragged you naked off her at Dr Marigold’s… well, I have dined off it, and I know I’m not alone! Fine perky tizzers, but Debbie is a whore, man. You cannot mean it, what you tell me. Why in hell’s name try to get to her again?”
Will had beads of sweat growing on his temples. Outside the big stern windows the Thames was slow-moving, calm. He regarded Kaye’s fresh face, so totally uncomplicated, and envied him.
“Sir,” he said. “I do not know. But I — ”
“Of course he knows, sir,” cut in Sam, robustly. “Whore or not, this maiden has a name, a face, and eyes and thoughts. Sir Arthur Fisher has taken her in a time or two before, and succoured her and cared for her. And has again, unless I’m much mistaken. She is good enough for him!”
Sir Arthur Fisher was a name Kaye knew. Sam saw the alteration in his face.
“Aye, Sir A, of Langham Lodge, in Surrey,” Sam followed up. “You may know he is my benefactor, and he’s exceedingly important. He does not treat Miss Tomelty as a whore.”
“Sir Arthur Fisher, eh?” said Kaye. “Mm, an important man indeed. I knew he was your interest in some wise, but I… And the maid has got a name, to boot — she’s Tomelty, not just plain Deb? Well, but she is still a slattern, ain’t she? Maybe he’s just a very kindly man. Or maybe he… Well, is his wife alive?”
“Sir,” said Bentley, stiffly. “Miss Tomelty is… it is wrong of all of us to discuss her like a thing. Miss Tomelty is in extremis, and I have a duty to her, clear, whatever my desires might or should be. When last I saw her she was at the point of possible destruction.”
“And bollock naked, too!” said Kaye. “Lord, Bentley, I cannot take this serious, however hard I try. And I cannot let you go down there, you know damn well I can’t, even if I wanted to, which indeed I don’t. This ship is expected daily by their lordships to go to Jamaica to wipe the arses of the whining planters there, and they’re breathing down my neck to say that she is ready, which she ain’t. Half my pressed men you’ve allowed to run, half you’ve clapped in irons, and the other half you say are killing each other for their sport. Well, they’re all sprung out today, in half an hour, and that’s an end to it. So quit your talk of going for a jaunt and get yourself in readiness; and the ship.”
Both Will and Sam attempted argument, but they got short shrift. Kaye was prepared to talk about preparedness, but nothing more. The plan was, he said, to call all hands, to assign the men to watches and to stations, and to make the brig a proper fighting ship. Black Bob was sent to get them all a breakfast, which they ate at the grand table, waited on by him. This was much more like the old Kaye they had known: offhand and airy, prepared to make decisions with no care and little thought. On the new people, for instance, and their need to run.
Sam asked: “I’ve heard we have some dangerous men in the hold, sir, dangerous and in chains. If we release them, we will lose them, surely?”
“What bloody balderdash,” the captain answered, smugly. “They have learned their lesson and they will not dare again. I have bespoke a mooring buoy, in any way, and when this shilly-shally talk is over we will ship sweeps, man boats, and move her out into the widest part. Who’ll swim then? Not Jolly Jack, for any money. And if a bastard runs, that bastard dies. Bob — clear up this mess, boy. Gentlemen, let’s to our work.”
They stood as he did, and adjusted their dress while Black Bob helped the captain with white silks and a spanking new blue coat. Kaye then put on a wig, which neither Sam nor Bentley cared to in the normal day-to-day. On deck they could hear shouts and orders, and a whistle call from time to time. Kaye grinned at them.
“You see, boys, there are some changes on this ship. Today or tomorrow we have a surgeon coming on, and a midshipman you can kick about, and now the boatswain works to times arranged.” He pulled a watch from off his belly and snapped the cover open. “Aye, Taylor’s up to snuff.”
“All very well,” Sam grinned in turn, “to have a snotty boy to kick to do our bidding, but not many of the breed can lay a course, can they? When does the sailing master come, sir? I would be pleased to get to know him.”
Kaye was adjusting his wig in a hand-mirror, and Black Bob puffed powder on. Kaye grunted.
“You will go for your examinations in a day or so,” he said. “When you are lieutenants true, I’ll tell you more, won’t I?” The grunt became a laugh. “Or perhaps I will not bother with a master then! After all, you will be the very cream of navigation. And surely, the West Indies can’t be hard to find. Columbus did it and he was a garlic-guzzler!”
Holt and Bentley shared a covert glance. There is no master, their eyes agreed, and each had stirs of fear. Slack Dickie could not do it, that was sure. Could they? But Kaye was marching on, quite happily. His watch was out once more; he snapped it noisily.
“’Tis time,” he said. “All should be mustered, and dying for a sight of us. ’Tis time.”
Out on the deck, in a way they scarce could credit given Slack Dickie’s past, it had come about just as he’d said it would. All hands were mustered, waiting, facing aft, and most of them were clean and well turned-out. Taylor watched over them, a heavy cane in hand, and Tilley surveyed the other side with his unsmiling, piggy eyes. He was a boatswain’s mate now, that Will had recommended and Kaye had signed to, carelessly, as was Tommy Hugg, another “big, hard bastard” in Taylor’s phrase. Tilley held a rattan, that sat oddly in his massive paw, but Hugg favoured a rope’s-end, tarred and unbending, with a rough-worked monkey’s fist that could have felled an elephant. On the port side of the new-raised poop, still pale and sickly as soldiers always seemed to be, the marine contingent oversaw the rabble, muskets in hand, with their beauteous commander overseeing them. The shore was close enough to spit at, almost, but only the greatest fool would have tried to run. A bullet or smashed skull was readily available.
Clean and well turned-out. Well, most of them, most of them, thought Bentley. But as he crossed towards the ladder to stand in splendour beside his captain, he registered many faces that he knew spelled trouble, in whatever weather. Gunning’s men, now pressed, were cleanish but still massively resentful, more so as until this moment they had lived in shackles. Then a fair number of more normal “volunteers,” sent down from Coppiner’s or from the Rondy, who had also been chained up. Some of them would warm to the life, no doubt of it, for it was not easy to starve on board a Navy ship, as it was on shore. But half of them had been seized as homeward-bounders, looking forward to a week or two in bed with missus, and time to calculate the youngest children’s ages and conception dates. There were the usual cripples, too, one of whom, eyes burning, had his end writ hard upon his face. If Kaye’s promised surgeon did indeed exist, Will thought, he would try to have this fellow instantly discharged. Death from sickness on a crowded ship and early in a voyage was a loathsome thing.
Then, to one side at line end, stood the Scottish brothers, called Lamont. They were very clean, which surprised him somehow because he had formed the impression, in his interviews at the shackles in the hold, that they were vicious men, little used to normal human ways. Down there they had gazed at him with eyes like knives, the expressions on their hatchet faces of aggravation undisguised. The boatswain, Taylor, privately had told him he would rather see them over side, or run, or gone to hell by handcart than on the muster list, for they were undiluted trouble. After long trying, Bentley had been vouchsafed their Christian names for putting on the articles — Angus, Dod, and Rabbie — but almost nothing else. Today though, their tight-curled strawy hair gleaming in the sunshine, their long, thin faces and their close-cropped beards speaking a class beyond that of the generality, they were more mysterious than the common sailor had a right to be. Will studied them and their eyes stared back without a hint of anger or of threat. He wond
ered if perhaps he had misjudged.
So where was Ashdown, the Scots’ sworn enemy? Further back and at the other side, as far away as possible, it appeared. In the clear air Will could make out bruises on his face still, but no sign at all that he’d been crushed by their ill-treatment. He had volunteered his first name was Jack, and accepted his fate in going back to Jamaica with resigned goodwill. Taylor, again in private, had said the Irishman had claimed great knowledge of the island, and others of the Carib sea, and hinted he could maybe be of help. This, to Will, sounded like ingratiation, and Jem agreed it might be. However, Ashdown had said it quietly, and added little more because the Scotchmen had given him the evil eye. The boatswain thought, in probability, that Ashdown knew a fair amount about them, and surely to their detriment. It was something to be looked to; as was perhaps his safety in their company.
When all was set, Kaye moved forward to the break and looked down across the deck at all his men. Compared with the crew he’d had when Biter was a Press tender, it was a multitude, and his shoulders were back with pride, his protruding eyes shining with satisfaction. The men were motley, but the warrants were picked out in blue, as was the coming way, and both his officers looked very much the part. The old Biter was dead, long live the Biter! He was going to talk to them.
“Men,” he said, “my name is Captain Richard Kaye. This ship is the Biter, by the grace of God and some small way by me. For two years or more she was hired by their lordships, under my command, for the Press service, and we did sterling work, I promise you. Now the war is hotter, the West Indies are much in need of ships, and me and Biter and our men have proved ourselves in action furnace-hot. I put it to their lordships I should go, and to indicate approval, they made me Post, immediate. When they said they had no ship, I proposed they buy the Biter; lock and stock, to save the time, expense, and fag of building one. Or the luck, indeed, involved in buying an existing hull, from God knows what kind of foul filthy rogue, that would sink ten miles off Land’s End, even if it got that far. I proposed the Biter; a ship I knew like my own hand. And guaranteed her.”
