by Jan Needle
Most of the men Holt approached merely played confusion, pretending they had no thought of what he might be looking for. Some older men expressed frank sorrow, and one murmured that the boy had been so very young, but no one had a fact, or even view, to offer. Men came and went on board a ship, not just in the King’s Navy. If you could do, you would bury them, and if not… well, hard life, easy parting. As Sam approached the Lamont brothers he saw them share a smile, then watched it fade from all three faces as he looked at them. To hell, he thought, and went to waste his time elsewhere.
That night, though, as he and Will stood silently beside the main shrouds, hoping to attract some sly informant, they became aware that such a one had drifted up. The night was pretty clear, but moonless and exceeding black. The nearest watch member was twenty feet from them, but could have been two hundred for all the chance of recognition a seeker might have had. They had guessed it would be Ashdown, if anyone should dare to come, and so it was. He stood there for some seconds, peering round and up aloft to see if anyone was aware of him. Then he relaxed.
“Good evening, sirs,” he said. His voice was deep and low and pleasant, with a powerful tone of Ireland in it. They heard a wet sound, as he licked his lips.
“You need say nothing,” Holt said, quietly. “We guessed it was the Scotchmen, is that so? Were they seen? Would any tell on them? Did they kill him first?”
“Say nothing?” said the Irishman, amused. “How would I do that, with all the questions you are asking? I did not see it, though, and nor did no one else, I’ll wager. It was a shambles down there when the weather struck, there were men and bodies all around the place. I saw the midshipman, and he was being sick just like the rest of ’em, but he was being got at, too. Then I was up aloft, like all the able men, with Taylor and Tom Tilley on my arse.”
The lieutenants digested this. The Scotchmen, likewise being rated able, would have been working aloft, most like. They must have done the killing in a lull, or taken opportunity by the horns as it presented. At least not a long-drawn thing then, Will thought. Were there no guards below, he wondered, no marines? Then dismissed it.
“If any saw it, and should tell, what would the Scotchmen do?” he asked. “They would kill again, I guess, or threaten it?”
Ashdown nodded.
“They’ve killed before, out in Jamaica,” he said. “As I’ve told previous. An’ she’d been a planter’s daughter, or a white servant even, they would be dead for it, but she was black, unlucky thing. However, it was such a fearful crime they were run out for it, and those who knew them said it was not uncommon for them, they’d done murder before, and rape on other maids, and men. No one on this ship will speak up against them, you may depend on that, sirs. Aye, sure they would kill again. They seem to get some pleasure from that sort of thing.”
“But what will happen if and when they get back there?” asked Sam. “Are they still wanted men? At least, are there none there to avenge the maid?”
“Or will they run?” Will added. “We’ll put in at the Azores, I guess, to get fresh fruit and water and some wine. Most pursers don’t give up that opportunity, and I’m sure the captain’s game.”
Ashdown shook his head, his grey eyes thoughtful.
“I think they will get back in safety, and I do not think they’ll run,” he said. “No one avenges black dead, do they, less it is their own weird gods? Or maybe the Maroons — some bands of them are pretty vengeful on the whites. No, they’ll go back; I think they want to. If they die there, as well die there as anywhere, and there’s rich pickings to be had if you are pitiless. I don’t think they argued too hard against being sent straight back by Coppiner.”
He made a quiet noise into his hand, expressing amusement, maybe. “‘It’s me that needs to get off this vessel, sirs, before we sees Port Royal. But I think I’ll get off in me shirt and breeches, to feed the fish like little Mr Shilling is, more like. The Lamonts fear me, if they fear any man, because I know their crimes and I might tell when we get safe on shore. If I go like the little snotty boy, don’t let them tell you I liked swimming!”
The bell rang on the quarterdeck, at the con, and men began to change the watch. Ashdown drifted invisibly away, silent as a wraith, and the two lieutenants moved aft to join ship’s life. So now they knew, they thought, how Groat had died, and knew for sure they could do naught about it. They both felt warmth and admiration for the quiet Irish man, and hoped that he would run at the Azores. With that in mind, indeed, they both dropped hints to Captain Kaye next morning, then at dinner, too. Some men were showing signs of scurvy, they suggested, the store of wine was looking awful low, some fresh meat, newly killed, would grace the captain’s table very well.
But for all the purser sulked and cajoled to back them up, Kaye was adamant. The wind was fine, the speed was good, the prospects excellent. Whatever they should think, or anyone, the ship was cracking on.
*
To say one thing for Richard Kaye, his taste for flogging men was excellent, in sailors’ terms. After the first flush, when all hands feared he would make it a daily exercise, might get the lust for screams and blood like many captains seemed to do, he scarce mentioned it again. The deed was done, a storm had come, and his second cousin’s son was disappeared. If he brooded on it, he surely gave no sign. And when Will mentioned the subject, tentatively, he was indifferent. Although he did reveal his hand regarding the Azores.
“It is a messy, useless business to flog a man,” he said, “and I am not convinced it has much value. That bastard shitting on the deck upset me, I must say. The blood was bad enough, but at least it does not stink. There’ll be stinks aplenty in Jamaica, I should think. Why add to them?”
They were ranged upon the quarterdeck, enjoying the windward breeze, as captains and the favoured few can do. The sky was clear, horizon clearer, and the flying fish were flying to Geoff Raper’s pan. Holt, who liked to dig, put in a word.
“Dan Swift would not agree with that, sir, surely? Will’s uncle thinks the whip’s the soul of it, don’t he, Will?” Swift was Kaye’s great hero, he believed, and wondered how he would respond to it. But the captain just drank wine and scratched himself.
“But Captain Swift’s not here,” he said. “And we ain’t had a mutiny, have we? I think some men already have the taste for running, and a flogging might just make up their mind. They’ll not get a chance at the azure islands, though, whatever that fat purser wants. Have you ever seen a purser that ain’t fat? Is there such a breed of men?”
They laughed, and the bottle went round again, no servant pouring. Gunning, lounging in his shirt ten feet away was offered, but he declined. He drank only water these days, even at meals.
“No landing then,” sighed Sam, regretfully. “Ah well. I need a whore, sir, is the long and short of it. Well, long and long, if I might boast! The Azores whores — what colour are they? Are they very fair?”
Kaye, who almost surely did not know, squawked with amusement.
“They’re Portugee and fat, with moley faces and long black whiskers! Not much your style at all! If you like maids with skinny arses you’ll have to wait until you reach Annette again, at Dr Marigold’s. Or court my sister! She’s scrawny and she’s got cash as well! It will cost my father dear to get her off his hands, depend on it. Her nose would put an elephant to shame!”
“I think your sister very fine,” said Sam Holt, calmly. “Her conversation is excellent, and her looks far more than adequate, at the least. And if I may make so bold, sir, what you have said is not meet in talking of a lady. Slander is slander, even in the Western sea.”
Gunning, watching the log-line leading from the taffrail, lost his languidity at this, hoping for a fight, perhaps. Slack Dickie found it only charming, though.
“It is not a lady: Felicity is a sister,” he said. “You clearly have none, Sam, but Will will understand. I note your interest, though, sir. My father shall be informed by early post!” He barked. “If they have such thing
as post out in the islands. The blacks can’t read and write, for certain. I wonder if the planters can?”
The subject died, but Will was interested. Later he tackled Sam, but got a dusty answer. It had been said, he was informed, as a way of rebuking Kaye for his awful rudeness and lack of rectitude towards a female family member. Something in Sam’s manner was unconvincing, though, and Bentley wondered on. The thought of “fineness” and Felicity, however, he found difficult to grapple with. Ungallant though Dick’s attitude, he felt it had some merit, in despite though sad. But if not pretty, Felicity was rich, for certain. Could Sam, with all his debt, be thinking… And Will felt a minor twinge of shame.
Kaye, with flogging rejected as a way to smarten up his people, remained convinced his officers were right about their general lack of fitness as a force, whether the fight were contra man or elements. He raised the gun drill plan, and told them to get to it, rapidly. He still thought kicks and beating were the way, so told them to lay on the blows and threaten slackers, but Will and Sam ignored him in great part. Martinets were born not made, they knew, and whatever else his faults Slack Dickie was no martinet. He would kill you from incompetence, or lack of care, but not from vicious discipline. So they began to forge the crew the way they knew and thought was best. To this end, Henderson, the gunner, was called to confer with them, plus Taylor and Sweetface Savary, as the marine commander now was widely known. He was not a gunner, but could train them on the small arms, it was hoped. In fact, one of his soldiers, Rob Simms, was not just a marksman with the long musket (as he had proved with Shilling in the roundhouse once), but could strip the beasts like clockwork, and fettle them, and teach men how to load and aim at speed. For a soldier, Sam conceded, he was a very useful man.
The Biter, since her buying for the Navy, had been built up quite sturdy as a way to carry guns, although the raising of her poop and hamper gave her a tendency to tenderness that Gunning disliked. When they hit their first real blow, he said, “the bitch would just turn turtle with her frillies in the air,” and he suggested, as a starting point to getting spry and seamanlike, the men should rearrange the guns, with more on the lowest deck and lighter ones above. Although the greatest weight of ball they carried after refit was still not above seven pound, the shifting of the guns themselves and carriages was a massive task, and served to get the men’s blood pumping and sweat bursting from their skin. Taylor and Hugg and Tilley organised the tackles, lifts, and stoppers to sway chunks of wood and metal up and down between the decks, while Gunning and his former men prepared positions and worked out the ballast points. Then Sam and Will divided the watches into teams, six of them all told, and began it as a competition, playing off for speed, and strength and skill. The Scots, despite their clear desires, were spread around the ship, and had to fight each other for the beef and brandy prizes.
Two days of this, and all the men were leaner and much faster than before. There were broken heads and fingers, cuts and bruises, but far fewer gripes and moans. After the lifting and the hauling came training on the pieces, with Henderson a happy man at last. He had worked on many ships, but none as dull as this, he told Jem Taylor, but given time and shot and powder to expend, he’d get their firing up to a half-respectable rate. Kaye, at Sam’s suggestion, put his nose into the magazine, and felt the powder and made approving noises, and exhorted men who had never packed a pudding-cloth to stuff cartridges that would give the Froggies hell. When they had piles enough, the word went round to let some off, for fun.
The crews at first were frankly hopeless, and one man, sadly, lost his hand by not clearing from a muzzle fast enough. This was spectacular, as were his screams when Grundy plunged his stump into hot pitch, but it gave a useful lesson, quickly learned. Others included not touching red-hot barrels or the blades of scouring worms, keeping bare feet clear of trucks (five toes lost, among three men), and not breathing in too fast when a muzzle poured out smoke, the black and massy swirling hiding red hot sparks of wad and blazing powder. Soon men stripped down to drawers, no ends or strings or tapes to catch and jerk, and wore bandannas wet across their faces, hiding mouth and nose. The decks around the carriages ran black with filth and sweat and water and thick soot. The people were in seventh heaven.
Even Slack Dickie took a lesson from it, although he complained each dinner time about the filth and stink of burnt explosive, and the taste it left on all their food, however fresh or deeply seasoned. He could not resist temptation, either, to single out men for favour and high compliment, most of all the three Lamonts. Even when one of them discharged a musket too high, and nearly killed Jack Ashdown, who was working on the foretopsail yard, Kaye managed to berate both Scot and Irishman for the “careless accident” with a flippant smile. The Scots were good at the small armament, no question, but then again there were other men their equal, probably. But their special skill was cutlass, and a knife held in the free hand, and a smile of pure fury, just controlled. Few men would take them on a second time, even with stewards standing by with singlesticks and podger bars. They were prepared to murder, not a doubt. For which the captain smiled on them, and gave them rum.
Within ten days or so, the Biter was a different ship in terms of fighting, and even in sailing, too. As the killing skills were honed, Will Bentley and Sam Holt worked on the other arts, the arts of seamanship, with Gunning as their mentor and their aid. He had a way with him that they grew fonder of as time went by, a way of showing, teaching, informing, without a hint of side or tendency to mock or crow at inability. His ranging eyes took in the smallest sign of wear or weakness in the gear, and he had a knack of treating seamen as his equals, which he claimed they were, while directing them, ordering them, to smarten up their ways. In all, he wanted seamen, he told Bentley seriously one afternoon. He wanted men who’d look at a spar, or piece of cordage, even a hitch, and see from yards away that there was something wrong, or a problem that might grow. He was adept at complimenting, also, making sailors glow by praising them for tasks completed, or, even better, instigated from their own initiative. He told William he had the making of a great seaman, and in small-boat work and trimming sails and balancing, was already there. Will, dubious, checked if he had said similar to Sam — the old way, praise everyone equally, but keep them unaware — but Gunning had not. Indeed, while giving Sam advice, he had told him, also, that Bentley was a natural, a rising master of the sea.
Jack Gunning’s secret, he said laughingly, when the two lieutenants questioned him one sunny afternoon beneath the friendly shadow of the course, was that he was low. Had been, was now, and always would be, and it had been his lodestar and his guide. People like Kaye, he said, whose father was a duke, could never come to anything because they were too high. They could not talk to anyone, could not think like normal men, could quite possibly not wipe their arses without help. Will had the same disease, but luckily much lower down the scale, and Holt was poor, despite he was an officer, so might survive, with luck.
“But you’re not poor, Jack!” Sam said, and Will told him, “Sam’s got protection! Sir A is stinking rich!”
“Which gives Sam nightmares,” said Gunning, easily. “And I made my cash by lowness, did not I? I can sail a ship, and navigate, and make men jump to my command without a whit of trouble or the whip. And I ain’t an officer in the Navy, nor ever will be, neither. Slack Dickie kidnapped me, and he regrets it. In time the feeling will be ten times worse.”
Will glanced aft to where Slack Dickie stood, alone and upright on the windward of the quarterdeck, shaded by a small awning of white canvas. Even at that distance his isolation was sadly striking, and Will knew why it seemed so. Dick Kaye made overtures to his inferiors, which were getting more plaintive by the day. Within the lights of splendid isolation — any captain’s lot — he tried to intermix, to enter into dialogue, to be easy with them, expecting something similar in return. Most signally, as Gunning was hardly an inferior, having no position in the Admiralty hierarchy, he hoped for conversat
ion, intercourse, with him. And Gunning shunned it. Politely, without coldness, he made it obvious that Kaye was not forgiven, nor ever would be. In the cold eyes of his sailing master, his erstwhile comfortable companion, Kaye was no one anymore; he might as well not be breathing the same air. Since Black Bob was become a thing of wood, a kind of zombie of cold ebony, Dick Kaye was loneliness itself.
“Well, Jack,” said Holt, following Will’s gaze, “I think you’ve chose the right way to plough the ocean tracks. With your skills, you would have been made post by age of twenty is my guess, then no one would talk to you, neither. But given you’re the only man I’ve ever met who’s glad to get to sea for once to get away from women, this ship ain’t so bad, surely? You could be captain here quite comfortable, do not you reckon?”
Gunning grinned.
“Oh, easy said, Sam, easy said. But how do you get post by mainly staying home with maids like Sal Marlor, and Flit and Becky? It’s sea-time their lordships go by, is it not? And this ship’s got a captain, any case, and he’s the problem! If it was just you two as my officers, we could have a goodly time, admitted. But if I joined the Navy, I would not be me, would I? And when you’re post captains, both of you, you’ll most probably be evil bastards, too. God knows, from what I hear, it’s in Will’s blood.”
He paused, and saw Will’s face. He laughed, to indicate, perhaps, that he was jesting.
“I’m low,” he said. “And I was born low. It’s in the blood, maybe, that we gets problems. Like Dick was born an idiot. It will out.”
There was no doubt that as Gunning grew more popular with men and officers, Kaye was more and more put out by it. In these calm latitudes, as they plugged fast and gentle out towards the West, Kaye went for social intercourse, but grew more clearly galled by Gunning’s easiness. At table, where the gentlemen, including Sweetface and the surgeon, were called each night to eat and drink and talk, the resentment was sometimes almost open. Kaye drank heavily, Gunning not at all; the Navy men showed deference to rank, Gunning did not; the captain’s opinions and pronouncements were heard out respectfully, but Gunning laughed at them. And he told home-truths that Kaye did not want to hear, at all. On health, for instance.
