The King's Shilling

by David Starr

  “You’ll be hanged for this, Jenkins,” says Figg, a satisfied smile pasted on his jowly face. “And anyone who doesn’t disperse will be whipped with the cat.”

  “You heard the midshipman,” says Collins. “Clear off or end up in the brig yourselves.” At the command, the men slowly return to their stations, muttering to each other in quiet, unhappy tones.

  “Now see to the moonsail,” Figg says to me. “All the way to the top.”

  I don’t like heights. Even before La Malice nearly tossed me to my death from the rope bridges high above Fraser’s River, I’d not been fond of them. Now? I hate the notion of my feet leaving solid ground, but leave they will.

  The moonsail is at the top of the mast, a very great distance from here. The mast is held in place with a series of vertical ropes called shrouds. The shrouds are connected by ratlines, ropes that act like the rungs of a ladder.

  The topmen clamber up the ratlines and shrouds like squirrels, but I am no topman. In all the time I’ve spent aboard a ship, I’ve not climbed more than a few feet up a mast. Until now.

  I take a deep breath, steady my nerves and begin to climb. At first, it is easier going than I’d thought, no harder than scaling a ladder. I make steady process, climbing slowly and surely towards the wooden platform about a third of the way up the mast.

  “It’s madness, you climbing up here,” Jessop, one of the port watch topmen, says from above in the rigging. “That bloody sail is fine. I can see it from here. Everyone can.”

  “Bull said the same thing, but I dinnae ken if it made much difference with Midshipman Figg.”

  “I heard. Come on then, lad, let’s get this over with. Go through the lubber’s hole when you reach the top. I don’t want you climbing the futtocks and falling. You’re fifty feet up, more’n enough to kill you if you slip.”

  True topmen disdain the lubber’s hole, the gap in the top used by the Royal Marines and other deck men when they come up to fire on enemy ships and sailors. Instead, topmen scramble up the futtocks, shrouds angled to get around the top to the point that sailors are nearly upside down for a few feet until they clear the top and reach the upper mast.

  Gratefully, I squeeze through the lubber’s hole and stand on the top, catching my breath. “Damn that Pudding,” says Jessop, staring down at the midshipman. “He’ll get someone killed before this trip is through. Take it slow and you’ll be fine, lad,” he says. “It’s a straight shot up. Stay tight to the rigging. Don’t look down. Take one foot at a time. Up and down in five minutes.”

  I thank Jessop for his help, collect my nerves and carry on. It may be a straight shot, but it’s a straight shot of more than 150 feet into the sky, through a spider’s web of lines, spars, sails and shrouds.

  It doesn’t help matters that the ship is moving. Not just side to side, but pitching gently, the bow rising and falling with the waves. What seems to be almost imperceptible motion on the deck is exaggerated a hundredfold as I climb. I heed Jessop’s advice and keep my eyes focused on the moon-sail, still thirty feet above me.

  The wind whistles through the lines. The sails rustle as they fill with air, and the halyards and blocks smack against the mast, groaning and creaking as if it were alive.

  Finally I clear the topgallant, the sail below the moonsail. To the east, the Jutland peninsula stretches out blue and brown as far as I can see. Seabirds wheel in the air. Birds are normal enough on the sea, although it’s quite disconcerting to see a gull flying far below me.

  There are no other sails, no sign of people for as far as I can see, and with the exception of the thin sliver of Danish coast miles to the east, the whole world is nothing but wind, sky and the slate-grey sea.

  I reach my destination and inspect the moonsail. As Jessop said, and as Figg no doubt knew, it is in perfect shape, a square, billowing sheet of canvas, doing its job just as it should.

  I start my way slowly back down to the deck when Cerberus pitches forward. I’m not expecting the sudden movement, and my foot slips on the ratline. My stomach flies up into my throat as my feet flail in the air for what seems like an eternity until they make contact with the ratlines.

  I spend a moment or so trying to control my ragged breath, then, keeping my eyes fixed on the mast I continue down. Holding tight to the lines I make my way back to the top where I’m congratulated by Jessop who’s been watching me anxiously.

  “Not bad for a waister!” he says, slapping my back. “If you want to join the real sailors up in the rigging, I’ll take you under me wing anytime!”

  “Thank ye, Mr. Jessop, but fer now I’m happy to keep my feet on the deck!” I climb through the lubber’s hole, make my way quickly back to the deck and report to Figg. “The moonsail is fine, Sir,” I say, my heart finally slowing.

  “Silly me,” says Figg. “I could have sworn I saw a tear. Carry on with your lounging then. You’ve got a few bells yet to lounge about before you start your watch and then bear witness to the punishment the captain will inflict upon your insubordinate friend. He’ll be dangling from the yardarm for certain before this day is through. He won’t live to see another sunset.”

  Chapter 16

  “All hands witness punishment!” shouts the bosun’s mate as Collins brings Tom up to the deck. It is eleven o’clock in the morning, and I’ve spent the last few hours worrying about Tom and what will happen to him.

  Pudding pledged that Tom would hang, but some of my messmates are not concerned about that near as much as I thought they would be.

  “At worst he’ll get three dozen lashes with the cat,” says Haggis with authority. He would know. Haggis is the longest-serving sailor in our mess, and has seen more than a few men punished.

  “Maybe, but it depends on what ’e’s charged with,” replies Dutch. “As far as Puddin’s concerned, Bull’s guilty of mutinous behaviour. That’s an ’angin’ for sure.”

  “True but the cap’n may ’ave other ideas, however,” says Little Fred hopefully. “Insolence, disobedience, neglect of duty; who knows what ’e’ll think up? Cap’n Whitby’s proved ’imself a good man so far. I hope ’e shows mercy today.”

  The Royal Marine drummer beats us to quarters. Captain Whitby and the officers stand ready, in full uniform. Midshipman Figg stands next to them on the quarterdeck, a smug look on his face, clearly enjoying the misery he’s caused. Captain Whitby gives Collins a subtle nod and the punishment begins.

  “Rig the gratings!” orders Master Collins.

  “He won’t be hanged at least,” whispers Bill with relief. “It’s the cat-o’-nine-tails for certain.”

  “Like I said,” says Haggis quietly. “Mercy or not, it won’t be pretty.”

  “Silence in the waist!” yells Master Collins. We aren’t the only ones muttering. The entire crew has assembled to witness Tom’s punishment, and the men are most unhappy. Figg was unpopular before this incident. Now? The midshipman is the most hated man on board.

  Captain Whitby stands on the bridge and addresses the ship. “Seaman Tom Jenkins. You have been found guilty of insolence to an officer. Twelve lashes! Bosun’s mate, lay on the flogging.”

  I’m confused to see that instead of being angered by the punishment, the men seemed pleased, almost happy. Even the officers seem to be in agreement with the decision.

  All that is, except for Midshipman Figg. His smug expression has disappeared, replaced by a sour look on his flabby face. “What’s going on?” I ask Haggis. “Twelve lashes with the cat? ’Tis awful!”

  “Nae, lad,” says Haggis. “’Tis as much a punishment on Figg as it is Bull. Cap’n could have ordered six dozen lashes. Tom’s a well-liked crewman; nobody wants to see him come to any unnecessary harm, including the officers.”

  “I told you Cap’n’s a good man,” adds Little Fred. “He’s sending a message to the men to be respectful of their superiors as he must, but it’s also a warning to the officers, especially that damned Pudding, to be mindful of how they treat us. Look at Figg. By the sour l
ook on his face you’d think he was the one getting lashed.”

  The carpenter and his mates lift up one of the large wooden grates that cover the hatches and place it against the bulwarks.

  “Strip to the waist, Jenkins,” orders Collins, almost apologetically.

  “Aye, master,” replies Tom, taking off his jacket and shirt. Tom makes no effort to argue or fight. He leans up against the wood, raising his hands to make it easier for the bosun’s mates to lash him to the grate with long leather straps.

  “This ain’t gonna be a picnic for Bull,” says Dutch. “The cat can make an awful mess of a man’s hide.”

  Tom is properly secured, and the flogging begins when the bosun’s mate, a large, muscular man named Aldridge, removes the cat-o’-nine-tails from a red cotton bag. I feel sick when I see it. The cat is a rope-handled whip, some three feet long with nine tails made of knotted thin cord.

  “Show us what yer made o’, Bull,” whispers Haggis as Aldridge gives the whip to Collins. The master at arms quickly drives the whip down on Tom’s back. Tom grunts, but does not cry out, not about to give Pudding any satisfaction.

  Nine cruel-looking welts immediately rise up on his back, and Tom doesn’t have more than a few seconds to draw a breath when Collins strikes again.

  By the third strike, blood is running freely down Tom’s back, staining his trousers and the wooden decking. Collins, breathing heavily himself, runs the cat’s tails through his fingers, removing small chunks of flesh from the knots.

  Stroke after stroke rains down on Tom’s back, and though he gasps with each lash he doesn’t cry out, nor beg for mercy, though bits of his blood-flecked skin cover Collins and the men closest to him.

  “Cut him down,” orders Whitby after the twelfth lash. Tom’s back is a mess of blood and gore, and I expect him to fall unconscious when the leather straps are sliced. Instead, Tom stays on his feet, wobbling slightly but upright nevertheless as he turns to the captain and salutes. It is only then that Tom falls to his knees.

  Bill leads us towards Tom. “Let’s go tend to our mate, lads.” We are Tom’s messmates. It’s our job to get him back to the gun deck, to tend his wounds. Before I disappear below, helping to carry what is now an unconscious Tom, I watch Captain Whitby take his leave of the quarterdeck, followed by an unhappy Figg.

  The midshipman looks like a dog with its tail between his legs. While Tom was the one flogged, there’s no doubt at all that it’s Midshipman Figg who has been given the greater punishment.

  Chapter 17

  For a week Tom lies on a makeshift canvas bed on the floor of the deck. When we are not on watch we take care of his wounds, washing the cruel stripes on his back with clean sea water. For the first two days after the whipping, Tom can’t eat or drink, barely able to sip from the water-soaked sponge we place to his lips.

  Once a day, just after we eat breakfast, Doctor Torrance, the ship’s surgeon, a short round man with bushy sideburns and spectacles, attends to Tom as well. At any given time, more than a dozen men report to Torrance for sick call, but the doctor makes them wait until he has tended our friend.

  Most have little more than seasickness or a fever, and most are suspected of shirking their duty. Torrance dismisses most of their complaints, but he has sympathy for our mate. Tom’s a good sailor, no shirker, and though no one argues with the decision to flog him, we know that Doctor Torrance, like everyone else on board, holds Pudding responsible.

  “You’ll be right as rain in a few weeks, Jenkins,” says Torrance, as relieved as I am that Tom will recover. “Your mates have done a good job looking after you. There’s not much I can do about the scars, unfortunately. You’ll bear them for life like a lot of men in the fleet, but you’ve avoided infection and gangrene.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell my friend when he is well enough to sit. Tom’s back is horribly marked: long, red-crusted welts from his waist to his neck, dozens of them, all because he defended me. “’Tis my fault ye were flogged. I feel absolutely terrible.”

  Tom manages a smile for the first time in many days. “No, Trap, I owe these stripes to Pudding alone. Someday I will have the chance to pay him back for them.”

  We have more pressing concerns than revenge on Midshipman Figg, however. While Tom recovers, Cerberus passes stealthily through the Skagerrak Strait into Kattegat Bay. To our west lies the coast of Denmark. To the east, the low mountains of Sweden, both visible to the lookouts perched high up the masts, scanning the horizon anxiously for sails. While not in the Baltic proper, we are rapidly approaching its western reaches, and Russian ships could be anywhere.

  “That’s Amager Island ahead,” says Yankee Bill. “I’ve seen it before. A few years ago I served on the Ruby under Cap’n Draper. We were part of the fleet that laid siege to Copenhagen. The Danes were all set to join the Russians and French, so we laid siege to the city to show them the error of their ways. Took dozens of ships from the Danes. Better off in our hands than used by Napoleon against us, don’t you think?”

  A few miles off Amager, Cerberus bears west, to Bill’s approval. “Good thinking on the Cap’n’s part. We’re going the long way around, through the Great Belt instead of the Sound. The Sound’s shorter, but we’re much more likely to encounter Russians that way. We’ll engage them soon enough, but it will be on our terms not theirs.”

  Mist and late spring rain envelop us as we enter the Great Belt, a narrow strait on the less-populated eastern side of Amager Island. The strait is a thin, treacherous passageway of water full of rocks and small islands, and we sail slowly for fear of running aground.

  “Ten fathoms,” cries a man on the port bow. The water around Amager is well-travelled by Royal Navy warships, but Captain Whitby takes no chances, ordering us to take soundings of the depth of the water. At best, to hit a reef or end up on a sandbar would be the end of Whitby’s career. At worst? We’d be a helpless target for any prowling Russian ship.

  “Masthead there!” comes the sudden cry from the lookout at the top of the foremast. The Marine drummer plays a quick, smart drum roll that echoes across the ship as all men, on watch or not, fly to their battle stations.

  “Empty that bucket of sand around the gun and light the lantern, lads,” says Tom when we get to our gun. He’s moving slowly, and cannot bear the feeling of a shirt on his back, but Tom is at his station, nevertheless, much to the admiration of the crew. Lesser men would still be lying on their stomachs.

  I struggle to control my shaking hands as we go about our tasks, loosing the gun, sanding the deck, and removing the wooden stopper that keeps sea water from entering the barrel. Down below in the magazine, the powder monkeys are standing by with shot, ready to keep us gunners well-supplied.

  All across Cerberus, men are readying for war. Topside the Royal Marines are climbing into the fighting tops, tubs of water are being poured, and anything that can fly about the boat in a battle is stowed away.

  On the mess deck directly below us, Doctor Torrance is readying his table in the midshipman’s quarters, preparing his bone saws and knives. His job will be to cut off the remnants of the shattered limbs of any poor soul unlucky enough to be hit with cannon fire.

  Gunner Rowe stands behind us, ready to give the order to fire. He will make the command once, then we are on our own, firing at whatever ship appears until the battle is over or we are dead.

  Rowe has a determined, confident look, but Pudding, who stands beside him, shakes. I swear I can hear his knees knock as we wait expectantly.

  Every sound seems exaggerated: the bubbling and gurgling of the sea against the sides and keel of the ship, the murmured conversation of gun crews, the muted cough of a sailor, the creaking of the ship as we rise gently on the swells.

  “Stand down!” comes the cry from above decks.

  “Stand down!” commands Rowe.

  “Why ain’t we firing?” Big Fred asks.

  “More’n likely the lookouts at the mastheads saw a whale and got spooked,” says Dutch.
“We’ll find out when we go topsides.”

  When I am back on the main deck I see that our lookouts did indeed see another sail. Off the port bow a fishing smack sails towards us. Its crew no doubt as relieved as I that we didn’t open fire, but as they pass by not ten yards away, I see their scowls and hard looks, and I am left with no doubt of their feelings towards the Royal Navy of Great Britain.

  The sailors have been drinking as well as fishing by the looks of things. One lifts a brown bottle to his lips, drains whatever is left in it down his throat then throws the empty bottle overboard.

  “Damn you English!” he yells at us. He moves unsteadily in his boat, his words slurred as he continues to throw insults our way, in both English and another language I don’t understand.

  Tom chuckles. “Not Russians. They’re Danes by the sounds of things and well into their cups. Sticks and stones. Let the drunkard rail, the cap’n will ignore that just fine if that’s all the lout does.”

  “They don’t seem to like us very much,” I say.

  “I would think not, Trap. We were at war with them a few years back. The Royal Navy blew the tar out of Copenhagen, made the Danes sign a peace treaty, then took half the Danish Navy for our troubles. They weren’t much happy about it, but they put quill to parchment and signed anyway. Peace treaty or not though, these particular Danes ain’t shy about showing their true feelings.”

  The other Dane shouts at us as well as he climbs unsteadily to his feet, but not before he picks up a long object that at first I mistake for a stick of some sort.

  Tom recognizes the thing for what it is before me. “No, mate!” he shouts to the Dane. “Put that musket down. No good will come of you waving that thing at us.”

  Goodness knows why they have a gun on their boat. Maybe they use it to shoot large fish before they land them. Perhaps there are pirates in the Baltic they fear.