by Derek Yetman
I had stationed Greening at the house in case of the surgeon’s return and I found him awake and at his post when I arrived. He was cut from a different cloth than the others, with a plain, innocent face and an eagerness to please. He also possessed a shy and awkward manner that belied his physical strength and quickness of mind. I had high hopes of him, not only because he was a fellow Newfoundlander but also because he was at home in the rigging and had the makings of a fine topman. I sent the lad back to the shallop and seated myself by the midshipman’s bed. To my surprise and delight, he was beginning to show signs of recovery. His skin was now dry to the touch and the woman said he’d been quiet through much of the night. She had ignored my earlier objections and had been administering a drink of boiled dandelion juice and spruce beer, with favourable results. I thanked her sincerely, which impressed her much less than the shilling, which disappeared into the folds of her shawl.
I was undecided whether it was God or Fate that had placed me in Bonavista to watch over this young man. It had to be more than mere coincidence, for I will tell you now that I loved him as a brother. He was as brave a sailor as ever stowed a hammock and as fine a friend as any man could wish. We had sailed together on the old Northumberland when he was a mere child and I his senior at the age of eighteen, which was now his present age. We were shipmates a few months only, but in that time the bond between us had been forged as strong as any steel, owing to what we had suffered and survived together.
The boy was none other than Friday Froggat, so named for the day of his birth, his mother having exhausted her store of names on his nineteen older siblings. He and I had maintained our friendship and correspondence over the years, but I’d heard nothing of him for the last six months or more. It was not an unusual length of time for a letter to catch up with a ship, though for all that, I was astonished to discover that the two of us had been serving in the same squadron without knowing it.
As for his health, Froggat was far from cured of his disease or the surgeon’s treatments. However, I allowed myself to think that he stood half a chance with a friend at his side. Observing him for the first time in daylight, I saw that the exposed parts of his body were free of all but the faintest blemishes, excepting a half-dozen scars from cutlass and shot. A victim in whom the scurvy is well advanced would normally be covered in livid spots and open sores. His mouth hung open in sleep and I pulled back his lip, observing no sign of the inflamed gums and fetid breath that accompany the disease. His breathing was also regular and unlaboured, which gave me hope that the worst had passed.
At his very best Froggat was no balm for sore eyes and now he was a pitiful sight indeed. His front teeth, fashioned from polished whalebone, lay on the window ledge. Their absence gave him the appearance of a man much older than eighteen years. His body was emaciated and astonishingly ripe after two weeks of fevered sweating and his long red hair was a tangled mess. As a boy he’d been small for his age and in early manhood his stature remained that of an adolescent. His face had also retained some of the features of his youth, though an ever-present squint had prematurely deepened the lines around his eyes and the freckles on his pale face were darker and more numerous. But for all that, he looked better than he had the night before. The woman brought another cup of the hot, bitter drink and by early afternoon I thought that he’d improved half as much again. When I made ready to return to the shallop he was sleeping peacefully with a hint of colour to his cheek.
The rain and wind had diminished over the course of the morning, which was an unwelcome change. Any improvement in the weather would mean our departure from Bonavista before Froggat was restored to health and duty. I hastened to the boat and was greeted by the sight of Grimes and Rundle seated on the stagehead in the drizzle. Their clothes were wet through and they were plainly miserable, and in passing I noticed some discoloration around the eye of the petty officer. On board I was saluted by Bolger and Frost, who were mending a sail beneath the canopy. Greening and Jenkins were splicing a rope nearby. Excepting the two men in the rain, everything seemed in order and the crew well occupied. I was tempted to ask the obvious question but I kept my silence, as was often the wisest course in these matters, and judged that the ill discipline of our new sailors might now be a thing of the past.
“And how be the lad up yonder, sir?” Bolger asked as he laid his sewing aside.
“Improving by the hour, I’m pleased to say.”
“Aye, and good news it is, sir,” the gunner said. “I minds him from the old Northumberland, right enough. A proper young spark, he were.” He took up his long-stemmed pipe and used the sail needle to stuff a piece of tobacco leaf into the bowl.
“The scurvy is it, Mister Squibb?” Frost asked. I nodded and he shook his head knowingly. “I were on the Audacious when it killed every second man and I were nearly one of ’em. All the old wounds I had come back on me like the day I fetched ’em. There was cuts from ten years afore that opened up and bled, fresh as could be. I even had a musket ball, what were given me by a French marine, work its way out o’ me lower back.”
The boatswain shook his grizzled head while the younger sailors listened closely. “A terrible affliction is what it is, sir. Many’s the man been put over the side in less than a week. Yer Mister Froggat is a strong one to last this long.”
“Aye, that he be,” Bolger put in. “And he deserves a damned sight more than to be left to die in this stink of fish.” Here the gunner was beginning to tread soft ground. While he and Frost were accustomed to speaking plainly in my company, I wasn’t about to make the ordinary seamen privy to such frank sentiments.
“That is not for us to decide, Mister Bolger,” I said with a firmness that did not go unnoticed.
“Right ye are, sir,” he mumbled. “I were only speaking in personal terms, like.”
“Feel free to speak your mind when you are alone, Mister Bolger,” I said. “Which is to say, never while you are on a boat.”
My words were directed as much to the hands as they were to the gunner. I glanced at Greening and Jenkins as they pretended to concentrate on their work, and only then did the peculiar nature of Bolger’s comment strike home. He could not have known what had passed between Lieutenant Cartwright and myself regarding the midshipman. Was he merely guessing or had something occurred in my absence?
“I must ask, Mister Bolger,” I said, “why you should think that Mister Froggat would be left behind.”
I could tell from the shift of his eyes that something had indeed happened while I was away. It was also plain, after my rebuke, that he was reluctant to speak of it openly.
“Perhaps we might have a hand of whist in the cabin,” I said, “while Mister Frost summons those wretches out of the rain.”
We ducked into the stern berth and sat facing each other in the cramped space. “Now then, what is this?” I demanded. “Has Lieutenant Cartwright been aboard?”
“Aye, sir,” the gunner replied, running a hand over his speckled scalp.
“Well? Speak up, man. What did he want?”
“I aren’t certain, sir, except he were plainly looking fer something. Poked his head into the cabins and gawked around the barrels, he did. Seemed a shade disappointed that he didn’t find what he were seeking.”
“And from that you believe that he was looking for Mister Froggat?”
“Aye, sir. From that and the orders he give to me and Hard Frost, sir.”
“Orders? What orders were you given?”
The gunner eyed me uneasily. “Lieutenant Cartwright says we isn’t to let anyone on board the boat, sir. Excepting the crew, of course.” His tone was apologetic as he added, “No exceptions nor excuses, neither. He were most plain on that point, sir.”
It was now evident that the first lieutenant did not trust me to obey his instructions. That he should regard me with suspicion was mildly insulting, although he was far from wrong to take that view. I had no plan to smuggle Froggat on board, but neither did I have any intention of l
eaving him behind.
Nehemiah Grimes
The devil take the lot o’ them damned Guernseys, and specially that bastard Frost. Oh, ye needn’t worry, I’ll have back at ’em. Just mark my words. And when I does, it’ll be Frost what gets it first, ye can be sure o’ that. No man raises his hand to Nehemiah Grimes without getting it returned tenfold.
Justice and liberty, that’s what I’ll be having. Like what that feller John Wilkes been preaching in London. A man’s got no goddamn rights nor priv’leges no more, he says, and don’t us poor seamen know it! Our own cap’n leaves us here with a sickly middie and along comes another and takes us up like so many wharf rats. No justice and no liberty, just like Wilkes says.
More’s the pity ’cause we had us as sweet a watch here as any man could ask. The run o’ the town and no one barking at us or flicking them ropes. Only the three of us and as much rum as we could hold. Plus that lively widow woman when the fancy took. Just the thing for a man who’s been a-sea these long months.
But it were too good to last, weren’t it? Oh yes, too good by half. Along come this crowd o’ popinjay officers and now it’s yes sir, no sir and kiss me arse at noon, sir. And what about them fine gentlemen passengers, eh? They’ll be eating what little grub there is and doing nothing to help sail this fish box, ’cept for treating us tars like scullions. Cartwright’s brother, now there’s a queer one with his guns and his servant and never putting his hand to a rope. And that whingy chaplain what starts praying when a bit o’ spray comes over the bow.
Then we got that young Mr. Squibb from the Guernsey, with the unholy name o’ Jonah. I never heard of such an ill-founded name for a sailor, but that’s not the only strange thing about him. He’s set on saving that sickly mid when it’s plain the little bugger is three parts dead. And another thing. When he’s not playing wet-nurse, he’s sitting in the sternsheets with his nose in a book, which is something that no good never comes of, if ye asks me. No odds though, ’cause he’s still a Guernsey, and they’re all of a feather.
And then that fool Cartwright goes and nearly drowns the lot of us. If that weren’t enough, now he says we’re off to look for Red Indians! Goddamned fool is what he is and make no mistake. But the biggest fool of all is that Frost, if he thinks he can get the best of Nehemiah Grimes. He’ll know he picked on the wrong one when he feels cold steel in his ribs some dark night. Just see if he don’t. We’ll soon find out how hard the Frost is, now won’t we, my jolly lads? Oh yes, we will. Everyone who did old Grimsey wrong will get what he deserves. Wilkes and liberty, that’s what I says. No justice, no king!
Jonah Squibb
On the next day I observed a further improvement in Froggat’s condition. I arrived at the house to find him sitting up in bed and drinking a thin soup with the help of his caretaker. His mind was still clouded and he seemed not to know me at first until I called him by name and asked if he did not know his old friend. At that, his eyes gave the smallest flicker of recognition. It was all too brief and he fell once more into the dull exhaustion that would mark the rest of my visit. All the same, I was pleased to see the fever lessened and that he’d regained a state approaching consciousness.
I returned to the shallop at noon and imparted the news to the men, which was received with more approval by the Guernseys than by his own shipmates. These Liverpools were a surly lot, though much less bold in attitude since the boatswain’s lesson in naval discipline. On this particular afternoon, I noted that Rundle and Jenkins were especially indolent and went about their duties as if they were half asleep. Fortunately for them, I was in a high good humour and ordered a ration of grog to celebrate the change in Froggat’s health.
While our meal of salted pork lay in the steep tub, the men took their leisure with the half-pint of watered rum and a little tobacco for their pipes. I do not regret allowing them this indulgence but I do regret the sudden arrival of Lieutenant Cartwright. I was laughing with the warrant officers at some joke or other when I heard him address me by name. I turned to see him standing upon the stage, his face a portrait of stern disapproval. I jumped to my feet, calling the crew to order as I lifted my hat. He acknowledged me with a stiff little bow and cast a critical eye over the vessel.
“I see you have things in hand, Mister Squibb,” he said, his sarcasm evident as he eyed my cup. “Yet, I cannot but wonder at your ease when so much needs doing.”
I was too astonished for an immediate reply and from the corner of my eye I saw Bolger’s eyebrows arch in disbelief. Since coming into Bonavista, the men had repaired every sail, replaced and spliced every rope and even remounted the guns. This was to say nothing of the thorough cleansing with vinegar they’d given the vessel, or of the ordered state of her cargo and rigging.
The lieutenant pursed his lips and scrutinized the shallop in an effort to find something at fault. Seeing nothing, he took a different tack by announcing that we would require additional foodstuffs and that I should collect them immediately from Mister Street’s store. I was again astounded at the man’s arrogance, for how could he know that we were in need of anything when he’d spent so little time aboard?
“Another thing, Mister Squibb. In preparation for our voyage, you will be kind enough to organize our company according to rank. The officers and gentlemen will be berthed in the stern cabin and the warrant officers and servants in the forecastle. The hands will mess on the deck, as I think you have made it sufficiently comfortable for that purpose.”
I saw the seamen exchange dark looks of resentment. “As you wish, sir,” I replied.
“You may expect us aboard following dinner. We sail on the evening tide.”
My mind was racing even as he made his way between the reeking barrels of cod liver oil and across the field to Mockbeggar House. How could we sail this evening when Froggat was barely able to sit upright? If I left him now that quacksalver surgeon would surely return and he would never recover. I grappled with the problem for a few minutes and merely succeeded in confounding myself. Alas, I am no mental wizard and have no genius for quick solutions. I would need time to think, though time was exactly what I lacked.
Meanwhile, there were provisions to get on board and a dozen other matters to attend to before the tide turned. I quickly organized the men, leaving most of them to tasks on board while Jenkins and Greening accompanied me to the plantation storeroom. We were already well provisioned but to please the lieutenant I ordered small quantities of dried beans, salted cod and pickled cabbage. As the clerk weighed and measured, I paced the store and considered the problem of Friday Froggat.
The afternoon passed and our party of gentlemen came on board, their bellies filled with the merchant’s food and fine wine. The evening was fair with a moderate southwesterly breeze and after we’d slipped our ropes I took us out of the harbour under reefed main and jib. Lieutenant Cartwright had disappeared into the aft cabin and so I laid a course north-northwest for Cape Freels. Compared to our first outing, it was a different boat that heeled to the wind that evening. The sails were a patchwork of repairs, it was true, but they were as sturdy as any newly issued by the naval dockyard. The stores in the waist had been re-stowed to best advantage and we were making five or six knots on the long southerly swell.
It had not gone unnoticed by the crew that our guests, the Reverend Stow and George Cartwright, had employed their time ashore in augmenting their meagre wardrobe. The latter was dressed as a common fisherman and took no small delight in his “masquerade,” as he called it. His costume consisted of a pair of canvas breeches and a coarse woolen tunic, topped by an oiled canvas cloak. He also had a hat of the kind that fishermen wear to keep the spray from going down their necks. As for the chaplain, he was arrayed in a black frock coat that was shiny from use, a cast-off periwig and knee-length breeches with old-fashioned buckles. Frost and I stood on the little stern deck, he at the tiller and I at the con, while our clerical passenger promenaded amidships. The boatswain shook his head at the sight and muttered: “Bo
bby Shaftoe went to sea, silver buckles on his knee. He’ll come back and marry me, pretty Bobby Shaftoe!”
We were a good half-hour upon our course when the first lieutenant emerged from the stern cabin. He stood in the waist below us with his hands clasped behind his back, assuming the air of a captain upon his quarterdeck. Had we been possessed of a quarterdeck, he might have been more convincing. I watched him examine the angle of the spars and the set of the sails, and then heard him order an adjustment to the trim of the staysail. The object in question was, in my own opinion, perfectly aligned to capitalize on the wind. But for reasons that I was only beginning to understand, he wished to have it changed straight away. The order was carried out and the effect was immediate, with the loss of a good half-knot of speed. I heard the boatswain groan as Cartwright looked up at me, challenging any criticism. I betrayed no emotion and kept my eyes upon the compass until he returned to the cabin. Then, at my nod, the sail was returned to its original setting.
The night slipped away without incident and by dawn we were past Cape Freels and the Cabot Isles and had changed our course northwest to the Wadhams. Bolger had the middle watch and I relieved him a few hours after midnight to take my lunar observations. An hour later, I steered us between the bare white rocks of Offer Wadham and Small Island as dawn spread its glow in the east. Our passage between the islands caused flocks of noddies and tinkers to rise screeching from their nests. A multitude of Great Auks splashed around our hull and dove as we sailed amongst them. These flightless birds, which the fishermen call penguins, were said to exist in infinite numbers along this coast. Funk Island was named for the smell that marked the greatest concentration of them.
