by John Drake
18
Another hand’s breadth lower and I’d have run the blade into his lung. I know this is failure, but by such a narrow margin that I remain confident of eventual success.
(Letter of 25th April 1793 to Lady Sarah Coignwood from Alexander Coignwood aboard Phiandra.)
*
The Wardroom of His Majesty’s Ship Phiandra was much like the Wardroom of any other frigate. It was at the stern on the lower deck. The main deck was above and the orlop was below. The marines berthed immediately for’ard, and the ocean berthed immediately aft. Over the heads of the occupants swivelled the great oaken sweep that controlled the rudder, drawn this way or that by the ship’s wheel. Creaks and groans sounded eternally from the sweep’s tackle, but nobody noticed. They didn’t even hear it any more.
Down the centre of the Wardroom ran a long table with occasionally a battered chair drawn up to it, or more commonly somebody’s sea-chest. Except when it was cleared for meals, this table was covered with the sort of clutter that gentlemen keep about them: old newspapers, books, swords, sextants, pistol cases, a flute, a hunting horn, a fishing rod and a tame rat in a cage. This was so despite the First Lieutenant’s passion for smartness, because the Wardroom was the place where the ship’s gentlemen lived, and even discipline had its limits.
After the Captain, the gentlemen of the Wardroom were the elite of the ship’s people. First came the three Sea Service Lieutenants and the two Marine Lieutenants, all holders of the King’s Commission and therefore gentlemen by definition. Next came those Warrant Officers whom the Navy’s ancient traditions treated as gentlemen: the Master, the Surgeon, the Chaplain, and the Purser (even he). Finally, there was Mr Webb, the Master’s Mate. He was a first-rate navigator who stood watches like a Lieutenant. Everyone knew that as a ship’s boy of fifteen, he had brought the sloop Bouncer back from the West Indies with all her officers dead of the Yellow Jack. Mr Webb had been voted a member of the Wardroom since he was thought fit for that honour, despite the lack of Commission or Warrant.
On Thursday 25th April, the day after Captain Bollington’s spectacular feat of clubhauling Phiandra off a lee shore, Alexander Coignwood closed the door to one of the tiny cabins that ran in rows on either side of Phiandra’s Wardroom table. It wasn’t much in the way of privacy. The door was no more than canvas stretched over laths and the cabin walls were matchwood. Every word spoken in the Wardroom came plainly to him. Every movement in the other little hutches on either side, every smell even, make itself known. But he didn’t mind that. Even on a flagship the accommodation wasn’t much better. And with the Great cabin swept away, Captain Bollington himself wasn’t faring any better at the moment.
Alexander’s clothes were soaking wet and he was exhausted beyond the imaginings of landsmen. He’d not slept for two and a half days, and for most of that time he’d been too busy even to think about rest. Most men would have dropped into the inviting cot just as they were. But not Alexander. With his last gasp of strength he removed his clothes, made an effort at drying himself on a canvas towel, pulled on a nightshirt and climbed into bed.
Even now, when the blessed opportunity had come, he did not instantly fall asleep. And it wasn’t the cold or the uneasy movement of the ship that kept him awake. No, he had to compose his mind. There was something he had to think through to its end.
He remembered the moment when the sea came over Phiandra’s stern and swamped the group of men clustered around the wheel. He felt the chill of the water as it covered him, and the shock as it took him off his feet. He felt his left hand clench as it gripped the hand-line, while his right hand groped for the hidden knife and jabbed it into the broad back in front of him.
Nobody saw. In the stress of the moment, Fletcher never even noticed. And he, Alexander, felt the satisfying thump of the blade sinking in and the tug as he instantly snatched it out. But he’d had to wait till he was actually under water before he could strike, or someone would have seen. So he was aiming blind. And worse, the water dragged at his arm. The result was that instead of a neat death-stroke into the kidney, he had delivered a mere stab into the shoulder.
Alexander sighed. Alone and tired, actual tears came to his eyes. It had been so close! Had the blade entered a hand’s breadth lower, it would’ve run into the lung — a slow kill, but sufficient. It was galling to come so close and yet fail. But he didn’t weep for long. He was used to self control. His whole life had been a struggle to contain a self that must not be seen by the world. The struggle had been so very hard that from time to time he’d lapsed and the consequences had been unpleasant. Duels and money had been needed to wash his reputation clean (and even so, a stench remained).
To maintain even this partial hold on his own nature, Alexander Coignwood had to be as disciplined as a Prussian Grenadier. So first he calmed himself, then he resolved to succeed next time, then he planned the letter to his mother to report all this, then he pulled a blanket over his head and slept like a child.
19
“Ah, would you, sir? ... Take that! And that! And THAT! Conceived in lust you were, continue in it you shall not!” Whack, whack, whack, for the good of my soul. My gracious guardian and benefactor, the Rev. Dr Woods. I can’t remember what sins of mine drew such beatings, or what I might have said or questions asked, probably in all innocence, but by George I remember the good Doctor laying into me with a riding crop till his arm tired. “Conceived in lust you were ... ” was a favourite phrase of his, and he said it to me many times. As a child I knew it was shameful but not what it meant. Later, as I learned about life, I supposed that I must be a tart’s whelp, laid at the church door and raised on the Doctor’s charity. It was part of the reason for my overwhelming passion to make money and better myself in my own eyes. So thank you good Doctor for that.
But I give you this jolly insight into my early life not for the fun of it, but to explain an oddity of my character as it existed in May of 1793 when Phiandra crawled back into Portsmouth to await repairs. There I was, eighteen years old, in the pride of my youth and strength and stark terrified because I was about to be challenged to make good some boasting that I’d been indulging in a matter that I knew little about, and for which Sammy and my other mates had been smacking their lips all the way home. It lightened their load and speeded their every endeavour.
In the event, they had to wait a few days for what they wanted. First, Captain Bollington had business to attend to and needed to spend a couple of night ashore. This included minor matters like reporting to the Naval and Port Authorities, and arranging repairs and fresh stores for the ship.
But it mainly involved the really important business of pulling strings mightily to preserve his precious independent command off the French coast. More important to the crew was the matter of pay. Phiandra had been in commission since February 24th when Captain Bollington joined her. But the ship had been receiving men for months before, and some of her people, including Sammy, Thomas and Jim, had been on Mr McFee’s books since November of the previous year. Others of the crew were due the Volunteer’s Bounty and none of us had received a penny piece so far, and all that was to be put right in a single lump sum.
Finally, on a Wednesday morning, a large iron strongbox came out in a launch under the care of two dapper little gentlemen from the Pay Office with their wigs and spectacles. With marines on guard, Mr McFee’s table was rigged on the quarterdeck and the entire crew mustered to be paid. Thus did the enormous sum of nearly three thousand pounds in silver and gold pass into our ship. A joyous occasion indeed, complete with our Sicilians thrashing out merry music. But not a fraction of the joy that was to follow.
The sight of the Pay Office launch heading for the shore told all the world that Phiandra’s men had now been paid, and this gave the signal for a flotilla of small craft to head towards us, like actors awaiting their cue. There came a roar from the men and the ship rolled as they ran in a body to the shoreward side of the ship for a better view of what was coming.
>
“Mr Bosun!” cries Lieutenant Williams. “Muster the men aft!” And the whistling of Bosun’s calls filled the air, summoning all hands to the quarterdeck ladders where we were summoned when Captain Bollington had something to say.
I found myself beside Sammy Bone and my messmates. Sammy grinned at me and nudged me in the ribs.
“Shan’t be long now, lad!” says he, and in reply I gave a knowing wink and nudged him back, keeping up my act to the last.
“Silence on the lower deck!” bawls Mr Williams and a hush fell on the company. The whole waist aft of the quarterdeck was packed with seamen looking eagerly up at Captain Bollington and the officers.
“Mr Williams!” says the Captain. “Would you be so kind as to cast an eye on those boats and give me your best opinion?”
He nodded at the flotilla. Lieutenant Williams raised his glass with a mock-serious flourish and examined the boats.
“ ’Tis the men’s wives, sir, I do declare,” says he.
“Very good, Mr Williams,” says the Captain. “Then send the young gentlemen ashore with the Chaplain, and you may receive the wives aboard.”
A howling and yelling of delight greeted this and I don’t think that any ship’s boat in all the history of seafaring was ever more swiftly swung out and lowered. Then the Chaplain was assisted over the side with all the chattering middies and their traps. The older ones, who had a good idea what was afoot, looked none too pleased but the youngsters were hopping from one foot to another in delight at the holiday. (The ship’s boys, you will note, were left to witness everything that followed.)
Unobtrusively, Captain Bollington left the quarterdeck and retired below. An atmosphere of carnival gripped the ship with every man hanging over the rail and calling to the boats. There seemed little order in the ship and by now I was up on the quarterdeck by the mainmast shrouds. Sammy and I climbed up for a better view and the men roared with pleasure at the sight of the dozen boatloads of “wives” now closing fast.
As for me, a pit opened up in my bowels. For apart from one boat which was full of Hebrew pedlars, and apart from the boatmen at the oars, those boats were crammed with the flower of the whores of Portsmouth. Phiandra was about to be boarded by women. And I knew all about women because the Rev. Dr Woods had told me all about them. By George but he told me! He told me about women and SIN and SHAMEFUL DISEASES that were the ruin of fine young men (I’ve often wondered how he became such an expert on the matter). Then that fine Christian scholar would deliver another whacking and down we’d go on our knees to pray for my deliverance from the daughters of Jezebel. So I’d had some education from my guardian. Also, Polmouth was a seaport full of sailors, and one of God’s laws is that where there are sailors there are women. So I’d seen them flouncing and ogling and trying to catch Jack Tar’s eye. So, my jolly boys, it wasn’t as if I didn’t recognise a woman when I saw one.
What’s more, it wasn’t as if I wasn’t interested in women. For when I grew older and started hopping out on Saturday nights to places like Mother Bailey’s, I met women face to face. And some of them were delectable, and mighty great fun to be with. And besides, my pals told me all what they’d been up to. So I wasn’t ignorant either. But thanks to Dr Woods, I’d never actually done anything myself, because too much of his teaching had taken root in my young mind. As the Jesuits say: “give me the child ’til he’s seven, and I’ll give you the man!”
So when Sammy and Norris and the others had explained what having the “wives” aboard really meant, I’d pretended to be as pleased as they were. I had to — by then I was such a fine fellow among the ship’s company that I just couldn’t bring myself to admit to my virgin innocence. That’s what pride can do for a man. So I’d nudged and chuckled and joked with my mates, while wondering what I would actually do when the girls arrived.
And now they had. Nearly three hundred of them, and the fear pressed down on me. And they didn’t come quietly. They screamed and laughed and giggled and waved and shouted and smoked and swore. They rocked the boats so the boatment cursed and the water splashed over the gunwales. Then they shrieked in fear and rocked all the harder. They were all the colours of the rainbow in their gaudy clothes and big, flowery hats.
Then one girl screeched out over all the rest.
“Yoo-hoo!” says she towards Phiandra. “Look at me!” And she struggled dangerously to her feet in the swaying boat, turned her back and lifted her skirts to wriggle her bare backside at us, all pink and round with plump thighs and white stockings bound up with red garters.
The men cheered wildly, the girls yelled all the louder and the boatment pulled with a will. And then ... and then ... words fail me to describe the scene that followed. At once a dozen lines snaked down over the side and through the gun-ports to aid the vital work of bringing the girls aboard. In seconds they swarmed everywhere. Pandemonium broke loose and the Navy’s savage discipline, backed by the bayonet and the cat, the discipline that could hang or flog at will ... simply vanished.
I saw Mr Webb, Master’s mate, struggle with one of the men for a girl who’d taken both their fancies. The seaman won, knocking down his officer and seizing the girl with a whoop of delight. Such an assault merited death (at least) under normal circumstances but on this occasion the Lieutenants wisely kept away. For one thing, there was a special boatload of choice young ladies from one of Portsmouth’s more exclusive pushing-schools for their particular attention.
Soon there were more women than men aboard and an orgy of drink and lust was in full swing. Men too eager even to go below, dropped their breeches and leapt aboard there on the very deck for all to see, all thrashing skirts and legs in the air. Then suddenly I ceased to be a mere spectator. The crowd parted and there was Sammy Bone, arm in arm with a couple of girls. One was a plump little bouncing blonde with huge breasts and a bottle of brandy. The other was black haired with dark skin like a gypsy, flouncing along in a brilliant-red dress. Sammy was beside himself with glee and had started well into the brandy.
“Here he is, girls!” says he. “Say hallo to Jacob! He’s a whopper though, ain’t he?”
“Ooo!” says blondie, in a high, amazed voice with pouting lips and round eyes. “Is he that big all over? Might have to charge double for him, girls!” And the three of them howled with laughter. But I was riven to the spot, my knees turned to jelly and all the world was like a little blob of colour seen through the wrong end of a telescope. I heard Sammy speaking, but very faint and far away (which was odd because he was bellowing into my face at two inches range).
“This here’s Polly Grimshaw,” says he, introducing the gypsy. “She’ll look after you.” Then his leering, happy face was gone and the girl was staring up at me, twining her fingers through her long hair and affecting to smile coyly over her shoulder, while her tongue slid in and out like an amorous snake.
“Hallo, Jacob,” says she in a rich Devon voice. “Ain’t you a big boy then!”
“Guggle-guggle-guggle,” says I, backing off. But she pressed herself against me, warm and soft and her perfume swirled around my head. I had never experienced a woman’s presence like this and it made me shiver in my terror.
“Let’s see how big you really are!” says she and darted her hand into my breeches like a ferret after a rabbit. I gasped in horror and fled.
Using all my strength, I forced through the press, closing my eyes to the things I saw and fought my way down the quarterdeck ladder, across the main deck, down through the main hatchway and on to the lower deck. Here the going got easier, for precious few people had bothered to go below just yet. I pressed on further, down on to the orlop, to the dank, dark, stink of the hold, among the casks and ballast, below the water-line. There I came to rest in a dark corner up against one of the massive oaken knees that braced the deckhead to the hull. I slumped down with my back against the timber and my legs stretched out before me.
Slowly I got my breath back, listening to the riot going on above, and wondered what to do
next.
But horror of horrors! What was this small, dark figure that crept towards me, giggling and panting from the chase. What was it that had followed me down to the darkness of the hold?
“ ’Allo Jacob,” says she, in that chocolaty voice, “this is nice, ain’t it? All quiet, like ... ” and she crawled over my legs and settled herself down with her hands on my shoulders and her warm rump on my thighs and her eyes gleaming down at me no more than a foot from my face. She wriggled her hips and her bosom bounced under my nose, plump and luscious in her inadequate bodice with not a trace of stays underneath.
“Go away!” says I in a feeble squeak. “Go away, you ... woman!” She laughed and tried to kiss me, but I pushed her away. She changed tack, running her fingers over my neck and chest and scratching my ears with the tips of her fingernails.
Every last hair in my body prickled at this treatment and I came over all peculiar. But still I pushed her off. “Here!” says she, not pleased. “What’s this?”
“Go away!” says I. “I don’t want you here!” This time she was annoyed.
“Oh? Like that, is it?” says she, hands on hips and shoulders high. “What are you then? Are you one o’ them as likes it better doing it up his mate’s behind?” I gasped, shocked to my toenails at this hideous suggestion. Even Doctor Woods hadn’t warned me about this one, but I knew what she meant.
“Certainly not, madam!” says I, right up on my dignity. “You just leave me alone ... I ... I’m a good boy, I am ... ” God knows from what depths of my childhood came these pathetic words, but much to my surprise they set Polly Grimshaw rocking with laughter.
“Oh my! Oh my! ‘I’m a good boy’! Lord bless us all ... ” And strangely, the heaving and shaking of her body right there on my lap, and the sheer beauty of her as she laughed and her hair tumbled about, these things began to work an effect upon me and I stared at her in fascination as the fear and embarrassment died.
