by M. C. Muir
He had completed the caulking the previous Sunday and today he wanted to slide his boat onto the water. Once the planks swelled he would find out how satisfactorily he had sealed it.
With the tide almost full, it was only a matter of pushing his craft a few yards down the grassy slope to launch it into the river. It was not difficult. The ground was soft and Will was strong, and once he had its nose on the shallow water, it floated back from the bank just like the hull of a great fighting ship as it slid from the slipway.
Guiding it round in a full circle, he edged its bow onto the muddy bank and settled it gently. Already drops of water had oozed between the lower planks and trickled to the bottom, but that was to be expected and Will felt satisfied.
‘William! William! Come quick!’
He looked up. The cry was urgent. Something was badly amiss.
‘What is it?’ he yelled.
‘It’s Tobias! He’s hurt bad.’
Dropping the rope on the river bank, Will ran from the water's edge, up from the old jetty, beneath the shadows cast by the hulls and across the yard to the piles of seasoned logs – the area where selected timbers were skilfully shaped into integral members for the new ships. It was here his grandfather usually worked. Tobias’s skill with the adze was envied by all the apprentices at Buckler’s Hard and this was where Will had seen him working only ten minutes earlier. It was where a group of the men were now gathered.
Between their legs, was the crumpled figure of a man, his back propped against a section of tree trunk. Will knew it was grandfather.
The yard was silent. It was still early. The familiar daily sounds had not yet begun – the saws were silent in the pits, the squeal of ropes through tackle blocks and the sound of hammers and the calls of the wrights had not yet commenced. But had it happened later in the day, it was still likely the yard would have been silenced by an accident such as this.
‘Grandfather,’ Will yelled.
‘Go get your ma, Will,’ the blacksmith said softly. ‘Tell her to bring some cloths.’
‘Is he all right?’
One glance at the old man and the adze lying on the ground beside him told him he had cause for alarm. The greyish pallor of the old man’s skin and the pool of dark blood confirmed the fact.
‘Do as you’re bid, lad. Go get your ma.’
It was an uphill dash from the shipyard and as he ran Will shouted for his mother, his cries bringing wives from their kitchens, men from their breakfast tables and children’s faces to the upstairs windows. Accidents happened at times, even at Buckler’s Hard. Less than six months ago the lashings of the scaffold securing the parapet around the top of the ship’s hull had worked loose. Several planks had fallen taking two men to the ground over thirty feet below. One man had died that day and the other never worked again. That had been a bad day on the Montagu Estate.
Alerted by his cries, Will’s mother called from the doorstep. ‘What’s wrong son. Is it your granddad?’
‘He’s cut his leg real bad. You’ve to get some bandages.’
He waited impatiently for his mother, quickly grabbed the cloths she’d selected and ran ahead of her down the street. By now, the crowd had grown. Everyone was concerned for Old Tobias as he was well liked and had had a hand in teaching most of the shipwrights in the yard.
As Mr Adams, the master shipwright, stepped through his garden gate and strode towards the group, most of the men moved off drifting in the direction of the wood stores or sawpits; the majority heading for the hulls supported on the sturdy stocks on the slipway. The long ladders leaning against them swayed precariously as the shipwrights climbed silently balancing lengths of timber on their shoulder.
‘Let me see him,’ Will’s mother cried, to the group still hovering around.
‘Move along men. Time for work,’ Mr Adams said. ‘He’s in good hands.’
‘It’s nowt but a nick. I don’t know why everyone’s fussing so.’ Tobias smiled at his daughter, though Will noticed a flickering in his grandfather’s eye like that of a man with a great tiredness washing over him.
Without lifting the bloodied neck-square which was covering the inside of his calf, Will’s mother knew that the cut was deep. A pool of blood the size of a dinner plate had already turned to blackened jelly at her feet.
‘Near chopped his bloody leg off,’ a voice whispered.
‘Away with you!’ Will’s mother cried, ripping a broad rent in the old man’s breeches and peeling off the sodden rags. Blood ran from the wound thick and fast spilling over the flap of skin and sinew which was hanging from the bone. She lifted it back carefully and covered it with the clean rags, binding them on with a length of linen. By the time she had finished her hands were red and sticky.
‘You’re not going to die, Grandfather, are you?’
‘No, lad, not for awhile yet.’ But the old man’s eyes were drooping. ‘Did you drop her in like you said you would?’
‘I did that.’
‘Did she take much water?’
‘Not much,’ Will said, ‘just a cupful. Floated real well, she did.’ Then he remembered he hadn’t pushed his boat out of the water, but he was certain it would be fine. The tide had been high and once it started to ebb it would leave his craft sitting high and dry on the bank. For the present it could wait. He could not leave his grandfather.
Though the call went out for a cart, before it arrived, Will took the old man in his arms and carried him home. Old Tobias weighed little more than seven stone.
It was not until half-an-hour later that Will was free to head back to the yard to start work for the day. He knew he was going to be late. He’d had to run with a message to the manor to send for the doctor; had to bring in extra kindling; drag a mattress to the downstairs room for his grandfather to sleep on. He should have started work at six and felt guilty as he ran past Mr Adams’ house. By rights he should have gone straight to work but before that he wanted to make sure his boat was secure.
The shipyard now rang with the sound of a dozen woodpeckers trapped in a wooden box. In a few weeks the Starling would be launched and that would be the last the men of the yard would see of her. Euryalus, however, still needed much work to be done on her. Sitting proud on the slipway she resembled the carcase of a beached whale, her ribs poking towards the clear morning sky.
At the jetty, a small schooner had docked to off-load a consignment of West Indian mahogany, but as it was sitting high against the wharf, Will knew the tide had come up far higher than it had earlier and much higher than he had expected.
Running past the schooner as fast as he could, he could see that the grassy bank was empty. In the shallows where his boat had been, a pair of herons plodded through the water plucking their stilt-like legs from the silt.
The tips of the birds' wings dipped in the river as they took flight at the cry from the schooner’s deck. ‘She’s out there!’ the captain shouted, pointing to the bend in the Beaulieu River where it made its sweeping down-stream curve on its journey to the sea.
Will saw his boat. It was in the centre of the channel and was being carried downstream. The tide was strong and the ebb-flow swifter than a man could walk. If he tried to swim out to it he would never catch it. There was no way of retrieving it from where he was.
His conscience pricked him as he glanced up to the shipyard. He thought of his mother and grandfather. The accident had been bad enough but losing the boat would make matters worse. There was no time to stop and tell anyone what he was about to do and he would have to suffer the consequences when he returned. At the moment his aim was to retrieve his possession. He had spent six months constructing it and it was worth a good amount. And if his grandfather was unfit to work again, his mother would need the extra money.
Without further thought, Will set off along the bank. If he cut across the wooded headland he would save time and if he was lucky the current should carry his boat around the sweeping bend and return it to his side. He ran, jumping over falle
n branches, sliding in the boggy steams. He had forgotten how many twists the path took and, as the undergrowth thickened, he lost sight of the river. He ran on, praying that his boat hadn’t beached itself on the opposite bank.
Emerging from the undergrowth, he was able to see far downstream. In the distance was the mouth of the Beaulieu where its wide estuary discharged its waters into The Solent. The sand bars which ran across it were submerged to reveal a broad expanse of sea. Up stream from him, his boat was slewing sideways on the current but heading in his direction. Tearing off his shirt and boots, he waded into the river and when it was up to his waist he flung himself headlong into the water.
It was cold and brackish but even near the bank he could feel the strong out-flowing tide carrying him downstream. Kicking hard, he made for the middle of the river and keeping his eyes on his boat swam towards it. At times he thought he would not succeed but at last he was close enough to grab the boat and without tipping it over, he hauled himself in.
Exhausted and out of breath, Will laid on his back in the bottom feeling, relieved and pleased with his efforts. Recovering his breath, he watched the seagulls wheeling overhead and tried to forget about the trouble he would be in when he got back, nevertheless, he still had to find some way of returning his boat to the Beaulieu River yard.
When he sat upright, he was shocked. He didn’t recognise the stretch of water he was on. The alder trees had gone. Now the banks were swampy and low and the river’s width was the broadest he had ever seen. His boat had been drifting rapidly and it was still moving.
Sloshing about beneath his feet were four inches of water. His grandfather had warned him to expect some seepage until the planks had swelled, but Will was worried that too much water was oozing in and that he had nothing but his bare hands to bail with.
Kneeling uncomfortably, he realized he had neither rudder nor oars, in fact there was not even a thwart to sit on or use as a paddle. His boat was being washed downstream, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Shifting to the stern, he leaned over and dipped his open hand in the river in an effort to steer towards the shore. But the boat was in the grip of the tide and with the wind behind it, its course was set. Across The Solent was the coast of the Isle of Wight and that was the direction the boat was heading.
A flush of panic flared though him. He could jump out and swim to the shore, but that was now a long way off and the current carrying him downstream was stronger than anything he had felt before. Then he recollected the warning an old fisherman had once given him: ‘Beware The Solent. It can travel with the speed of a whale and once you are caught on its back, it will carry you out to sea!’
Chapter 6
St Helens Road
Sailing out of Portsmouth Harbour and onto The Solent under single-reefed topsails, Elusive's bow soon encountered the bearded waves whipped by the northerly breeze. On the port bow the youngest midshipmen were observing the grey buildings of the naval establishment when their attention was drawn to a group of marines on the saluting platform and for some reason, the appearance of the soldiers was a cause for some hilarity.
‘Are you on watch, Mr Green?’
The midshipman’s eye twitched involuntarily. ‘No, Mr Parry, sir.’
‘Then I suggest you remove yourself from the deck or keep your eyes to the ship. Or perhaps you’d prefer to spend the next watch sitting in the foretop.’
‘No, Mr Parry, sir.’
‘Then let me see you behaving like a foremast-jack again and I swear I will have the sail-maker sew you a pair of canvas blinkers which you will wear whenever you are on watch.’
Mr Smith was unable to hold back a snigger.
‘Report to me at the beginning of the middle watch, mister. A night in the rigging might wipe the smile off your face!’
The young gentleman bristled under the collar of his white trimmed jacket. He was unused to such a reprimand.
‘Aye aye,’ he said reluctantly, glancing around to see how many eyes were on him. But the sailors coiling ropes were not interested in the antics of the new middies.
South of Spithead the untidy convoy of merchant ships, lying in the lee of the Isle of Wight, was clearly visible. There were several more vessels than when the captain had crossed The Solent from home. They had arrived in the last two days having sailed from The Thames and The Nore. As the combined fleet of merchant and navy ships were not due to sail for three days, it was possible more merchant vessels would join the fleet. Considering the number of ships, Oliver expected the fleet to divide when it reached the tropics, half going west and the others heading east.
The naval squadron designated as a courtesy escort consisted officially of five ships. The largest was the first-rate which had sailed out of the harbour before them. She was the triple-decked 100-gun man-of-war and she was heading to join the two 64-gun third-rates and two frigates already anchored at
St Helens Road. Elusive was sailing with them but under her own orders.
‘Take her into the Channel, Mr Parry; I would like to see how she behaves.’ For Oliver it was an opportunity to not only put his ship to the test, but also his officers and crew.
‘Aye, Captain.’
Sailing before the wind, Elusive pounded south skirting the anchored fleet, heading onto the choppy waters of the Channel – the place he pondered on from his bedroom window. From the quarterdeck, he cast a fleeting glance to a white speck of a house on the headland, the most easterly point of the Isle of Wight. He wondered if his wife would be at the window watching. Unlikely, he thought.
Leaving the lee of the island, the ship encountered the rolling remnants of the Atlantic swell which surged constantly along the length of the English Channel.
‘After such an absence, you do not know how good it is to be at sea,’ Oliver said.
‘Believe me, sir,’ said Mr Parry, ‘I do.’
There were many things about his first lieutenant that he did not know but he would find out in the next few days or weeks. ‘The ship is yours, Mr Parry. When you are ready, bring her around.’
‘Aye aye. All hands!’ he called. ‘Prepare to wear ship!’
The lieutenant’s voice carried to the fo’c’sle, though with seemingly little exertion from his throat or chest. The order was quickly repeated along the deck to the men in the bow preparing to sheet the staysails across. On the larboard braces a group stood ready waiting for the order to haul. On the starboard side it only required one pair of hands to ease each of the lines.
From what he had seen of his first officer, the way he carried out his orders, the way he related to the crew and the junior officers, he appeared quite satisfactory. So far, he conceded that the Admiralty had made a good choice. He could have fared a lot worse. During the course of his career, he had suffered some questionable officers, yet he had always endeavoured to hone them into shape
Over the last twelve months, he had noted from the Gazette that some officers who had served with him in the past had risen to greater things – midshipmen to lieutenant, lieutenants to commanders, a few even stepped to post captain, the same rank as himself. But some deserving names had been omitted; seamen who died of dysentery or yellow fever or in battle, sailors who departed this world without recognition or even a decent burial. The Lords of the Admiralty had eyes and ears in many unlikely places but unfortunately they could not be everywhere.
Sea battles were not fought merely for the sake of an anecdote to relate over the dinner table or for a few lines recorded in a book which would have little significance to subsequent generations. Sea battles were fought for king and country and most men gave their lives willingly to keep England free from invasion.
‘Ready on the helm! Larboard braces – haul away! Staysails – wait for the call!’
Elusive heeled gracefully as the frigate began its three mile arc in the English Channel bringing it around in almost a full circle to point its beak back towards Portsmouth Castle.
‘When you have completed the
turn, come up into the wind and anchor in the roadstead in the lee of the fleet. I suggest we keep our distance, Mr Parry. I don’t want to get tangled with any erratic merchantmen should they decide to start playing foolish games.’
On deck, the carpenter and bosun stood by the mainmast. Like the captain, both men wanted to witness the ship wearing, to see the main, topsail and t’gallant yards on the fore and main masts moving in unison as the ship slowly turned. They were eager to hear the sounds of the ship, the squeaks and creaks of the spars and see the free flowing run of the running rigging. Also on deck, throughout the manoeuvre, was the sail-maker. He’d been studying the sails since the first staysail had been run up in the harbour. Every inch of canvas was new and noisy and with their fresh covering of gum they appeared grey in colour. Soon salt air, sun and rain would wash and bleach them to a more respectable hue. Now, with every sail stretched tight as a drum-skin, the sail-maker was satisfied.
Half an hour later, the order to drop anchor was called. The sails were hauled up and the job of furling them sent a column of sailors scurrying out along the yards.
‘Pass word to the gunner to have his division ready. The powder will be coming on board later this afternoon. And make it known, there will be a hundred lashes to any man caught smoking above or below deck until every smidgin of gunpowder has been swabbed from the ships' timbers.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’
‘Handsomely now, I want each and every barrel dusted down before it is hoisted onboard. And get those buckets topped up and the men ready! I’ll not have one grain of powder on the deck!’
