by M. C. Muir
‘Aye,’ a voice called. ‘But it’s different if you get killed in action, or if the ship goes down. No one can help that. But what happened to Sparrow was enough to turn anyone’s stomach.’
‘You lot trying to put me off eating?’ Smithers complained from the next table.
‘It don’t seem to be stopping your jaw from flapping or your teeth from chewing,’ Muffin said.
‘Well I pity Smithers,’ Bungs quipped, ‘he’s only got two left. You want me to chew your meat for you?’ he yelled, throwing his bone across the mess at the topman.
Smithers ducked.
‘Watch out, Bungs. Midshipman aft!’
Eku winked at Tommy, as the chatter died and the pair gnawed on their hard-tack in silence.
At night, the mess, where the men both ate and slept, was as black as pitch. The only light was shed from a single swaying lantern above the companionway at the far end of the deck. The familiar sounds, which the men ignored, were those of the ship – the creaks and groans of timber under stress, the constant thuds that reverberated back from the bow as it pounded into the waves, the rhythmic roll of something loose on the deck above, the bark of a man’s cough, the rasp of continual scratchings by men irritated by bites, or the gnawing of rats’ teeth scraping up the spilled meat-juices that flavoured the fibre caulking between the deck boards.
The high-pitched scream which broke the apparent silence could have come from a girl being ravished. It woke almost every man on the starboard watch, even the topmen who were exhausted after battling a stiff breeze to put reefs in the topgallants and topsails during their own watch after being called aloft to help the larboard watch for several hours.
‘Who was that,’ the bosun’s mate yelled, unable to see through the darkness and the corrugated profile of men’s bodies swaying in hammocks above the level of the tables. ‘Speak up,’ he yelled, raising his starter. ‘Don’t wait till I come in and get you.’
‘Shut your yap,’ a voice barked.
‘Damn your eyes, we’re trying to sleep.’
Swaying in his hammock, within two inches of Tommy Wainwright, Bungs’ eardrum was still ringing from the scream. He’d never heard anything like it, not even when a man lost a leg or an arm. Often they said nothing.
With his right arm extended, the cooper parried the windmill of blows Tommy was swinging. Twisting in his hammock and reaching across, he found the boy’s mouth and clamped his left palm firmly across it. ‘Shut up, lad,’ he hissed, into his ear. ‘Stay still, else I’ll thump you and then you’ll have cause to scream.’
Beneath the weight of Bungs’ arm, Tommy relaxed and from the sound and pattern of his breathing the cooper judged his nightmare was finished and he’d returned to normal sleep.
With no one answering his call, and because of the impossibility of moving between the hammocks to find the culprit, the bosun’s mate aborted his search, allowing the men to return to their interrupted dreams. The seagoing sound of silence returned, punctuated only by snores and sniffles and the odd outburst of unintelligible gobble-de-gook mumbled in a sailor’s sleep.
Tommy Wainwright had woken to his own scream but only momentarily. Just long enough to sense something pressing on his chest and finding it hard to breathe. He opened his eyes to the intense blackness but quickly closed them again. For a few seconds, a sense of panic overwhelmed him, before he drifted back into the recurrent nightmare he had woken from.
Chapter 7
The Nightmare
It began with an insidious low rumble which was followed by an eerie silence. Then the earth shook sideways collapsing the rock behind him and pelting him with grit and stones. Choking dust filled his eyes, throat, and ears. Though his mouth was open, he could neither scream nor shout, nor hardly even breathe. And when, after what seems like an age, he found a voice and called out for help – no one came.
The tunnel Tommy was working in was only a few yards long and not much broader than his shoulders. Lying flat on his belly on the wooden carriage, his body was only a few inches above the ground, and the roof of solid rock only a few inches above his head. As he had done every day for the past year, he’d pushed himself up the slight incline often scraping the skin from his knees on the hard ground and bruising his elbows on the hand-hewn rock walls. Today, an arm’s length in front of him was the seam – a solid wall of coal. In his right hand was a charge of gunpowder. In his left – a wooden prod. His job was to place the charge in the hole made in the rock, then ram it in. When the task was completed, he’d call out to the man on the line who’d pull the cart carrying him, down the slight incline and back to the pit’s main shaft.
But for now, he couldn’t move. His left arm was jammed against the side. He dropped the charge from his right hand and swivelled his elbow so he could touch his face. After rubbing dust and grit from his eyes, he blinked away the tears, but whether his eyes were closed or open made not the slightest difference in the intense blackness. Reaching forward, he touched the rock face and felt the hole drilled in it ready to receive the charge, but when he ran his hand along the roof above his head, he discovered it was no longer smooth but criss-crossed with cracks broad enough for him to slide his hand into. He feared the roof was in danger of collapsing and if that happened it would bury him alive.
Five years ago, when he had first started work, the pit had claimed the life of his father. And his grandfather before that. Was he to be the next?
And what of his sister, Annie? She was two years younger than him and working in a different tunnel off the same shaft. Crawling on hands and knees, with a rope fastened around her middle, her job, like that of many of the youngsters, was to drag baskets of slack, or coal up to the surface. Where was she when the roof caved in? He wondered.
Saved by stout hob-nailed boots, Tommy’s feet were jammed between fallen rocks and, despite trying to propel the trolley forward or back, not even the slightest movement was possible. He could neither move nor turn around. The only sound in his six-foot stone coffin, besides his crackled breathing, was the drip, drip of water splashing on his head. Turning his face, he manoeuvred each drop to run from his hair, across his temple, then down his cheek to the corner of his lips. Sticking out his tongue, he caught the drops one by one. The water was fresh, not salty like his sweat and, after spitting out a mouthful of muddy dust, he dampened his lips, but it did little to avert his raging thirst.
As time passed, the thought of sleep alarmed him – the fear of another rock fall, the fear of the air he was breathing running out, the fear of never waking up. Or worse still – of waking again and again to the inky blackness and the aggravating sound of the water tapping on his head. In trying to shake the liquid from his ear, he hit his head hard on the rock above. Recoiling from the pain, his chin banged on the edge of the wooden cart snapping his tongue between his teeth. He tasted blood and sobbed, and cursed at the same time, using all the foul words he had learned from the miners. Then he thought of his mother, and cried again. He screamed. He yelled. He cried out constantly till his mouth was dry. But no one heard and no one came to dig him out.
The hours dragged by till eventually he stopped calling, deciding he was wasting his breath. His left arm pained him and his eyes were sore from the grit he had rubbed into them. But his tears no longer flowed. His thoughts drifted to his mother, then back to his sister and the pain gnawed at his heart. He tried hard to imagine some other place far away from the pit and the blackened hovels of the coalmining village he lived in. Of the old men on the street corners, bent over, coughing up blood blackened with coal dust. Would that be him one day?
Then he thought of the sea, though he had never seen it, and tried to imagine how vast it must be. The only water he knew was the duck pond and the part of the river that had been diverted to turn the water-wheel that powered the pit. He’d seen a barge on a canal, but never a ship. Yet he remembered a whale’s tooth that had been passed down in the family. Scratched on it was a drawing of a sailing ship. When he t
hought of that ship, he promised himself that if he was pulled out alive, he’d find one and sail far away from the pits and the grimy dirt that could bury a man far quicker than the local grave-digger could dig a hole in the ground.
Drifting in and out of sleep for what seemed like days, Tommy woke suddenly to a different sound. An irregular click, click, click. Was it more water dripping from another part of the roof? The sound seemed very distant. Then he recognized the ping of a pick striking solid rock, of shovels scratching at rubble, and felt a frightening shower of small rocks tumbling down on him.
Then came the voice of the gruffest angel he could ever imagine. ‘Is anyone alive in there?’
‘Help me! Get me out! It’s me, Tommy. I’m stuck. Please, get me out.’
‘Stop hollering, boy! Save your breath. We’re working as quick as we can. Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of there in no time.’
It seemed like an eternity before the men were able to break through to the narrow tunnel and move the rocks lodged around his legs. Then, with stones still dropping onto him, Tommy felt the wooden wheels of the cart turn. Very slowly it was hauled down the incline, jerking and creaking as it bumped over the rubble along the way. Keeping his head low, Tommy stretched his right arm out in front of him and tucked his left arm close to his body holding it to him like a broken wing.
He didn’t dare open his eyes until he felt rough hands on him brushing the dust from his hair, and heard voices. Opening his eyes, he saw light – the glow from a lantern a few yards away. He gazed at it and wanted to rise to his knees, but neither his legs nor arms responded.
‘You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time,’ one of the miners said. ‘And you’ll soon forget all about this. It weren’t a bad fall. You were lucky. Don’t worry, you get used to it after a few times.’
‘Where’s Annie, my sister?’ Tommy asked. ‘Is she all right?’
There was no answer.
Desperate for air, Tommy felt he couldn’t breathe and feared he was being buried in the tunnel again. Throwing his arms about was all he could do to escape the nightmare gripping him.
‘Stop fighting me, lad, or I’ll thump you,’ Bungs hissed again. ‘It’s watch time. And if you’re not in the magazine in a couple of minutes, the gunner will be after you with a rope’s end. Get out and I’ll help you fold your hammock, but just this once. Now move!’
‘Out or down!’ was the cry from the bosun’s mate. Those not wanting to get up were beaten out of their beds.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Tommy swung down to the deck, slipped into his shoes, grabbed his hammock from Bungs and joined the line of men heading up to the weather deck.
Later that day, as tiredness began to sweep over him, he fought to keep the torment out of his mind. Above his head, the square sails billowed like bed sheets on a wash-day line. From the bow, the sea creamed along the beam and left a sweeping wake stretching almost to the horizon. Lifting his chin and opening his mouth wide, Tommy gulped the air like a fish gulps water. It was an involuntary habit he had developed of late. But he had kept to the promise he had made to himself and the further the ship sailed, the greater the distance he put between himself and those awful memories.
His sister had died that day in the mine. She was only twelve-years old. His elder brother, George had been lucky and survived the rock fall. At fourteen-years-of-age, skinny as a rake, and standing only six inches over four feet tall, Tommy Wainwright had been the ideal size to work in the narrow tunnels deep below ground. But his mind had been made up and he swore he would never ever go down the pit again.
‘I’m going to London,’ he had told his mother. ‘I’m going to find me a ship and I’m going to fight the French and stop them coming to England.’
Eliza Wainwright understood and never once tried to stop him. As a girl, she had toiled down the pit herself, and had hated every minute of it. Five years ago she had lost her husband and now her daughter, and with no bodies to bury, there was not even a plot in the graveyard where she could mourn over them.
‘Go,’ she had said to her son, ‘and if needs be, never come back here. Go with my blessing.’
‘One day I’ll come back,’ Tommy had cried. ‘I promise. And I’ll make you proud.’
The following week, with his meagre possessions rolled up in a blanket, Tommy Wainwright had set off for London. His mother had given him five shillings which was the total sum of her savings. He had slept under the stars at night and when it rained found shelter wherever he could. He’d worn a hole in the sole of his shoe and got a ride part of the way on the back of a cart. But whatever happened along the journey nothing would deter him from the promise he’d made to himself.
Yet the fear he had felt when trapped underground was a memory that would continue to haunt him.
Chapter 8
Madeira
It was December already and a chilled mist hung in the deep valleys which ran down the worn volcanic slopes of the island of Madeira. Under the breath of a dying breeze, Perpetual had slid into Funchal road late the previous evening dropping anchor a distance from an array of ships – a sloop-of-war, a frigate, a big East Indiaman with a convoy of smaller vessels nearby, and an assortment of American, Portuguese and Baltic traders.
The following morning, the air was as still as an empty grave. There was little movement on the roadstead save for the local fishermen and ships’ boats conveying sailors and water barrels to the beach.
Since before dawn, there had been an unusual eagerness amongst Perpetual’s crew to swab the decks, polish the brasses, neatly furl the flaccid sails and present the ship in an orderly fashion. All hands hoped that the sooner the daily chores were completed, the sooner they would be allowed ashore. Madeira was a favoured port for sailors of all nationalities – not for its scenic delights (although there were a few who spent time wandering the attractive bays and inlets with charcoal and paper), nor for its sweet wines, though many took advantage of a little too much of the smooth red liquor. The main attraction for the majority of sailors was the island’s ladies. The local beauties were good-looking, swarthy-skinned, willing, and as tantalizingly sweet and juicy on the tongue as the island’s luscious grapes. Madeira’s bordellos were filled with both.
Although the group of islands belonged to Portugal, a cacophony of languages could be heard on the streets and alleys running off them. If they chose to, most vendors spoke English, but for hungry young sailors, the primeval sign language, used to purchase sexual favours, was universally understood.
Apart from refilling the barrels of water emptied since leaving Gibraltar, the other reason to stop at the Atlantic archipelago, was to collect firewood – sufficient supplies for several weeks of sailing. With forests covering the lower hillsides, there was a readily available source that was reasonably accessible. By contrast, Gibraltar had long since been stripped of its trees and all timber, including that for firewood, had to be purchased from Spain or shipped from England. It was, therefore an expensive commodity in the tiny British territory, and limited in supply.
From before dawn, lighters had appeared from the port to bob around every ship in the roadstead, plying their trade. To add to the mêlée, boats were swung out from the ships and lowered to convey men and barrels ashore and return later loaded with fresh produce, water and wood.
Armed with axes, saws, and ropes, Perpetual’s woodcutters were always first away. They had a long pull ahead of them and a hard day’s work once they located a suitable stand of timber. Though forests blanketed the lower slopes, the woods near the town had long since been stripped bare, and though young saplings sprouted from the ground, it was dry dead timber the woodcutters wanted. Green wood was easier to chop, but it choked the galley stove, burned with less heat, and upset cook. And if cook was not happy, every man on board suffered the consequences.
Will all the necessary demands being attended to, Oliver was content to leave the ship in the hands of his first officer. He had full confidence in Simo
n Parry’s ability. Should he be cut down in action, or succumb to some deadly disease, he felt Mr Parry would easily step into his shoes and assume command. His lieutenant had ability, confidence and grace, and the required experience and knowledge to captain a frigate, having once commanded his own. In Oliver’s opinion, it was a travesty that a court martial had stripped him of his rank. But nothing he said or did could change that.
Sometimes, when he observed his lieutenant gazing out to sea, he wondered what thoughts were foremost in his mind. Was he jealous, envious or angry at his situation? If so, he didn’t display such feelings. In Oliver’s eyes, he deserved a command, yet Simon Parry accepted his step down as only a true officer in His Majesty’s service should. Perhaps he was a religious man, though he had never seen him reading a Bible or heard him quoting the scriptures. Perhaps he was consumed by conscience and accepted his position as the penance he must pay for the loss of one of His Majesty’s ships and the lives of many of its crew. But surely, as the war with France escalated, the Admiralty could not continue to ignore his ability and hopefully, in the fullness of time, he would receive the promotion he deserved. Oliver hoped that would be the case.
Jumping from the boat onto the beach, Oliver’s feet sank into the wet grey sand composed of small pebbles, broken shells, pumice and volcanic dust.
