Nelson wanted to decline the command of a press gang, but the look in Waddle’s eye left him in no doubt that such a request would be denied. The premier spotted his hesitation to proceed though, and commented on it. ‘You find the idea uncongenial, I can see. The trouble is, Mr Nelson, if your uncle and the Navy Board cannot supply the fleet with enough men, we must go out and press them ourselves.’
‘Estuary boats would be better than prowling the streets, sir.’
‘They would not! Every ship-of-the-line will have their longboats off Margate and the Essex coast. Take the word of one who has real experience. I was active there during the Falklands quarrel. Blood was spilt then and
there will be blood once more. And it won’t be merchant seamen with dented skulls, it will be the crews of the men-o’-war doing battle with each other for some minor advantage, rather than searching for the few scarce hands they can take up.’
There was no denying the truth of that; two ship’s crews in the same location, on land or at sea, seeking to recruit or press men for their own vessel, invariably ended in a brawl.
‘Then let me go further out, sir, south of the Downs, if necessary.’
‘A letter to your uncle would do more good,’ Waddle snapped. ‘We’re still eighty men short on our complement, and that with the conflict barely begun.’
‘Perhaps some of the men who would naturally volunteer dislike the idea of fighting the American colonists.’
‘How about you? Are you one of those dissenting Fenland types?’
Nelson refused to be drawn on that, even if he did have some sympathy with the revolutionaries. The affair had been badly handled. And the good folk of Norfolk, many of whose Puritan ancestors had provided the first settlers, had been quick to say so. His own opinions didn’t count. He was a serving officer holding a King’s commission. If the sovereign decided that the Americans must be chastised rather than persuaded, he had little choice but to obey.
‘We are unlikely to find eighty sailors wandering the streets.’
‘Bodies will do, Nelson. We’ll make sailors of them when we get to sea.’
‘What’s the tally, Mr Waddle?’
The premier raised his hat as Captain Locker approached, his limp exaggerating the rolling sailor’s gait. The information that a hundred men had come forward was treated with a grunt. Lowestoffe was detailed to escort a convoy already assembling in the Downs.
‘We need more’n that to do our duty!’
‘I agree, sir. I was just about to detail Mr Nelson to press more hands, but he seems to harbour a degree of reluctance.’
Locker’s eyes, lit by flaring torches, seemed to blaze with more ferocity than the flames. ‘Does he, by damn?’
Waddle’s explanation made much more of Nelson’s disquiet than was strictly true, but he couldn’t complain. Locker had set up a rendezvous near the Tower of London, and that had brought in volunteers, but they were a sorry bunch, with few real tars among them, dregs tempted by promises of regular food, clothing, West Indian sunshine. Poster parties were still out in strength, proclaiming Locker of the Lowestoffe to be a follower of the great Admiral Hawke and as like to achieve success as his mentor. They were also busy ripping down the proclamations of rival ships, replacing them with their own. That the other ships’ companies were likewise engaged was held to be common practice, and as long as they were not caught in the act of destruction, nothing would be said or done.
‘I agree with Waddle about the estuary, Nelson,’ said Locker. His voice carried no trace of anger as he continued, ‘And don’t go thinkin’ your reluctance is singular. Pressing men is a damned unpleasant business and not one that I ever took pleasure in.’
‘But it is, sir.’ insisted Waddle, ‘very necessary.’
Locker nodded, eyes still on his second lieutenant. ‘We have no other way of crewing the ship, Mr Nelson, and what cannot be gainsaid must be borne. Now, go about your duty, and do as well as you are able.’
‘There’s two ways of doin’ this, your honour,’ said Giddings, a short, burly bosun’s mate, with a flat face made more so by an oft broken nose. Waddle had put Giddings at Nelson’s disposal along with seven other crewmen, and Bromwich, a twelve-year-old midshipman, was bringing up the rear.
Nelson knew the latter better than Giddings since he had made a point of ensuring that the midshipmen’s mess was being run in the proper manner. Thanks to his strictures, Bromwich, tall, gangling and a touch bovine, was in more danger of bumping his head than being bullied by his messmates. Giddings was a different case altogether. You could see from his face, squashed nose and a cauliflower ear, that he liked to scrap. As a man who would inflict punishment with the cat he had to be a hard case. Nelson always had to fight his own natural dislike of a breed like that, reminding himself that, from his privileged position, he was in no position to carp at how others made their way in the world.
‘I’ve done this afore,’ Giddings added, ‘an’ you either has to get them drunk, or find them that’s had too much ale already. The former be the easier.’
‘The first way wouldn’t entail the crew enjoying a drink as well, would it, Giddings?’
The bosun’s mate didn’t see the faint grin on the officer’s face as he grunted his reply. The street was too dark and Nelson was ahead of the lanterns. These men barely knew him and they would assume he was a soft touch until he proved otherwise. That was a notion of which they needed to be disabused.
‘Else we find a rookery, surround the place,’ Giddings added, ‘an’ take out every man who’s able of body.’
‘Ten men to surround a rookery that might contain several hundred souls?’
There were enough dwellings of that nature around the areas that abutted the London docks, rambling ramshackle affairs, one hutch tacked on to another in a dizzying configuration with no thought to order, home to people well versed in avoiding anything smacking of authority. The whole south bank of the Thames was lined with them, the homes of those attracted to the work the docks provided, a place where criminality flourished alongside poverty and disease. The locals knew their patch, alleys no bigger than an inadvertent gap between two shacks, trapdoors and roof spaces that provided ready exit in a way that no outsider could hope to unravel. There was only one way to take a rookery: seal the external exits with one large body, while another systematically searched the interior.
‘It’s not a lot I will grant, your honour, but it might serve to get us what we want.’
Why didn’t Giddings share his own revulsion at what they were being asked to do? The man might be a volunteer himself, and as a bosun’s mate he had achieved some status. But he had more in common with the men they were seeking to take up than he had with the officer leading him. The rest of his party was just as ardent, and he knew that one or two of them, peacetime sailors, had been initially pressed in wartime themselves. Surely, from what they knew about life before the mast in wartime aboard a man-o’-war, they would be more inclined to run than gather more victims. Nelson knew he couldn’t ask, but his curiosity was so acute that a way of proceeding came to mind.
‘I had a friend once, Giddings, a man called John Judd. I served with him on a merchant vessel.’
The bosun’s mate was genuinely surprised. ‘You did merchant service, your honour?’
‘I did, and as a common seaman. A round voyage to the Caribbean in which I learnt a great deal not vouchsafed to many officers, most of it imparted by that same John Judd. He even spoke of the activity in which we are presently engaged.’
‘So what did this friend of yours say?’ Giddings asked, guardedly.
‘I fear I must quote him at the peril of my soul. He said that pressing men was a job for a poxed son of a shit shoveller’s bitch, but that there wasn’t a King’s hard bargain born that didn’t fucking love it.’
Giddings hadn’t gasped at the language, the like of which he had heard often enough on an officer’s lips. But the man he was with now was reckoned to be pious, fr
ee from harsh judgement and disinclined to raise his voice or bark his orders. There was a different note in his own voice as he replied, ‘I’ve never been one to deny another a favour, your honour.’
Nelson laughed. ‘A favour?’
There was a note of emphatic sincerity in the man’s voice as he responded. ‘For certain, your honour. Don’t forget that I’ve been ashore, man and boy, and I know how hard it is to make a crust. ’Tis no different for others that we take up, half starved, livin’ by beggin’ or riflin’ the rich man’s bins. Least we feed ’em ’board ship. And providin’ they don’t pine too much for home, and they attend to what they’re shown, well, they come to love the life.’
‘I imagine John Judd would say bollocks to that.’
‘Just how long was you on this merchant barky, your honour?’
‘Long enough, Giddings, to know when I’m being invited to piss into the wind.’
Giddings chuckled. ‘How about the fact that if I ain’t got a warm feather bed and a wide comfortable arse to snuggle to then I’m damned if anyone else will be free to enjoy the like?’
‘Now that has the ring of truth.’
‘Sir,’ called Bromwich from the rear.
‘A hush, sir, if you please.’ Nelson heard the singing as soon as he stopped talking, drunken warbling that was plain at a distance.
‘Sounds like trade to me, your honour,’ hissed Giddings, shading his lantern.
‘What’s the best method?’
‘Doorways, lads,’ muttered the bosun’s mate, ignoring his officer. ‘Keep hidden and come out on my yell.’
Nelson found himself in a doorway too, his own lantern shaded, listening as the noise grew louder. The cold night air had already penetrated his boat cloak and now, standing still, it was chilling him to the marrow. He couldn’t see their prey, but the shuffling, uneven feet told him they were very drunk indeed. He knew they wouldn’t be sailors, even here, close to the docks. Seamen might not be noted for true wisdom, but any man who sailed a vessel into the Pool of London couldn’t fail to see the ships fitting out for the Americas further downriver, and blue-water men, according to John Judd, knew how to keep away from the press.
Giddings didn’t yell. Indeed, he hardly raised his voice as he said, ‘Take them, lads.’
Ghost-like, in the dim light from the stars, the men emerged. The trio tried to resist, to insist that they were of gentle birth. Neither was much of a success. They were too drunk to stand upright and even in dim of a lantern Nelson could see they wore clothes that were close to being rags.
‘Might I suggest, your honour, that we whip this lot off to the premier. The racket they’re making will scare off any more prospects.’
‘Make it so, Giddings,’ Nelson replied, shivering slightly.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Giddings asked, holding up his lantern, and peering into the officer’s face.
‘Fine!’ Nelson insisted, though he felt anything but. The cold and damp seemed to have seeped right through his body, which shuddered uncontrollably every few seconds.
‘You don’t look it,’ Giddings insisted, with real concern.
‘Are you a surgeon, man?’ Nelson snapped. ‘Attend to your duty and let me do the same.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Giddings replied, his voice, for the first time, stiff and formal now, thinking, Happen this officer weren’t so soft after all.
He detailed two men to take the captures, now with their arms bound, to the Tower. Within the hour they would be entered on the Lowestoffe’s books. Then the party set off down more narrow, stinking alleyways. The ever-present smell of human waste and filth seemed to press in on him like the buildings above his head, adding to Nelson’s discomfort. The streets, if such lanes could be flattered by such a description, cleared ahead of them. The locals knew who they were, and if some of the men were too drunk to flee, they had womenfolk or friends around who, when alerted, dragged them to a secure place. They tried one tavern, but it was full to bursting with scarred, tough looking individuals, too numerous for such a small party.
‘If we mark the spot, your honour, we can come back with more men.’
‘Yes,’ Nelson responded weakly.
Giddings’s lantern was lifted high, to show a pale sweating face, eyes that were without spark, and a mouth that was slack at the corners. ‘You ain’t on the up and up, sir, no matter what you say. Death’s door be more like it.’
Nelson waved his hand to push Giddings and the lantern aside, but his gesture was too feeble to achieve anything, serving only to confirm that he was sick. He fell forward slightly, the bosun’s mate grabbing his arm to steady him.
‘Thank you, Giddings,’ he whispered, pulling himself upright, willing himself to fight the desire to let go.
‘Mainmast goin’ by the board,’ the sailor replied, as Nelson started to fall over. Giddings caught him, and with one easy arm hoisted him on to his shoulders. The protest died in Nelson’s throat as the world around him, dark night pricked with lanterns, lost focus.
‘Back to the Tower, lads. Mr Nelson has passed out.’
‘Weak as piss, is he?’
‘Don’t know, matey,’ Giddings replied, half turning with the comatose officer on his shoulder. ‘He ain’t half bad as commissioned sods go. But I’ll wager this, if the little bugger fights like he swears, he’ll be a rare plucked ’un.’
CHAPTER 19
Being seasick for the first time was an added burden for a man already weak from fever. Nelson was self-conscious about his condition, though none of his fellow officers referred to it, aware that they, too, might succumb to a different motion than the choppy seas they were now experiencing. At least he knew it would pass, which was more than could be said for the pressed men they had hauled aboard. Exposed to their first taste of the North Sea off Ramsgate, they were convinced they were about to die. Given they had lacked good health before going to sea, several looked as though they might be right.
Not knowing their duty they had to be driven to even the simplest task often with the end of a knotted rope, a starter that stung the back of the ribs as the petty officers applied it with relish. Grey skies, a heaving ocean and sporadic rain added to the discomfort of working on deck. Hands that had clenched on a rope became blistered and raw as they heaved on the braces, or hauled on lines to get sails and spars aloft.
Sentiment had to be put to one side. An inexperienced crew, indulged, might sink them, and Lieutenant Nelson was as harsh as his own condition would allow him to be. He yelled as loudly as Waddle, though he eschewed use of a starter, instead pushing men into place with his bare hands. On several occasions he knew how close he came to receiving a return blow for his efforts. But before they had put to sea, William Locker had read them the Articles of War, so each landsman knew that death was the penalty for striking an officer.
As second lieutenant, Nelson was in charge of half a watch, with only a quartet of proper seamen to help him control over fifty men, not one of whom seemed ever to have laboured in his life. A very few had some semblance of brain, but most were thicker than the wood on which they stood, gormless individuals who could not comprehend any request to haul on a rope, even if it was accompanied by careful, repeated explanation.
‘Come along Mr Nelson,’ yelled Waddle, moving forward from the quarterdeck to where his second was supervising a party just in front of the gangways overlooking the waist. Free with his starter, the premier laid into every back that presented itself, leaving the unfortunates cowering in his wake. ‘You must get your men on to the mainmast braces quick, or God knows what fate we’ll endure.’
‘They’ll be slick enough when they know their duty, sir.’
Waddle swung at another head that was trying to retch into the sea, catching the man across the cheek. ‘By damn, they’ll know their duty or take a turn at the grating.’
That was Waddle’s response to all transgressions – a good flogging. Nothing would persuade him that there was another way and Nelson w
as in no state even to try now; he was so weak he had to take hold of the hammock nettings to remain upright. Another sudden shower hit them as he opened his mouth to protest. ‘They are my division, sir. Might I be allowed to discipline them?’
‘They are my responsibility, sir!’ Waddle yelled, swaying easily on his good sea legs as the water streamed off his oilskins. ‘So is the whole ship. And take care that I do not see fit to discipline you.’
Waddle pushed the thick, knotted rope into his second lieutenant’s hands. ‘Take this, sir, and apply it heartily. And that, Nelson, is an order.’
The weather worsened as they rounded the South Foreland off Dover, to beat down the Channel into the teeth of a westerly rain filled wind. The watch was changed, and a new set of sick, useless individuals came on deck, those going below staring at him in disbelief as he told them to piss on their hands so the blisters would heal. If anything, having been confined below, the new lot were in a worse state than their companions, the rags they wore soon drenched, their hair matted over low, confused foreheads.
Aware that Waddle was watching him, their officer swung the rope, adding the obligatory curses, although the starter landed with little venom. Yet such consideration was wasted. These men had so little experience of the sea that they considered themselves hard done by and they saw the man who commanded their division as a tyrant.
Life below was just as rough. Experienced hands were determined that these lubberly newcomers should defer to them. Men soaked to the skin shivered in damp hammocks as cold air whistled around them, occasionally retching over the side, though their stomachs contained nothing that would stain the red painted deck. Two men died before their watch was turned out again, either from despair or fatigue, their emaciated frames testifying to the life of poverty they had abandoned in order to enlist in the King’s service.
Facing a five-day blow with a brand new crew taxed all of Captain Locker’s ability as a seaman. The master and he were rarely off the deck, as they shifted canvas and wood to haul round so that Lowestoffe could make some headway into the screaming westerly wind. There were ports off his lee that would harbour the entire convoy if conditions worsened, but Locker wanted no safe anchorage if it could be avoided. So Portsmouth, Lymington and Poole were ignored until, due south of Plymouth, he put his helm down and took the wind a few points off his stern. His bowsprit was now set on a course to weather what they must pass with plenty of sea room, the coast of Brittany off Ushant. The manoeuvre was copied at once by every one of the merchant captains for whom he was responsible, each one heaving over to show the copper that lined their bottoms as the wind drove into their side.
On a Making Tide Page 25
