by Bob Brown
Even Spencer had read most of his books and was weary of lying in his bunk all the time. He knew that other midshipmen were on to his shirking duty, but it was not his nature to care what other people thought. Acting Midshipman Oliver Perry had noticed that sea sickness had not affected Spencer’s appetite. When he saw Spencer standing by his bunk and asked mockingly, “Feeling better, Spencer?”
He grunted a sullen, “Umm hun.” He pulled the flimsy mattress from his bunk and hit it with his fist a few times. Calling these bags mattresses was an insult to the name. The narrow cloth bags were sparsely filled with goose feathers that quickly migrated away from the area of need and congregated in dense lumps around the edges. Spencer held it to his face, sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and shoved it away.
He took it topside to beat it on the leeward side of the brigantine. On the third beat, a gust of wind yanked it from his hands and it sailed some distance before it landed in the water. It quickly floated out of sight. “Well goddamn!” He watched for a moment, then leaned back and spit as hard and far as he could toward the lost mattress. A worthy spit indeed for the wind propelled it a great distance.
Looking to his side he noticed a boy who had watched the incident and was trying to contain his amusement. He said, “What’s your name and rank?”
“Charlie Stewart, Captain of the forecastle, sir.”
Stewart had not talked to him before and wrinkled his brow when he noticed Spencer’s eyes. Spencer ignored this typical reaction and said, “I’ll need a mattress.”
Stewart said, “Every man was assigned a mattress and I don’t think there’s one extra mattress on board, sir.”
“There will be a cup of rum for you if you bring me a mattress.”
“Only officers can have rum, sir. Captain Mackenzie made that very plain.”
“Hell, I’m not gonna tell Mackenzie, are you?”
“No sir.” Stewart weighed the risk involved and said, “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
That night a young boy yelled, “All right, who’s the son of a bitch who stole my mattress?” His demand was met with more indifference than sympathy. To report the theft might unleash Cromwell’s fury on many of his shipmates, which would alienate him from his friends. Perhaps worse, the brunt of Cromwell’s fury might fall on his shoulders for having lost his mattress. He decided to suffer in silence and for the rest of the cruise he slept with only hammock and blankets.
CHAPTER 6
“Well Oliver, how do you like navy life?”
Acting Midshipman Oliver Perry looked up from the note book he was writing in and greeted his brother, Acting Master Matthew Perry. “Hello Matt.” With so many men aboard the Somers, the brothers rarely found a private moment together. Oliver seemed perplexed over just how to answer his brother.
“Don’t look so serious. I didn’t ask if you believed in God or anything.”
Oliver smiled, “You caught me off guard, big brother. I guess I hadn’t thought about how I like the navy.”
“Forget it, I’ll ask you again in five years. Do you miss father and mother and home?”
“Of course. This life is harsher than I expected. Are all ships like this one?”
“How do you mean?”
“The Captain seems hard, cold. Not to me, I mean. It’s just that he goes along with all the floggings that Cromwell comes up with.”
“He’s strict, all right. But he believes strict discipline is essential on ships.”
“He’s good friends with Mr. Ganse and he’s nice to you and the officers, but it stops there. The boys aren’t getting much training. Punishment is all they can look forward to.”
“Not much different from other ships I’ve been on. Let me give you some advice though. We’re brothers and it’s all right for us to talk like this, as long as no one hears us. But don’t talk about the Captain, or any of the officers, to anyone else. Things get twisted around. It’s better to keep those thoughts to yourself.”
“Don’t you ever have such thoughts?”
“Sure.” Matthew hesitated, then sat down beside Oliver and lowered his voice. “This must go no further, you understand. The Captain is a snob.”
“A snob?”
“He cultivates the friendship of people he considers educated, well known, and influential. In his eyes everyone else is inferior or on a lower level . . .” Matthew sliced the air horizontally with his hand. “and he treats them according to the level he thinks they’re in.” Repeats slicing, each time at a lower level. “With these people, he’s strict, cold, and unsympathetic. To him men like Cromwell are tools of the trade and necessary. The uneducated orphans, scruffins, Negroes, and most foreign born boys are just ‘barnacles to scrape away’ as far as he’s concerned. They’re here and he can’t do anything about that, but they serve no useful purpose in his eyes. Now I’ve said more than I meant to.”
“What about Ganse?”
“Still, the Capt’n has some admirable traits, you understand.”
“Umm huh, and Ganse?”
“Ganse goes to the other extreme, a decent man, honest, too soft hearted, a bleeding heart for the scruffians. But enough of this, I’ve all ready violated my own advice. You get your mind on something else, hear? This kind of thinking will land you in trouble.”
**********
Mackenzie approved all corporal punishment but on rare occasions, if the victim passed out, for example, he would stop Cromwell from administering all of the lashes. On a whim Cromwell battered boys with his fist, whips, belaying pins, or whatever he could lay his hands on. Mackenzie might never know about these, or if he did, he refused to acknowledge that they had happened. Still, most of the time Cromwell would take the offenders before Mackenzie and the recommended punishment was seldom changed.
One balmy day Cromwell brought13 year old James Travis before Mackenzie. Travis had grumbled about scrubbing the spar deck with a soft sandstone. “Travis here, has a mind to shirk his duties, Captain, the poor thing don’t like holystoning the decks no more.”
Travis said, “Sir . . .”
Mackenzie interrupted, “Results are what counts, Travis, not excuses. What do you think, Cromwell, will six lashes with the colt put Travis in a better frame of mind?”
“Twelve lashes will be remembered longer, sir.”
“Twelve lashes then. Call the crew to witness.”
Crew members on the spar deck had stayed busy with their jobs, but watched discretely for the outcome of the conversation between Mackenzie and Cromwell. After talking to Mackenzie, Cromwell turned around and blew his silver whistle for assembly. The boys solemnly set down buckets and holystones and moved mid-ship.
Ganse and the midshipmen were ordered topside and stood by Mackenzie. Spencer stood by the bulwark and watched indifferently. He had known whippings for as long as he could remember. The wisdom of having Cromwell as a friend and not an enemy did occur to him.
Mackenzie believed that floggings punished the guilty, but also served as examples for all of the men. It was not a time for compassion; too few lashes, or lightly applied lashes, and the victim would later brag about how they could not hurt him. Experienced seamen were flogged with the cat-o’-nine-tails, a brutal punishment tool made of nine knotted lines fastened to a handle. The slightly less severe colt, used on younger boys, was a three-strand rope with frayed ends.
Travis removed his jacket and winced when ropes securing him to the Jacob’s ladder were pulled tight about his wrists. Cromwell delivered the first lash with all his might. Travis had determined not to yell out, but did so involuntarily. After the fourth lash, the boy’s legs quivered as weakness invaded his body. Ganse glanced at Mackenzie, hoping that he might order Cromwell to stop the flogging. Instead, Mackenzie was smirking and nodding in amusement at the sight of Travis’s grotesque leg movements.
When the sweating Cromwell finished the twelfth lash two boys with pained expressions untied Travis, who collapsed nearly unconscious on the deck. The two boys helped him st
and up and started to steady Travis’s wobbly walk. Cromwell shouted, “Leave him be. He can walk. All of you, back to work.” One boy handed Travis his jacket and they went forward to continue cleaning the deck.
Travis dropped to his knees and started the motions of holystoning the deck. He shivered, the warm sunshine and fresh sea breeze he had enjoyed such a short time ago had been driven away by the flogging. The flogging pain subsided but the cure for humiliation would take longer. The absence of shipmate chattering left only the creaking of planks, sails slapping, and waves smashing the bow. They seemed to come from some other world.
Cromwell passed uncomfortably close to Ganse and paused. When Ganse looked up into Cromwell’s massive face towering above him, sweat was dripping from Cromwell’s scraggly beard and his dark penetrating gaze was locked onto Ganse’s eyes. Then he slowly smiled. Ganse looked away. He was too close for comfort and proof of this came in the form of an animal smell that offended Ganse’s nostrils. He instinctively recoiled slightly and the thought passed through his mind that only a monster could harbor those horrible rotted teeth.
**********
In Captain Mackenzie’s mind the cruise had been uneventful so far. Lieutenant Ganse was not as satisfied as Mackenzie that everything was shipshape. He felt that the gale had caused excessive sea sickness and had lowered morale and disheartened much of the crew. Boys who had dreamed of adventure and escape from poverty now wished they had never heard of the Navy.
Mackenzie had procrastinated on assuming an aggressive hand in the training program. His real love was the sea. His intentions about training men had been honest and honorable in the beginning, but dealing with routine affairs of people simply did not interest him. Fortunately, Ganse and Perry had excellent talents in such pursuits and he could rely on them to produce good results. After all, a Captain must select good officers and then delegate them to carry out his program. There was not a whole lot he could do personally anyway. They could always come to him for guidance on discipline or anything else.
One morning, Mackenzie talked to Ganse about things they would need to do when they reached Funchal in the Madeiras. “We won’t need much and it’s just as well because there isn’t much in Funchal. We’ll take on fresh water, fresh fruits, and vegetables.”
“It’ll do the men good to go ashore and walk around some.” Ganse commented.
“Hadn’t planned on that. If we deliver dispatches to the Vandalia we can’t waste time in Funchal. The Vandalia may leave the coast of Africa before we get there. They don’t know to wait on us.”
Ganse insisted, “It’ll be worth a few hours and it’ll give the men a break. I’m concerned that morale is slipping.”
“Why do you think that? The brigantine’s surgeon tells me the men are in better condition now than when we left New York.”
“They are in good physical condition, but for their mental condition, I’m not so sure. These boys are young, homesick, and to be frank, sir, in constant fear of punishment.”
“Fear of punishment! As long as they do their duty, they have nothing to fear.”
Ganse said, “I’ve scanned the log book. There have been forty-three floggings in the three weeks that we’ve been under way. Some of the offenses are not that bad, accidentally dropping a knife, profane language, rough housing, spilling food. At this rate, every man will have at least one flogging before we tie up in New York again. And Cromwell whips with all his might. I’m sure he enjoys hurting these boys.”
“It’s not our mission to coddle these boys.”
“No sir, and flogging is the only way for some offenses. I just think our cruise will be more successful if the men are in a good frame of mind. Not just reacting out of fear of the whip.”
“I’m not sure I agree. My father was strict and applied justice with a hickory stick when I was growing up. I survived and am a better man for it. I joined the Navy when I was eleven. I’ve had a few floggings and I’ve done all right. It takes some fear to bring out the best in us.”
Ganse said, “I just felt as if you should know my thoughts on this.”
“I’ll think about it. The water tasted odd this morning. Maybe it’s just a jug from a different source, but have the surgeon test it, will you?”
Ganse shoulders sagged. “Yes sir.”
CHAPTER 7
Spencer seldom socialized with his fellow midshipmen, but when in the mood he laughed and talked freely with the crew on his watch. He established a special bond with Quartermaster Elisha Small. One evening Small observed Spencer leaning on the stern bulwark sipping out of a cup. He greeted Spencer with a nod and a twisted smile, hoping Spencer would offer him some rum as he had the previous night. He smiled broadly when Spencer told him to fetch his cup.
Small, a native of Maine, was at 30 one of the older men on board. He had sailed on many ships and not a better sailor could be found on board the Somers. His name, Small, was appropriate for his stature, but exceptional strength and agility more than made up for his size. Usually he joked and laughed with his mates and this sometimes misled first acquaintances. On another day and in another mood he might sit and solemnly stare at the sea for long periods. Interruptions would ignite an angry, “Leave me be, you bastard!” His sharp wit had everyone in stitches at times, but even so, young boys soon learned to give him a wide berth. He might sadistically tease them until they collapsed in tears. If they resisted his taunts, he could suddenly become vicious, grab the front of their shirt and put his knife to their throat. With a hysterical giggle, he would explain, “Just one quick swipe and you go to Davey Jones’s locker and not a tear would be shed for your worthless soul.”
The Somers steadfastly plowed into long swells. The crimson background of the setting sun made the Somers, and all aboard, appear to glow from some mysterious inner source. Small wasted no time getting his cup for Spencer’s offer of rum. Spencer enjoyed the dominate position he had earned by gifts of rum and cigars. He made Small wait for the promised rum. The pleasant breeze gently batted their hair as they watched the tired sun plunge into the western horizon. After several minutes, Spencer pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and poured two fingers of rum into Small’s cup. He had to conserve his supply but a small amount of rum would loosen Small’s tongue and he wanted to learn more about Small’s sea experiences. Spencer said, “Tell me about slave ships. Is there good money in slavin’?”
Small downed the rum in one gulp, hit his chest with his fist, and said, “Damn, that warms my gizzard. Slavin’s for the scum of the earth. Sure, a few top dogs get richer’n hell, but you don’t ever see those bloodsuckers. They’re living high on the hog in some mansion in Savannah or Richmond or somewhere. The mates at sea barely exist. Slavers are crowded and the worst smell on earth is a hold packed full of niggers. Dead carcasses to throw overboard every morning. Starving, moaning, blackies bellyaching all the time. Can’t get away from ‘em. My words gospel, don’t never sign up on no slaver.”
“I’ve read about pirates; They have a good life.”
“Everybody talks about cold-blooded pirates, and Lord knows they do take care of people problems straight away, but in lots of ways they’re better’n this lobster trap Navy we’re in. All mates on board a pirate ship share in the plunder and every man has a vote on what the next conquest will be. Sure enough, the captain has final say, but if enough don’t want him, he’ll go over the side and a new captain is elected. You can’t get more democratic than that. If a sailor don’t like the ship he’s on, he just gets off at the next port if he lives that long.”
Spencer asked, “Don’t you worry about getting your ass thrown in jail and maybe hanged when you tie into a port for water and supplies.”
“Hell no. You stay away from the big ports and you take over the small ports. Won’t nobody stop you. They’re afraid to. You take their money, drink their rum, ravish their damsels, and when you’ve had your fill, you cast off.”
The seaman manning the wheel close by appeared
unconcerned, but Spencer thought it better to keep their conversation private. He knew Small could speak Spanish and he decided to switch languages. Learning languages in school had been easy for Spencer. Good marks in any subject would have been easy, but that would have denied him the delight of aggravating his father. “I reckon the Somers would make a good pirate brigantine. It’s fast anyway.”
“Damn right,” Small replied in Spanish. “Light on guns, but there isn’t a ship in the world that’ll catch this’n. If you’re fast enough, you wouldn’t have to do battle with warships; just outrun them. You’d plunder the merchant ships that don’t carry many guns anyway. And they’ll have damsels to ravish on board, too.”
Spencer decided this conversation justified another round of rum. He poured Small another two fingers and at least that much for himself. They clicked their cups together and Small downed his as before. Spencer sipped his to make it last longer. “If you were a mind to take over a brigantine, how’d you go about it?”
“Hell man, you’re talking mutiny now.”
“Aw, I’m just curious about how you’d go about it.”
Small said, “You understand I’m not talking serious now. This is just a lot’a’ifen you were serious. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“First off, you make a list of mates you can depend on. You’ve got to have a good navigator . . .”
Spencer’s eyes darted at an increased rate. “I’ve learned some navigation.”
Small continued, “Yeh, I won’t brag on myself, but I’m a good navigator, too. You’ve got to know where you are when you’re at sea. You don’t see no landmarks out there, do you?”
