Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  In the short time that they had been at anchor, Everit, the carpenter from Pandora, had brought a team of men across to inspect the French ship. King saw him now as he made his way back to the great cabin.

  “Ship’s in a reasonable state, sir,” he said, knuckling his forehead. “Frame an’ fabric are sound, an’ the Frenchies ’ve made some steps with repairs.” There was only a hint of disdain in Everit’s voice, and King guessed that he was quite impressed. “I’ve taken the liberty of settin’ my men to work in the great cabin, sir. Can’t do much ’bout that quarter-gallery, of course, but the rest’s a bit more habitable.”

  King looked past the man and was pleasantly surprised. The major shot holes had been plugged, and deadlights set up at the shattered stern windows. These were folded back now, allowing bright sunlight into the room, revealing scrubbed paintwork and fresh canvas flooring. Shuttering had been secured across the gaping hole left where the quarter-gallery had been, and furniture brought up from wherever it had been stowed before the action. Crowley was standing at the table that almost ran the entire length of the stern. There were three large silver candlesticks, along with other expensive items of table decoration. To one side a smaller table held several dozen crystal glasses that sparkled in the bright sun. Crowley, solemnly laying out places for a meal, was also watching him surreptitiously, clearly trying to gauge his reaction to the changes.

  “That’s good work, Everit,” King told him. “I wouldn’t have believed you could have done so much in a few hours. The carpenter gave a rare smile.

  “Amazin’ how the hands’ll work when it’s in their interest, sir.”

  Of course, Aiguille was to be condemned at the prize court, and any sum she made would be divided amongst the crew. The carpenter’s mates would share one eighth with other junior warrant officers, so it was well worth their while making the ship appear as sound as possible. King finally turned to Crowley.

  “Expecting company, are we?”

  The Irishman looked up. “Layin’ out the dinner, sir. Thought it would be a shame to waste all this good silver and china when we’ve fresh officers aboard.”

  It was probably right that he, as lieutenant in command, should welcome the new men with a meal, although King did not relish the prospect.

  “And have you found a man to cook for us?” King asked, temporising.

  “Oh there’s no shortage amongst the French, sir,” he said. “But then I’m a skilled man myself, an’ I’ll not disappoint you with made up meals. We’ve beef an’ kidneys a boiling in the galley an’ six geese ready for the spit.”

  King supposed that he should have become used to Crowley’s knack of filling the right hole at the right time, but just occasionally he hoped the man might make a mistake, if only to reveal himself human. The trust that had grown up between them was strong now; it was hard to remember the rough, supposed Nationalist he had first met barely a week ago.

  “You’re taking a lot on yourself,” he said, with a faint smile. “Doesn’t bother you, cookin’ for all these Englishmen?”

  Crowley’s face was quite impassive. “Why should it do that, sir?” He looked up and for a moment the smile was returned. “I always believe in keepin’ my enemies where I can sees them.”

  A tap at the door heralded the arrival of Dorsey, strangely in uniform after the slop clothes they had all worn for the last few days.

  “Boat from the flag brought this, sir.” There was something else about the lad other than the blue coat. He was regarding him in a reserved, contemplative way. Maybe this was bad news; had he been relieved of his command after all? King snatched the thick, waxed envelope from him and opened it. A single sheet of parchment was inside, nothing more. There was a seal to the left-hand side, and his name came out to greet him, written bold in a flowing hand. He took a quick breath. Below there came the signature of Sir John Jervis, then that of Evan Nepean; presumably the admiral kept a stock of these blank, so they could be issued at the appropriate moment.

  Slowly realisation dawned on him; he had been made, he was now officially commissioned as an officer. He felt the blood rush to his head. There would be no doubts now; unless he was broken or retired, he would receive half pay for the rest of his life. He looked to the bottom left and noted that he had been given seniority from the day of the action, a nice touch.

  “I’m made,” he said in a quiet voice, although all those about him were listening intently. Dorsey was smiling and wishing him joy of his commission, and even old Everit’s face cracked slightly as he knuckled his forehead, then cautiously offered him his horny hand. King felt the happiness erupt from within until it seemed to fill his very veins. There would never be a better time that this, never, not even if he rose to be admiral of the fleet. This moment was unique and would stay with him always. He felt the first warning signs of tears, and hurriedly brought himself back to matters in hand. Everit and his crew were all but done, and Crowley was quite right, there must be a welcoming dinner. He walked round the large table and stood looking out at the fleet through the broken stern windows.

  “So, you’re a King’s man, proper now, are you?”

  The voice of Crowley interrupted his thoughts. He turned to him.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Crowley smiled and offered his hand, which King gladly accepted. “I’m happy for you.”

  *****

  “You see the thing with heights is they never seem so bad from below.”

  Bennet nodded at this piece of wisdom, although to him the climb up to the foretopsail yard still seemed daunting, even when viewed from the stability of the forecastle.

  “Wind’s comin’ off our larboard quarter,” Ford continued. “So when they gives the word, we make for the larboard shrouds, that’s the weather side at present.”

  “I got it,” Bennet confirmed, but the doubts remained. In all the time he had been on board Pandora he had not gone aloft. Despite the fact he was a landsman, and completely unskilled, the Navy needed men, and for him to fall and die, or worse, be injured and take up space and medical supervision, would be a waste. First he had been trained in knots and splices, proved to be a steady tackle-man on the great guns and passed several watches with the afterguard. If he never excelled at anything else, at least he was now earning his space. More importantly Bennet had also shown himself capable both of taking instruction, and learning from it. Now he could be considered worth passing forward for the next challenge; for if he could be trained up as a topman, as Ford, his divisional midshipman, and the boatswain thought, he would really have arrived.

  To go aloft in the gentle warmth of a Portuguese breeze with the ship just gathering way was almost ideal conditions, as Bennet, who still viewed the prospect cautiously, was well aware. There could never be a better time, and if he were to fail, it may as well be now as ever.

  Forward, the men were catting the first anchor; at any moment Banks would order sail. The rest of the topmen stood in a group separate, aloof, from the forecastle hands and waisters. They were the elite, the best seamen in the ship. They were the ones who went up in all weathers, wrestled with unhandy masses of damp canvas, fought the elements that tried to knock them from their perilous perch, and performed all manner of tricks that would impress a circus performer. And all as many times as was necessary to secure the safety of the ship. In the British Navy shipboard accident was the second most likely cause of death, and even though it was these men who were the ones most prone to meet it, they remained determinedly undaunted by the risks they took. It was nothing to see a man walk the length of a yard, simply to avoid the slow and ponderous progress along the footrope, and to descend to the deck by any means other than a roughly tarred backstay was considered odd in the extreme. Off watch they would climb for recreation, competing with each other in all types of death defying tricks; a practice that had become known as skylarking. Even as a trainee, standing with the topmen and about to go aloft for the first time, Bennet was conscious of their sense
of pride and wallowed unashamedly in its reflection.

  Movement on the quarterdeck caught the men’s attention long before the high-pitched whistles and shouts sent the first man to the shrouds. It was Cobb, one of the midshipmen, who held it a point of honour to lead the men aloft, even though he would remain on the top, while they went out along the yard.

  “Come on, that’s us,” Ford told him, then made for the weather shrouds.

  Bennet was one step behind, and swung himself out over the side as he clambered above the forecastle channels, and up onto the shrouds. The ratlines, untarred rope that acted as rungs across the shrouds, were slack and moved alarmingly as he placed his feet upon them.

  “Three an’ one,” Ford muttered to Bennet’s left. Bennet nodded, he knew the rule: keep one hand and two feet or one foot and two hands secured at all times. Later when, if, he became proficient, he could indulge in the scampering antics that were now going on about him as the men swarmed up.

  “Keep your eyes to the top, the only reason you wants to look down is to see how far you’ve been. Measure it to the top, an’ you won’t need to look anywheres else.”

  They were getting closer to the foretop now; a proper platform, made from reassuringly heavy chunks of wood that seemed almost like an oasis of solidity in a floating world.

  “You can go through the lubber’s hole first seven times; after that it’s the futtocks for always.”

  Bennet watched as the other men clambered up the futtock shrouds, hanging back, almost horizontally, as they did, their entire body weight hanging on their fingers and toes. He gratefully made for the lubber’s hole and pulled himself through.

  “First time up?” the midshipman asked as he emerged on the foretop.

  “He’s for the foretops’l yard, Mr Cobb,” Ford answered for him. “Come on, they’ll be startin’ without us!”

  They were. In fact the foretopsail yard was already fully manned, with two leading hands sitting astride the yardarms as Ford and Bennet began to clamber up the topmast shrouds.

  “Tops’l will fall any moment. Might cause a bit of a draught, be ready for it.”

  Bennet nodded, the climbing had taken much of the wind from his body, and his hands and the soles of his feet were starting to complain.

  Sure enough the canvas was released in short jerks, then the entire yard moved round as the hands below manned the braces, pulling the sail into the wind. They had reached the foretopsail yard now, but Ford took Bennet onto the crosstrees to get out of the way of the other topmen, some of whom were now starting to clamber back in from the yard. There was a shout and a roar of laughter as Dickens, one of the nimblest, hitched onto an unsecured brace, letting himself down to the deck like a bead on a string, much to the annoyance of the forecastle men who had to hold him.

  “Come on, I’ll takes you out to the first quarter,” Ford told him, when the yard was empty, and it was at this point that Bennet looked down for the footrope, and the world began to swim.

  It was not possible, it could not be happening. There were all the features he had come to know about the ship: the grating, hatches, gangways, fife rails. All the clutter of a ship of war yet small, oh how small, and he was suspended above them with only his hands to hold him. He let out a gasp, and Ford immediately turned back.

  “Hey now. Fix your eyes on me, don’t worry about what’s going on below!”

  Bennet was rigid with fear. He knew that only by relaxing for a moment he would die. It was as if a great magnet was pulling him down. Pulling him down, sucking him from where he stood. Maybe it would be better to give in to it; anything was preferable to this terror. He felt a strong and surprisingly large hand over his, clamping him to the shroud that was only just in his grasp.

  “Grip tight, hold. Let me feel you hang onto that line.”

  Slowly Bennet found his hand was obeying, and his fingers fixed themselves to the thin rope. “Now the other, next to it.”

  He moved his left hand and took the line also.

  “Firm grip?”

  “Yes.”

  “There, now you can’t fall, see? Can’t fall ’cause you’re locked on. Got it?”

  Bennet nodded.

  “So, if you can’t fall, you’ve nothin’ to worry about.”

  It all sounded absurdly simple and yet, with his fingers tight about the line Bennet felt far better, so much so that Ford could remove his hand and leave him standing on his own.

  “Now, the horse is here, that’s the foot rope. No, don’t look, find it with your feet; reach out, feel.”

  The only thing that was keeping him up was Ford’s voice, and it was quite natural for Bennet to obey without question. He allowed himself to stretch one bare foot out into the air, and came unexpectedly into contact with a taught line. “You can rest on that, it’s safe. Put your weight on it.”

  He did, having to shift his body out slightly in order to do so. Then it seemed natural to lean against the yard, rest his belly on that firm, warm, smooth, timber.

  “That’s it, keep your weight forward, and you’re sure as a rock. Then step along, move your other foot on the horse.”

  Once more he obeyed, now resting both feet on the footrope, while his body leant over the yard, which his hands also gripped. Beneath him the foretopsail had filled with wind, and was now being pulled taught as the hands sheeted it home.

  “Right, move on. Watch out for the slings and stirrups; we’ll go to the yardarm and back.”

  They did, slowly at first, but gradually Bennet grew more confident until he was edging himself away from the mast in short but certain steps. The yard grew slightly thinner as he reached the second and third quarter and the square wooden pole became round and easier to grip.

  “That’s far enough, now rest forward.” Bennet turned to his right to see Ford bent over the yard, his body seemingly balanced about his stomach. It would mean looking down, and Bennet geared himself for the challenge, although as soon as he bent forward it was not the solid deck that met his eyes but deep, clear water. Deep, clear water. The sail was taught and he could look past it easily, while the height allowed him to see almost to the bottom. Deep, clear water. Soft, forgiving. He could fall now and it would be all right, although strangely he felt quite safe. Quite safe and, probably for the first time in his life, totally in charge. Below him the grey wash of a school of small fish could be seen as it magically flew beneath the surface. Changing direction as one, they appeared as a single large animal rather than many small.

  “All right are you?” He turned to Ford and grinned.

  He was fine.

  “Reach down to the sail, can you feel the earring?”

  Bennet felt the small rope and nodded.

  “An’ below that there’s the reefband, those are reefpoints that hang down. Next time you feel one of them it’s likely to be blowin’ some.”

  Bennet fingered the short lengths of sennet. Less than a month ago he had barely seen the sea, let alone a ship on it, and yet now all these details were starting to appear quite natural to him.

  “Ready to go down now?” Ford asked.

  “Aye, reckon so.”

  “Take it by the shrouds, if you likes. You done all right for a newcomer.”

  Bennet shook his head. He had gone through the lubbers’ hole, and had a bit of a wild time before he got onto the yard, and yet here he was now, far more solid aloft than he had ever expected to be. None of it would have been possible without Ford, and he wanted to prove himself to the man. Show him that he had been worth bothering about.

  “Take it down a back stay, if you likes,” he said.

  Ford’s eyes rose in surprise, but he smiled readily. “Aye, if you’ve a mind.”

  Bennet led them back to the mast, then Ford selected a backstay.

  “You got to take it slow. Speed up later if you wants, but watch yourself first time. Lines can burn, and if you go too fast you finish with one hell of a bump.”

  Bennet took hold of the line th
at was thick and iron tight.

  “Want me to show you how?”

  “No, I’ll be right.” He had seen too many topmen descend not to know what to do, and however confident he now felt, he had no intention of allowing Ford to leave him alone.

  “Swing your leg about, and hold fast. Gravity does the rest.”

  Bennet braced himself, then did exactly as he was told. Ford was right, in no time he was travelling down the rope, the rope that had appeared smooth, yet now turned out to be about as slick as a rat-tailed file. He closed his hands about the stay, and felt a stab of pain as the rope burnt. Panicking for a split second, he remembered his legs and closed them about the line. His duck trousers puckered slightly, but there was no doubt that he was slowing. Then the deck was suddenly very close, and instinctively he released his grip, and fell the last few yards, landing feet flat on the deck, and staggering forward a pace.

  Jameson was there, eyes wide as he grinned at him.

  “You done all right?”

  “Aye, he done all right,” Ford told them, as he too landed on the deck. “Not as fast as your first time down,” he said, punching Jameson playfully on the arm. When a boy Jameson had completed his first trip aloft by falling from a topsail yard.

  Peters, the boatswain, approached them, walking stiffly and with a grim expression on his face.

  “Al’ays take it as fast as that down a backstay an’ one time you’ll come a right cropper.” The elderly man reached out for Bennet’s hands and turned them palm up. There was a faint run of blood just appearing through the heavy coating of tar. “Hands grow thick with use, but you’ll never make’em fire proof. Take it slower, lad.”

  “Aye, sir. I got carried away.”

  The officer regarded Bennet for a moment, his deeply tanned grey face softened slightly and a smile was dangerously close. “You’re rated to the foretop from now on, so better keep an eye on ’im, Ford. But like I says, take it slower next time or you’ll end up on the deck like so much puddin’.”