Such were his thoughts as he arrived at the officers’ mess at three bells in accord with his invitation. It was reasonably cool here when he stepped in, as it had been in his cabin, despite that most of his officers were assembled there already. He had an expectation that as the meal progressed the number of bodies in the crowded space would raise the temperature considerably. While he knew he was the youngest officer aboard, such realization struck him instantly as he entered. Not counting the boys who had volunteered as servants, every officer there was his elder – although not by much in the case of Lt. Ratshaw.
They all sat as soon as Neville had made his way to his chair, and the servants crowded ‘round behind them. Neville took the aft seat with his back to the gleaming mizzenmast, with Lieutenant Verley and Mr. Gooden to his right and left. Beyond them sat Act.-Lt. Daweson and Mr. Greaves, with Act.-Lt. Dinman and Lt. Ratshaw at the entrance end. It was immediately obvious that the group was out to give a good impression; a very pretty set of silver was spread thickly about the table, and the pewter plates and tureen were polished to an elegant shine.
“Good afternoon,” said Neville, meeting the requirement to have spoken first.
“We have a very good Madeira, Captain, having recently stopped at the island on our way here,” responded Lt. Verley. “Shall we begin with a toast to their majesties?”
“I should like that of all things,” answered Neville, thinking the notion of two monarchs exceedingly strange. “Please go ahead.”
The marine behind Lt. Ratshaw picked up the decanter and passed it down the line of servants to young Midshipman Weller, behind the captain, who unstopped it and poured Neville a glass. It was then passed to the left, that being the custom for the Loyal Toast, and poured for each. Once it circulated, Weller stoppered the decanter and placed it on the table.
“To their majesties,” announced Neville with his glass raised.
Following the obligatory “Hear! Hear’s!” Neville added, “and to the success of Experiment.” The “Hear! Hear’s!” were repeated, this time with even more enthusiasm.
The meal began to come out, bread first, and a starter of small fresh-caught dabs; reef-fishes, perhaps. The cook had done an admirable job with a simple white wine, butter and lemon sauce, and had even thought to place it artistically on some sort of green leaf. The ship rolled lightly to larboard over some larger wave, and Mr. Greaves’ boy almost sent his plate to the floor.
Deciding to do his best to get conversation flowing while dinner was being set out, Neville looked down the table and asked Mr. Greaves to “Give us what you know of the pirates in these waters, if you please.”
“Yes, Sir,” he responded, deciding that at his captain’s request he would repeat what he had related to his fellow officers on more than one occasion. Ratshaw and Daweson wouldn’t have heard it before, at any rate. “It has been almost two years since I was here in the Mordaunt,” he began, “but I expect things haven’t changed too much. Despite laws against them here in Jamaica, their numbers are no less than elsewhere. I am given to understand that there are ships out here with letters of marque from Spain, the Netherlands, mother England, and from France. That’s just the privateers. The pirates don’t even bother to obtain letters, and as you all know, we are now officially at war with the French.”
“What sort of ships do the pirates sail, Mr. Greaves? Do we fear ships greater than our fifth rate? Are we well matched to them, or can they not afford more than small sloops or pinnaces? Do they hunt in packs like dogs? I’ve read of Captain Morgan leading raids with hundreds of men in very small boats.”
“Gentlemen,” Neville added to the group before Greaves could answer, “If you have questions for our pirate expert, please do not wait for me to pose another. I would rather we share anything we might know ‘round this entire ship.”
Mr. Greaves began his answers to Neville’s questions, and then to questions arising from the others about any detail from the kind of weapons they carried to whether they sailed under any flag.
The starter was not yet removed when Mr. Daweson asked for the Madeira to be passed. Neville had had little opportunity to visit with his marine acting-lieutenant, and now looked at him with curiosity. He had previously noted that the man seemed to conduct himself well and kept his uniform in excellent condition. Tall and gangly, his pocked complexion was on the pale side for someone who had been at sea and then in the tropics for a couple months. Neville made a note to ask him later about how he had fared with the sickness. He looked maybe thirty years of age and sported mid-length thick brown hair that tufted out around his ears – somewhat like Ratshaw - and a vertical scar on his upper lip and nose were probably evidence of combat.
“Captain, we noticed that there were several ships readying for sea back in Port Royal, and the rumor is that they’ll be going out with us to find pirates. Can you tell us if that’s true?” asked Lt. Daweson when he saw Neville staring at him.
“Aye, Lieutenant Daweson, I can, now that we’re at sea. We didn’t want to confirm the rumors before we left, but I can tell you they’ll be going with us a very short time after we get back from this cruise. We will be the flagship of our own little squadron, if you can believe that. Oh….” Neville halted in mid-sentence. “A flagship must have flags. Do we have signal flags aboard?”
That question began another round of nattering between them, particularly involving Mr. Gooden, as the group tried to remember what the ship carried in the way of signals. During this discussion, a beautiful suckling pig appeared on a large tray in the center of the table, and at the far end a small turtle.
“What’s that stuff ‘round the pig?” asked Dinman. “Can you eat it? Should be an apple in the mouth. Cook ain’t trying to poison us, is ‘e?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” burst out Neville. “I see you haven’t had the pleasure of local fruit. That thing in the mouth is called a ‘shaddock’, and the yellow chunks ‘round about are ‘pineapple’. Try it. I’ve et them and found them most lickerous.” Neville did not find it very surprising that Dinman, a gray-haired salt who had risen from the ranks of able seamen, would be suspicious of any new thing – particularly in food. He did try it, though, and a great grin broke out on his ruddy face. He proposed a toast, and a decanter of yellowish-white liquid went ‘round to fill everyone’s glass. Raising his, he proposed, “Confusion to the French,” and threw back a great gulp.
“Hear! Hear!” cried them all, including Neville. On taking his gulp, his chest suddenly felt as if he had swallowed fire, and he knew his face lit up red. To the consternation of them all, he gagged and began a great choking and coughing fit, wheezing as if he had poured the liquid down his windpipe. He was instantly aware that the heat of the gunroom was much higher than it had been, and for a moment feared passing out, but managed to indicate to his officers that he needed no assistance; that he would survive. After recovering sufficiently to speak, he made profuse apology to drown his gaffe - to lead his officers away from his ignorance of history itself, in which he was now living.
“I most humbly beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he wheezed. He coughed violently twice, and then wheezed again, “I had thought that glass to be white Bordeaux, not rum. That is straight rum.” He coughed again. “You drink it thus, do you? Not grog? Not diluted four to one with water or with the juice of limes added? You serve it out thus to the hands?” Neville asked incredulously, wondering to himself, Straight rum? Do the men not fall from the yards? When did the navy change to grog? What else do I not know?
His officers looked at him in with something between disbelief and misunderstanding and said nothing for a moment until Mr. Gooden spoke, “Aye, Sir, exactly thus. Why on earth would we add lime juice? We’ve not heard of this ‘grog’ you mention, and we are in Jamaica, for all love. This is the source of the navy’s rum, you know, and the water is unhealthy for certain, as the Good Lord knows. I would fear a great unhappiness, if not worse, if we were to dilute the men’s’ rum. They’ve only recently got
ten over the change from brandy in the last few years, you remember? They would not stick it, not at all, at all, and it would be me they would look to. ‘Sneaky old Gooden’s taking his cut’, they would say.”
A remembrance came to Neville. Captain Cook made the discovery that his men stayed healthier if they had their vegetables or citrus fruit, but Cook had not sailed – would not sail, rather, until his first voyage - around 1770, if memory served. There was no keeping fresh fruit aboard for very long, so the simple solution is citrus, and the British navy had settled on lime juice. Since they are plentiful here in Jamaica, and I am the captain, I’ll simply order it, rather than explain it. He made up a story on the spot and gave to tell it with the least arrogance he could manage:
“On one of my previous voyages, gentlemen, our captain had insisted upon it. I know not why; whether he had a great taste for the lime or had encountered a doctor with strange notions I know not, but after three months at sea we were the only ship in the fleet that had not a single case of scurvy, and far fewer of your other diseases as well. Therefore, we will do the same here. As you all know, we can scarce afford to lose a single man, and limes are about as cheap here as anywhere in the world.” Taking care not to issue orders in the gunroom mess, he asked Lt. Verley to see him later for instructions.
No sooner had the eating begun in earnest and the wine sent ‘round again that the conversation became much looser. Jokes began, but Neville, to his great happiness, noticed no riddles; he’d never thought himself good at those.
Daweson was in some spirited conversation with Dinman who sat next to him, and his complexion had turned from pasty white to a ruddy red that almost matched Dinman’s. They had drawn one of the marine servers into it, as well. Greaves had asked Gooden what he thought to be a short question about the ship’s store of eggs, but Gooden had launched into a great tirade about how chickens had become so hard to come by, and blond Ratshaw at the far end was grinning at the skit being put on by his opposites.
Vincent Verley was on his best behavior, obviously, so Neville thought it might be a good time to ask about the ship’s company. Vincent had gained considerable weight over the last weeks. He kept his well-made uniform tidy and it no longer hung limply on a skinny six-foot frame. The shabbily-dressed lieutenant Neville had seen on his first visit to Experiment now looked the proper part of First Lieutenant. His thick brown hair was always neatly tied back with a ribbon and Neville had never again seen him unshaven. His enthusiasm completed the picture of a fine and capable officer.
“Her complement is 145 men in wartime, but when we set sail in June we had only 132 souls,” answered Verley. “You’ve seen what’s left. I think we’d have more if we hadn’t touched at Antigua. They had an awful wasting sickness going there, Sir, with the bloody flux. Creta alba did almost nothing for it.”
“Creta alba? If we have a doctor aboard, why haven’t I met him? Why is he not here?” Neville asked with surprise.
“No. No doctor. The men are far too superstitious for that. The carpenter’s mate is from a small village in Scotland where his father tended the sick, so he has some knowledge of medical things. Moreover, if we get into a battle, he will be handy with his saws. His name’s Mr. MacRead. Verily, Sir, it might take you some time to understand him.”
“Superstitious, you say? What else must I worry about? What do you take of their morale; their willingness to do their duty here, well away from Britain?”
“I’d not worry about it, Sir. There are the usual fears of strange food or having aboard doctors, women, jonases, and setting sail on a Friday, but not much more. To your other question, I feel we have a good company. A good half are men-o-war’s men who will serve whither goeth the ship, and most of the rest have learnt from them. The weaker of them have of course died. Your speech about not having the cat out of the bag for minor offences was the right thing to say. As long as we can keep ‘em in line without the lash, we should have a happy barky. The disease from the stop at Antigua has set us on our heels, though. We’ve lost many a good man, but many may be stronger for it. Just look at young Ratshaw down there. We had despaired of losing him. He was as thin as I was when you first met me, but he’s come back.”
Five bells struck, giving those at table pause and signaling the probable end of supper.
“Give us the toast, would you please, Lt. Ratshaw?”
“To our ships at sea,” he said (it being Monday), and following the “Hear! Hear’s” Captain Burton stood to leave.
Supper complete, Neville decided that it was time for another test of the men and their ship. He asked Lieutenants Verley and Ratshaw to follow him to the quarterdeck. Once there, he ordered a course change to west by northwest.
“Now, Sir? The wind has come up to around twelve knots. She’s not a good sailer, Sir, and we have up courses and tops’ls.”
Neville turned his gaze directly into Lt. Verley’s eyes, waiting for a moment to see if Verley remembered their earlier conversation.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” responded Verley and turned to yell forward.
Neville stopped him. “Lt. Verley, don’t call all hands. Make the change with this watch only. You may use all the time you need.” It puzzled Neville that they could have sailed this vessel here from England and have any concern about this change. The wind was from behind. They did not need to tack or wear ship, only change the positions of all the sails and turn the ship.
“Thank you, Sir,” he said, then calling Mr. Tilburne from below and asking Ratshaw and Greaves to join them at the larboard rail for a short conversation. Neville could hear that they were discussing the process by which they would turn the ship through about sixty degrees and maintain control without calling all hands. There were furtive glances in his direction.
They were ready. Lt. Ratshaw went forward to the foremast, Mr. Tilburne to the waist, and Mr. Greaves to the wheel. Lt. Verley and Midshipman Dinman stood at the forward rail of the quarterdeck by the mainmast. They heard Mr. Tilburne piping his mates, and after a few minutes of watching the men scurry to their stations and landsmen to the braces, they heard him again, piping ‘haul’. The marines, who had tramped aft to man the mizzen course sheet, were prepared for a course change to starboard.
“Braces, now, all round!” yelled Verley, and Neville could hear Ratshaw forward ordering the jib sheets loosened.
“Helm down, quartermaster,” Greaves ordered. “Steer small.” he added.
Experiment began a long, graceful curve to windward, and Neville began thinking to himself that ‘his men’ would be trained for action in a short time; a week or two. The yards were coming around well, and the landsmen had not stopped hauling. However, the ship did not come to her new course and quit her turn. Together, Burton and Greaves recognized the helmsman’s error, turning and shouting as one, “Helm up!”
Greaves added, “’Vast your turn,” at the same time Neville was yelling, “Hold the bow down!” The quartermaster began spinning the wheel in the opposite direction, apparently confused by the different orders. While the force of the wind had been from directly behind it drove the ship forward, and she stood straight and tall. The sails had been adjusted aslant for a new course, so the wind struck the sails at a new angle now, and she began to slow. Furthermore, the quartermaster had turned the ship too fast and too far around, bringing her sails very near straight across the wind. The wind’s force was no longer from aft, but from the starboard side of the ship.
Neville turned forward and bellowed, “Belay,” without noticing the quartermaster’s recent change of action. The fore and main courses, together with the jibs, had begun to luff with a violent noisy flapping and shuddering in the rig. The fore topsail, however, abruptly slapped flat aback with a noise that sounded like a thunder clap out of a clear sky. The ship was now turning smartly back to leeward. She shivered and rolled hard to larboard.
Greaves had jumped to the wheel and was helping the dazed quartermaster to force the helm down again, but with the sails be
layed close-hauled, the ship herself was confused. Experiment solved her problem by heeling to her beam ends as the wind then drove all her square sails toward the Spanish Main.
“Throw off the sheets Mr. Dinman!” screeched Neville. “Throw ‘em off.”
To his credit, Lt. Verley was also yelling forward, “Let fly the foretops’l sheets!”
An agonizing five seconds passed while the ship rolled down to scoop great gulps of blue water over the larboard bulwarks. Seawater poured down the open main hatch, and Neville’s childhood vision of foundering rolled through his mind again. A man fell screaming from the starboard side across the now-vertical deck, only to be caught by the boats in the center. The men on the braces fell as a group against the leeward bulwarks, but none released their hold even when the ocean rolled over them. Their fear of being washed overboard overcame their fear of drowning on deck. To Neville’s amazement, nothing carried away. The big mizzen course began to shake like the other sails - enough to make itself felt in the sturdy quarterdeck beneath his feet. Then it suddenly slapped hard as slate when Greaves – now at the wheel - found the right tack for the new setting of the sails. At that, Experiment popped up vertical like a cork on a fishing line, then rolled a third of the way back to leeward and surged forward, responding to pressure on the now-taut canvas. The motion was so quick that Dinman was almost pitched over the stern railing. Water gushed off the deck through the scuppers as from fire hoses. Greaves and his mate had control.
A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2) Page 9
