A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  “Where is Beechum?” Charles asked. Lieutenant Beechum, the senior midshipman on Louisa, had been provisionally raised in rank the year before. The Admiralty had since confirmed the promotion and Charles had requested that he be posted with him as Cassandra's third lieutenant.

  “Asleep below,” Bevan answered. “I’ve kept the lieutenants as watch officers because of our situation. He was up all night.” Then he added, “Who’s this?”

  Charles turned and saw Augustus carrying one of his sea chests toward him. The other lay on the deck boards by the entry port. As there were no hands to sway them aboard the man must have hauled the things up the side himself. Charles introduced his steward to the assembled officers. Augustus answered seriously as each name was spoken with a nod of his head. “If you would be so good as to take them to my cabin, I’ll be along presently,” Charles said.

  Augustus looked around him. “Where be your cabin?”

  Charles realized that he had no knowledge of the frigate’s arrangements. There would be a lot that would have to be explained. “Aft on the gundeck,” he said patiently.

  “Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus answered. “What am the gundeck and where be aft?”

  “I see. Mr. Sykes, would you be so good as to show the way?”

  “Of course, sir,” Sykes said.

  “Afterward, perhaps you could acquaint him with the general layout of the ship. Take your time; it’s a lot to learn if it’s all new.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sykes answered. Turning to the black man and arching his head back, he said, “Augustus, is it? If you would accompany me, please. You ain’t small, are you? Mind your head.” Winchester also took the opportunity to be excused.

  Alone with Bevan, Charles looked around him once more, attempting to take in the details of the ship. The contrasts to his previous command were immediately apparent. There were gangways running above both sides of the gundeck connecting the fore and after castles and providing some protection for the gun crews below. She was longer by about fifteen feet to accommodate the four additional twelve-pounder cannon that were her main armament and proportionately wider in the beam. An evident Englishness stood out, whereas Louisa had been originally French. He could see that she was of heavier construction and, because of her increased size and sturdier frame members, would displace a greater weight of water. His mind turned irresistibly to how she might run with the wind on her quarter or how handy when tacking. He decided that she would probably not be as fast as some, due to her greater weight, but she would hold her own in rough seas, and he saw no reason she might not be as quick as any in the stays. This led him to thoughts of putting out to sea, and to the state of her fittings, armament, and supplies.

  “What still needs doing before we are prepared to sail?” he asked.

  “You mean aside from finding a crew that’s willing to actually work?” Bevan answered. “Let’s see, we’ve yet to receive our powder and shot. That’s the biggest thing. I’ve had to put the deliveries off since we’ve no one to stow them. I did manage to complete our stores of water, victuals, and wood. Told them they wouldn’t be fed otherwise. There’s some small rigging work still to be done aloft, and a few other odds and ends, but we could attend to that as we go. We’d be ready to weigh most any time after we find some additional hands and the ones we have get over their current fit of pique.”

  “We’ll see what we can do,“ Charles said. “In the meantime, I am going to my cabin. If you would please send someone for me when it’s time.” He turned and made his way below, trying to take in the details of the ship. She was untidy with unsecured falls and carelessly placed gear, but her line and cable work were all new and freshly tarred against the weather. At the base of the mainmast he took a moment to collect a loose signals halyard that particularly offended him. He looped the excess around his hand and elbow, tied it off, and hung the line in its proper place.

  Once down the ladderway to the gundeck he paused to examine the freshly painted twelve-pounder cannon neatly aligned on their carriages, thirteen to a side. They were the newer Bloomfield pattern guns. The Ordinance Board must have ordered them to replace the outdated Armstrong models. This pleased him. He was aware that a number of the crew were watching him warily from across the deck; indeed, some had removed themselves from the pathway to his cabin to give him a wide berth. He did not acknowledge their presence, but noted that most were able seamen, the older, professional, highly skilled men who knew the ropes and the accepted customs of shipboard life. Most had been at sea all their lives and tended to be conservative in their outlook and expectations. In the normal way of things, nothing happened without their consent and they had their own methods of enforcing discipline below decks, almost none of which ever reached a captain’s ears. If there were to be a real mutiny, it would only be with their blessing. If the crew were to return to their work, it would be because the able seamen said so. In whatever they decided, the ordinary seamen, landsmen, and ship’s boys usually followed.

  The marine sentry at the door to the captain’s cabin came to attention as he approached, then stepped aside for him to pass through.

  “Thank you, Private,” Charles said. “May I know your name?”

  “John Smith, sir.”

  “How long have you been posted on board?”

  “’Bout a week, sir,” the sentry answered, still standing rigidly erect, his eyes fixed on some point over Charles’ shoulder.

  “And how do you find life aboard?”

  A flicker of curiosity passed over the marine’s face, but he answered formally, “I find it agreeable, sir.”

  “Truthfully,” Charles said. “Have you no complaints?”

  “Well, sir,” the man’s eyes settled on Charles momentarily before looking away again. “The victuals ain’t too special, if you take my meaning, sir.”

  “Thank you again, Private Smith. I’ll look into what can be done about that. Pass the word for the ship’s cook and purser to attend to me, if you will.” Charles pushed open the door and entered his cabin. He found it a relatively large room, at least larger than he’d had on Louisa. A desk set against the forward bulkhead and a table with six chairs midships close to the stern windows were the only furnishings. The deck beams were just high enough for him to walk upright beneath them, and there was a raised skylight cut into the quarterdeck above. The canvas-shrouded forms of four cannon projected into the space, two on each side. When cleared for action, the forward bulkhead to the cabin and all his things would be struck below, the guns uncovered, and his quarters would become an indistinguishable part of the gundeck running the length of the ship.

  Charles hung his hat and sword on pegs fastened near the door. The sea chests lay on the deck in the center of the room, which meant that Augustus was still being shown around the ship by Sykes. He crossed to the table and sat; steepled his fingers, and attempted to decide what he should do next. A knock at the door interrupted him. “Mr. Burton and Mr. Wells are here, sir,” he heard the marine private announce. Charles assumed this would be the cook and the purser.

  “Come,” he called back.

  The door swung open; two men entered. One was rather short, wearing a stained apron and a wool cap. He had a cheerful look about him aided by a certain ruddy tint to his cheeks. The other was of average height, somewhat elderly, and more presentably dressed. He carried a ledger tightly under his arm. Charles stood and gestured for them to take chairs opposite him at the table.

  “Which of you is the ship’s cook?” he said as soon as they were seated. He knew which was the cook by his dress, of course, but he didn’t know which name belonged to whom.

  “Peter Burton, sir. Pleased to meet ye,” the pink-cheeked man said affably.

  “What are your intentions for this evening’s dinner, Mr. Burton?” Charles asked directly.

  “Dinner, sir? For the crew?”

  “Yes, Mr. Burton. For the crew. Not, for example, the populace of China.”

  “The usual, sir,” t
he cook answered, any sarcasm evidently lost on him. “I’ve salt beef, fresh from the cask, ship’s bread, and sauerkraut. The kraut’s good for the scurvy, I hear.”

  “You’ve no vegetables, fresh bread, flour for gravy, anything like that?”

  “I ain’t got stores for provisions like that,” the cook protested.

  “We are in harbor, Mr. Burton. Provisions like that can be obtained from the victualing wharf.”

  “Well, yessir, but . . .”

  Charles cut him short. “These are my orders, Mr. Burton. “It is too late to change tonight’s supper, although you may send someone on shore for fresh bread.”

  “Yes, sir,” the cook said doubtfully.

  “I further require that in future, dinner and supper will include fresh vegetables, soft bread, fresh meat if you can get it, and the like. It is my wish that it be palatably cooked. This will be the rule whenever we come into a port or harbor where local provisions can be obtained. Is that understood?”

  The cook nodded.

  “Good. Don’t forget about the bread, and add some fresh butter while you’re at it.” Mr. Burton pushed back his chair, rose, and started toward the door.

  Charles turned to face the purser who eyed him cautiously. “Do you have a concern, Mr. Wells?” he said.

  The purser laid his ledger book on the table so that it was exactly centered in front of him and precisely squared to its surface. “I am not authorized by the victualing board to expend unlimited sums on independently procured foodstuffs, sir,” he said tightly. “I am required to draw provisions from the yards whenever possible.”

  Charles understood that pursers were at least in part independent contractors who were expected to enhance their minimal salaries by economizing on provisions and through the sale of certain “necessities” such as tobacco, candles, and clothing to the ship’s company. There was ample room for corruption in this system and some pursers amassed small fortunes at the expense of their crews’ comfort. On the other hand, there were those who overspent their allowances and were bankrupted when held responsible for the deficit. A ship's captain was officially responsible for reviewing his purser's accountings and checking for any malfeasance. Some were diligent in this tedious task, others scarcely bothered. Pursers were rarely beloved figures by a ship’s crew, who universally assumed they were being cheated, real or not.

  “I am aware of the requirements of your position, Mr. Wells,” Charles said. “I know, for example, that when in an English harbor you are entitled to draw fresh provisions from the victualing wharf.”

  The purser did not apologize. “I have only come onboard these three days past,” he said. “I have not yet had the leisure to attend to it.”

  “I trust you will find the leisure for it the first thing on the morrow,” Charles said.

  “If that is your wish,” Wells answered pertly.

  “It is my wish to have a healthy and happy ship, Mr. Wells,” Charles answered. “I may tell you that we are about to embark on a prolonged cruise into potentially hostile waters. Neither you nor I would wish the temper of the ship’s company to be otherwise.”

  The purser nodded noncommittally. He was a close man with his feelings, Charles decided, and had probably been caught making a few extra shillings by keeping the crew on seagoing rations. Wells would bear watching in the future.

  “Is that all, sir?” the purser asked.

  “That is all for now, Mr. Wells,” Charles said. “Thank you for attending me so promptly. I will be pleased to review your ledgers regularly on Wednesdays. I trust you find that agreeable.”

  When the purser had gone, Charles looked once more at his watch. He needed to come to a decision on what to say to the crew when he read himself in. The thought of it stirred up the bile in his stomach. He would be expected to speak about their pay and what he would do about it. But what could he do about it really? He must make no more empty promises. It would be important to set the right tone, to reassure the men that he would be a fair commander, that he believed in a disciplined ship, that he expected hard work from them and their best efforts at practice with the guns or aloft. He could appeal to their patriotism, or even religion—the French were after all known to be Catholic. He considered this for a time, then decided that it wouldn’t do. They would have heard it from every captain assuming a new command. In fact, he wouldn’t give any speech at all beyond the briefest reading of his orders. Instead, he would have them speak to him.

  Augustus soon returned. Charles busied himself with showing his steward how to arrange his belongings and explaining in general terms what his duties would be. He was considering where to hang a framed pen-and-ink drawing of Penny, a memento of his last cruise, when a knock came at the cabin door. The ship’s bell rang three times. It was time to be on deck. “Yes,” he yelled at the door.

  Isaac Beechum, Cassandra’s Third Lieutenant, entered. “Hello, Captain Edgemont. Welcome aboard, sir. Lieutenant Bevan’s respects. He says the ship’s company are assembled as requested.”

  “Yes, yes,” Charles said. Now that the moment was upon him he felt unsettled and unprepared. “Hello, Beechum. How are you?” Without waiting for a reply he turned to Augustus. “My dress uniform coat and hat, quickly please.” To Beechum, “My regards to Lieutenant Bevan. I will be on deck presently.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum said, and departed.

  Charles slipped his arms into the heavy garment, then buckled on his sword and took up his hat. As he gained the quarterdeck he saw the marines, drawn up in a neat line, snap to and present arms. Bevan stood at the base of mainmast. Below in the waist, the crew milled in an undisciplined mass. He noticed that the senior seamen mostly collected around the edges in groups of three or four. There were probably about seven or eight score present in all, Charles guessed, which was probably right if they were fifty short of a complement. His nervousness increased. Their eyes were turned on him as he passed behind the line of redcoats. What would they see? That he was a junior captain from his single epaulette, that he looked young. What would that mean to them? From what he could tell, none exhibited any indication that he was especially welcome in their presence.

  He stopped beside Bevan and removed the envelope from his pocket. “All right,” he said.

  “Off hats,” the lieutenant bellowed in a voice that could be heard in the tops. Before Charles could unfold his document, Bevan signaled to the marine lieutenant standing behind his men.

  “Atten-shun!” the lieutenant barked, and simultaneously the drummer began a long rat-at-at-at roll. The marines loudly stamped their boots on the deck and came to a rigid parade-ground attitude.

  Charles frowned. He guessed that Bevan had arranged the ceremony in order to impress the crew. It was not the tone he wanted to set at all. “Stop the drummer,” he said. When the noise ceased he pointedly turned to the lieutenant of the marines. “Stand your men at ease.” He said loudly enough for those in the waist to overhear.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” the surprised lieutenant answered back.

  “Stand your men down,” Charles repeated. “I do not wish to give the impression that I take up this command by right of military force. I have been appointed by the King to this position. I am sure that is sufficient for every man on board.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the lieutenant said in a surprised tone. He then ordered his company to parade rest. Charles had not yet been introduced to him; he would have to make amends later. With barely a glance at the men below he unfolded the paper and read. “To Captain Charles Edgemont, Esquire. Sir, you are hereby directed and required . . . ” He finished the page barely having taken three breaths. Charles raised his eyes to look out over the men that were legally under his authority now. He knew it, and they knew it. There was an expectant silence followed by a commotion of exchanges from below.

  “What have you to say for yourselves?” Charles said in an almost normal voice. The mutterings died away. “Come now, why are you refusing orders?” />
  “What ‘bout ar pay?” a voice shouted up almost immediately.

  Bevan shifted uneasily beside him. Charles knew that he did not approve of seamen speaking directly to their captain, particularly in that tone of voice. “Leave it be, Daniel,” he said. He saw that the speaker was a hard looking man with a golden earring and his hair tied back in a club—an able seaman if ever he’d seen one. He was sitting on the first reinforce of a gun with two of his mates, all had quids of tobacco in their mouths and a bucket on the deck between them to expectorate into. “I am aware that your pay is in arrears and I will do my utmost to address it before we sail,” he answered.

  “Wif all respect, zur,” the man shot back, spitting a gob expertly into his receptacle, “Ye tol’ Mrs. T ye’d do it, not look into it.”

  Charles saw the other seamen perched on the cannon nod in agreement. An angry murmur started up again from the crowd. He knew he was on thin ice, but it was best to be truthful whether they liked it or not. “It was a mistake for me to have said that. I can’t force the navy to deliver your pay. I will promise you that I will do everything that is in my power to see that it is done as quickly as possible.”

  Another seaman lounging against the bulwark on the other side of the deck pushed himself to his feet. He was of indeterminate age with deeply weathered skin, eyes narrowed to slits. “We ain’t sailin’ wifout our wages. It be our money what we earnt it. Ye got that, captain?”

  Charles took a deep breath. He felt his fingers tapping against his thigh and balled the hand into a fist. “Yes, I got that. Thank you,” he said. “I will make this bargain. You will come under orders and return to your duties. I promise that we will not sail until you are paid. We will sit in this stinking harbor until hell freezes over or the paymaster comes, whichever is first.” He saw heads nod in tentative approval, particularly among the older seamen.

  “That’s not good enough,” another voice shouted out from somewhere in the middle of the company. “Back pay be only one of our demands.” Charles searched the faces until he saw a red-headed man, his hair cropped short. The speaker waved a sheet of paper in his hand. There was a commotion of agreement, mostly from those close by him. The older seamen watched from the edges with interest.