A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  Charles’ heart sank. He thought he’d made an offer they could accept. It was as far as he could go—farther than he should have gone. “Who’s that, Daniel?” he asked under his breath.

  “Dick Stimson,” Bevan answered. “Rated as a landsman. Was a clerk of some kind, I think. He fancies himself a regular shipboard barrister. I’ve had words with him before.”

  Charles held up his hand for silence and faced Stimson. “Fine,” he said, biting off the words. “I’ll listen.”

  The man held his page before him and read. “The first is, we want our back pay before starting any labor, and full in cash, no tickets.” He had six demands, which he had evidently spent some care thinking through. The others were: 2) no floggings or harsh punishments, 3) better food, 4) leave at every port, 5) the redistribution of all prize money so that one-half would be divided among the crew instead of the established quarter, and 6) pardons for everyone who had participated in the work stoppage. “We ain’t lifting a finger lest you agree to all of it,” he concluded.

  It was strange, Charles thought, that he had sympathy for most of the demands; but he couldn’t do it—not unless he wanted to hand the running of the ship over to the crew. “I’ll grant pardons to any man who hasn’t committed a more serious crime. That includes you, Stimson, on your promise of good behavior in the future. As for the rest, I won’t agree to any of it. I’ve made my offer and I’ll honor it. This ship will be run under the same rules as every other in the navy.”

  Stimson moved to protest, but Charles decided the man had said enough. It wouldn’t do for him to stand on the quarterdeck arguing back and forth. He took a breath. “It is my wish that you come under orders immediately. If you refuse, I will take whatever steps are necessary to make it so, bargain or no bargain.” He said it flatly, he meant it, but he did not relish the prospect of making it so.

  A confusion of exchanges broke out in the waist. “Then we ain’t none of us returning to work,” Stimson shouted up.

  Charles turned to the lieutenant of the marines. “Form up your men, if you please.” When he turned back he noticed that the man on the cannon, the one who spoke to him first, had gotten to his feet and was shouldering his way through the crowd along with his mates. A few of the older seamen were also moving quietly toward the center. Mostly the men moved out of their way to let them pass. He wondered what they were doing.

  “A-ha,” Bevan said.

  Four senior seamen arrived without a fuss around Stimson with his page of demands. For a moment they blocked him from Charles’ view. Quite suddenly the mass began to break apart, the men drifting or hurrying away. Stimson was revealed sitting alone on the deck boards, blood running from his nostrils onto his shirt.

  “Beg pardon, zur,” Charles heard a familiar voice speak to him from just below on the gundeck. He looked and saw the earringed man from the cannon who promptly knuckled his forehead. “We’re under yer orders, zur.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said, unable to think of anything else.

  “Mind that ye live up to yer end.”

  “I will.” The man turned to leave. “Wait,” Charles said. “May I ask why . . ?”

  The seaman pushed his tobacco into his cheek, pulled a filthy piece of cloth from his pocket, spit into it, then put it back. “I saw as you tied orf that halyard at the mainmast all nice and neat. I reckoned ye might be a fair captain if ye’d do a thing like that. We’ll see though, won’t we.”

  “We will that,” Charles said. He turned to Bevan. “You may dismiss the hands below.”

  “Who was that?” Charles asked after the men had started toward their messes.

  “Able seaman Thomas Sherburne,” Bevan answered. “He’s a hard case.”

  That evening Charles received an invitation from his officers to share their supper. The wardroom occupied the after third of the mess deck below Charles’ own quarters and was reserved for the ship’s lieutenants, senior standing officers, and warrants. Individual cabins the size of large closets lined both sides of the space. Between was a low-ceilinged room with a long table aligned fore to aft where they did their paperwork and took their meals. Charles was introduced to the men who would be responsible for Cassandra's administration, navigation, maintenance, and the health of its crew. He shook the offered hands and attempted to fix names to faces: Mr. Silas Cromley, the sailing master whom he had been assured was specially selected for his knowledge of the Red Sea; William Owens, surgeon; and Lieutenant Thomas Ayres, a Scot commanding the marines, he managed to place firmly. Wells, the purser, he had already made the acquaintance of. He found himself too tired to form an impression of them except that the master took an unusual amount of time to answer a direct question. Ayres seemed decisive enough. They would all sort themselves into their places as he heard their reports in the coming days.

  The atmosphere during the meal turned convivial. Everyone expressed relief that the problems with the crew were finally over. The courses came and went, the wine passed from setting to setting. Charles struggled to be attentive to the conversation but found that he could barely keep his eyes open. It had been a very long and eventful day. As soon as he decently could, he excused himself and trudged up the ladderway to his own cabin and to his cot.

  *****.

  Charles did not immediately call on the clerk of the cheque to see about the men’s pay. Instead he set about to have Cassandra prepared for sea. He sent Winchester with a small party of marines in the ship’s launch back up the Thames to call on the Impress Service headquarters in hopes of securing additional seamen to complete his crew. Beechum was dispatched to the gun wharf with a request that their supplies of powder and shot be brought out for loading at their earliest convenience. Next he met with the ship’s officers one by one: the master, quartermasters, boatswain, carpenter, gunner, the lieutenant of the marines, surgeon, purser, cook, armorer, cooper, master at arms, and so on. From each he received a report on their particular responsibility, was introduced to their mates, and led around for him to inspect their efforts. He noticed as the morning progressed that the hands worked steadily if unenthusiastically under the watchful eyes of their petty officers. This satisfied him for the moment, aware that it could all come to nothing if he could not secure their pay. Ideally, he would like to have it done immediately after Cassandra had completed her fitting out. He would allow them one night to spend some of it, and not have to wait until they recovered to complete their lading. Late in the afternoon he went to call on the pay office. He did so with some trepidation and his own purse augmented by an extra one hundred pounds.

  “I am Captain Edgemont of the frigate Cassandra,” Charles announced himself to the first person he encountered inside the large, overheated room that housed the bookkeepers of the Bureau of the Clerk of the Cheque. “Are you aware that the men under my command have not yet been paid off since their last commission? This is scandalous, sir. I demand to know the why of it.”

  The functionary appraised him, unimpressed. He had doubtless encountered many captains with similar demands. “You’ll have to speak with the senior clerk, Mr. Wallbottom. He is to be found at the rear of the room. I’m certain he will be pleased to receive you.”

  “I see. Thank you,” Charles said, at least some of his carefully prepared indignation spilling from his sails. He picked his way among the dozen or so desks with their accountants toiling over ships’ muster books, pursers’ reports, and dockyard indents. He saw a larger table piled high with stacks of paper at the room”s far end. A somewhat elderly man with spectacles clamped to his nose and garters holding up his sleeves frowned as he approached.

  “I am Captain Edgemont of the frigate Cassandra,” Charles said, attempting to resurrect his outrage. “The men under my command have not been paid off since their last commission.”

  “Yes, it’s scandalous how the pay office keeps the wages of the hard working crews of His Majesty’s navy in arrears,” Wallbottom said, completing Charles’ argument. “I suppose you
would demand this to be rectified immediately.”

  “I would,” Charles asserted, struggling to maintain his indignation. “I cannot sail otherwise.” He took a breath preparatory to informing the man in the strongest terms that he had recently been instructed at the Admiralty, by members of the board in person, as to the urgency of his weighing anchor without delay.

  Wallbottom held up his hand. “Of course, captain,” he said evenly and turned to pick through several of the ledgers by his elbow. “Let’s see, let’s see . . . Cassandra, is it? Ah, here we are. Your men were only turned over a week, no, eight days ago. I believe your lieutenant has already been here to complain. You do know that these things take time, don’t you?” He closed the folder and replaced it. “The tickets will be available on Friday. Is that acceptable?”

  “The timing of it is acceptable,” Charles answered in as firm a voice as he could manage. “But tickets are not. The men believe themselves to have completed their previous commission. By rights they should be paid off in full.”

  Wallbottom steepled his fingers in contemplation. “Yes, I can see your point,” he said agreeably. “Unfortunately, I am only authorized by the navy board to issue tickets. But you can always appeal their decision. If you will write out your protest I will be more than happy to send it on. I will hopefully say that we may expect an answer within three or four months, although it sometimes takes longer.”

  Charles leaned confidentially over the table. The offer he was about to make was distasteful to him but he had learned that such things were sometimes necessary. “Surely, between gentlemen, there must be some way around this, some discretion at your disposal. I well understand that it may require an additional effort on your part. I am prepared to offer a gratuity, a contribution of a generous nature, to help the process along.” He thought it wise to leave the actual sum to be negotiated.

  The clerk smiled. “A gratuity of any amount would always be welcome, I’m sure.”

  “And what might I expect in return?”

  “The men’s tickets to be delivered on Friday,” Wallbottom said flatly.

  “I see. Thank you. I suppose that will have to do then,” Charles said, accepting the finality of it and departed the office.

  Winchester returned the following morning with eight additional men, three of them able seamen, for which Charles was thankful. He himself called on the port admiral to beg for hands and was grudgingly given four landsmen, then told in so many words not to return.

  On Tuesday, in the forenoon watch, a gun wharf powder hoy came across. All fires were extinguished, smoking prohibited, and the entire ship’s company ordered to go barefooted or in felt slippers. Only then were the five tons of gunpowder in hundred-weight kegs lovingly hoisted aboard and tenderly stored in the magazine below. In the afternoon, round shot was ferried out to be swayed up in nets and divided into shot lockers fore, midships, and aft. This operation was overseen by the sailing master, Mr. Cromley, as a part of his normal responsibilities. The distribution of their twelve tons would have a large influence on Cassandra's handling qualities at sea. Cromley, a painfully spare man in his middle forties and nearly bald, proved meticulous in the performance of his duties. Charles watched almost in amusement as he hurried fore and aft, and back again, checking the quantities in each locker. Charles could almost hear the man calculating whether this end was too much, or that not enough, or vice-versa. He wondered if Cromley had ever been solely responsible for balancing the trim of a ship before.

  When the loading was finally completed, Charles approached. “I trust the shot has been stowed to your satisfaction, Mr. Cromley. If I may ask, how long have you served as a ship’s master?”

  “This is my first as actual master, as it were,” Cromley answered. “I been a mate for over a score of years though.”

  “I see.” This would account for his carefulness. “I am pleased that you have received your step at last. I’m sure it was long overdue. Could you tell me the extent of your experience in the Red Sea?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cromley frowned as if reliving an unpleasant memory. “Back in ‘77 on the schooner, Betsy. We was months sailing up and down. Hot as all Hades as I recall.”

  “But you are familiar with the region?”

  “Oh yes, sir. I think on it often. And the hydrographer’s office has sent along the latest chart. I took many of the soundings on it myself.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. It was clear to him that the sailing master was not exactly as advertised, but at least he had a map; an old map, but normally the seas didn’t change all that much.

  Charles’ main worry remained the manning of his ship. He now had a crew of one hundred and eighty-two, still well short of his allocated complement of two hundred and twenty. As usual, the greatest need was for topmen, the younger, agile men who worked high in the yards, setting, reefing and taking in the sails. The following morning, in an act of some desperation, he sent Lieutenants Winchester and Beechum, each with a party of marines, in the ship’s launch and one of her cutters down to the Noire in the mouth of the Thames. There they were to board merchantmen returning to port, and take off whatever excess seamen they might contain, either by financial inducements to come willingly, or by force if necessary. It was a proposition for which he had scant hopes. Other ship’s captains, and the Impress Service itself, would already have visited almost all of these hapless craft before they reached the anchorage.

  For himself, Charles decided he could use the morning to accompany Augustus into Chatham’s civilian harbor to purchase supplies for his larder. He had entrusted this task to Attwater in the past, despite sometimes haphazard results, but realized his new steward would have little experience dealing with shopkeepers or bargaining over prices. The one bright spot in his existence was that Augustus rapidly proved a more than agreeable steward. He was quick to pick up new tasks and unfailingly good natured as he performed them. For their first stop he chose a wine merchant located in a brick-fronted shop along the quay.

  “Six cases of claret, if you please,” Charles told the shop’s clerk. “Two of your best and four of middle quality.”

  “Very good, sir,” the clerk responded, jotting a note on a scrap of paper. “And what else?”

  “Do you see, Augustus,” Charles said, “with wine it’s wisest to order the bulk of average quality. The best is frightfully expensive.”

  “Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus answered carefully.

  The clerk: “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes. Four of port,” Charles answered. “Portuguese, if you have it.”

  “Best or middling?”

  “Something in between.” To Augustus he explained, “Cheap port can be disgusting.”

  Augustus nodded.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “That will be all, thank you. If it could be delivered to the frigate Cassandra this afternoon. She”s moored in the number two basin.”

  The clerk’s pencil moved across the paper. Looking up, he said, “That will be seven pounds, fourteen and six in all, sir.”

  Charles opened his purse and began to count out the correct amount. He noticed Augustus watching him intently. “Do you see what I’m doing?” he said.

  “No,” Augustus said promptly. “Well, I see but I don’t. . .”

  “Look,” Charles said. “This is a pound note. These are shillings. This one is two . . .” He stopped. “You’ve never seen English money before, have you?”

  “I ain’t never seen much of any kind,” Augustus said doubtfully. “I had a copper coin once.”

  Charles thought that his steward seemed troubled by his lack of experience with money. “Ah,” he said. “We will have to do something about that.”

  He paid the clerk, then led Augustus from shop to shop where they purchased jams, preserved fruits, several wheels of cheese, a quantity of fresh potatoes, a dozen hams, a half a hundred-weight of coffee beans, a machine to grind them, a dozen chickens, a goat, three sheep, a pa
ir of swine, and all the other items which would be his own personal supplies while at sea.

  Back on board in the afternoon he left Augustus to deal with the purchases as they were delivered onboard. The wine and foodstuffs went into the captain’s pantry, the livestock to be penned in the manger by the bow, along with other animals purchased in shares by the officers in the wardroom. Charles sent for Midshipman Sykes.

  “Sir?” the midshipman said as he arrived on the quarterdeck.

  “I was hoping you would do me a favor of a personal nature,” Charles said. “You are under no obligation to do so.”

  “Of course, sir,” the boy said. “What is it?”

  Charles asked if he would take an hour a day or so over the next few weeks to instruct Augustus in his sums and to explain the mysteries of pounds, shillings, pence and farthings. In return Charles promised to see that the midshipman would be excused from his normal duties for an equivalent amount of time. To this Sykes readily agreed.

  Winchester and Beechum returned after dark with seven newly conscripted hands, four of whom actually had experience in the tops. Three, Charles was told, had accepted the two-pound bonus he had offered and were enlisted as volunteers, but only after being informed they would be brought along whether they did so or not. The others had been too busy cursing their fate to focus their minds on it. Charles decided that this would bring his crew close to the bare minimum he might sail with. Cassandra would still be thirty-one short of her allocation, but with care they might manage. It was not impossible they would find more along the way or at Cape Town.

  Early the next day a harbor boat came out with the men’s tickets as promised. The crew were assembled on deck and given their paper as their names were called, then checked off in a ledger. Before the process was completed, a full half-dozen boats carrying “agents” and “brokers” had arrived to wait alongside, ready to convert the payment slips into hard cash at a steep discount on the spot.