by Jay Worrall
Charles carefully watched the proceedings for signs of trouble. There were sour looks from some of the crew when they learned that they were to be issued tickets instead of cash. The older seamen didn’t seem to care. For most, their life was on the waves and they had little concern for accumulating money for its own sake. If they had enough for something to send home, and their tobacco and the occasional binge on whores and liquor ashore, they tended to be satisfied. He noticed Stimson circulating among some of the crew, stopping to speak in animated terms to them in small groups. Charles thought to stop this before it went too far. “Mr. Beechum,” he called to his nearest lieutenant. “Please send someone down to inform Stimson that I request the pleasure of his company.”
Close up, Stimson appeared older than he had from a distance. There was a slyness about him that Charles did not like. It was clear from the list he’d presented when Charles took command that he could read and write, unusual enough for a member of a ship’s crew. He wondered how he’d ended up in the navy. His guesses were paternity suit, bigamy, or skimming money from his employer, and he’d accepted a turn in His Majesty’s service rather than gaol.
“You sent for me, sir?” Stimson said. There was a hesitation before he knuckled his forehead.
“I take it you are dissatisfied with the men receiving tickets.”
“I’ll lose a third of my pay to some broker. There’s many of us what’s not satisfied.”
“Tickets are what the navy saw fit to issue; I suggest you make your peace with it. I’ll not tolerate any more trouble. If it comes, I’ll know who started it.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Stimson answered, his face set in a frown.
“Good. Then you are dismissed, but remember that I will have my eye on you.”
The moment the pay office accountants went down the side, the brokers came up, usually with an assistant to carry the satchels of gold and silver coin and to stand guard while it was being dispensed. Immediately behind came a third armada of small boats, “bumboats” as they were called, crowded to the gunwales with all manner of merchandise for the newly moneyed seamen, from sausages and cheeses to pipes and clothing, but mostly liquor and freshly painted prostitutes for whom the bum-boats were named. Charles agreed to allow them onboard for one night of seamless debauchery.
In the morning he ordered Ayres’s marines (many of them the worse for wear) to sweep the ship from stern to stem, rousting out women and men alike. The women—wives, sweethearts, and professional sweethearts of the moment—were firmly escorted to the entry port and over the side. As the women went down, a water hoy came out from the port to refill the few empty casks. Next a lighter with firewood and another with hogsheads of salted beef and pork, casks of dried vegetables, and bags of hard bread to top off the last corners of the hold with provisions.
At four bells, under watery morning skies, Charles stood on his quarterdeck beside the harbor pilot, an overly jovial man named Thompson. Both were intently judging the state of the tide.
“The bower’s hove short, sir,” Bevan informed him.
“Thank you,” Charles answered. After a moment he saw what he had been watching for. The river’s surface turned from slack water to the barest eddy starting down the river. “You may weigh and cat home, Daniel,” Charles said. “Mr. Thompson, the ship is yours until we clear Sheerness.”
Cassandra fell off with the quickening current, her bow angling into the River Medway. On the shore a small cluster of newly off-loaded women waved handkerchiefs to husbands, brothers, lovers as they glided past. Penny had stood in such a group once, Charles remembered, waving her handkerchief from the Point in Portsmouth as Louisa had glided past in the early dawn on her way to the open sea. He clenched his jaw, determined not to show any outward sign of sentiment.
CHAPTER FOUR
An incessant hammering came from somewhere. Charles’ mind refused to accept it. The sound became regular, a loud knocking. By degrees he pulled himself to wakefulness. “Sir, sir,” he heard a voice call—Beechum’s voice. He heard Augustus moving through the outer cabin. Grudgingly he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the hammock. Something must be wrong somewhere to have him called in the middle of the night.
Charles forced his senses to work. It wasn’t for a change in the weather. From the pitch and roll of the ship he determined that Cassandra sailed on the same easy seas and moderate westerly breeze that she had when he’d gone to bed. Two weeks out of Chatham, they were in open seas well off the North African coast with no navigational hazards. There was none of the shouting or even musket fire that might signal a mutiny in progress. In fact, aside from the gentle groaning of the ship’s timbers and the wash alongside, it was deathly quiet, as would be expected at this time of night—whatever time of night it was. His feet rubbed across the floor until they found his slippers.
“It be Mr. Beechum, Cap’n,” Augustus announced, pulling back the curtain to the sleeping cabin. He held a candle in its holder, casting a dim glow into the room. “He say he must speak to you urgent.”
“I’m coming,” Charles said and stood upright. Beechum, he knew, was scheduled as deck officer for the middle watch.
“I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Beechum said as Charles emerged.
“What is it?” He stretched his arms, trying to shake the torpor of sleep.
“It’s Stimson, sir.” The young man looked genuinely upset. “He was found in the hold forward, under the orlop.”
“What was he doing? Who was with him?” Charles came fully awake, angered but not completely surprised that an obstinate Stimson might have continued with his schemes. At least he had been discovered in time.
“No, sir. He’s alone. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Dead, yes, sir. I’m certain of it.”
It took Charles a moment to digest this. “Wake Mr. Owens, the surgeon,” he said. “Tell him to meet me there, and Lieutenant Ayres with a few of his marines. You might get Lieutenant Bevan out of his cot as well. Is there anyone with the body now?”
“Just Sykes. He’s midshipman of the watch. I told him to stay until you came.”
“Let me put on some clothing; I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum said as he started toward the door.
Charles found his breeches and pulled them on, tucking his nightshirt into the waistband. It took him a moment to find his shoes, then he slipped into them without bothering about the stockings. He buckled on his sword as he passed out the door.
The hold of any ship of war is a dank, airless place below the waterline. As Cassandra was newly overhauled and only a few weeks from port, hers smelled sweeter than most. He climbed down by the forward ladder-way, holding a lantern before him, and hurried along the narrow aisle between the casks, barrels, hogsheads, and crates stacked to the deck beams and wedged tight on either side. The space was eerily silent, his light casting patterns of constantly transforming shadows as he passed. Ahead he could see the platform for the orlop. “Mr. Sykes,” he called out.
“Here, sir,” the boy answered. “You’ll have to come under.”
Charles saw the light of Sykes’ lantern and ducked low under the beams. The midshipman sat cross-legged on a looped section of cable. On the floor in front of him lay the red headed Stimson. The body lay stretched out on its back, the arms straight on either side, legs slightly splayed. There was no blood that Charles could see as he drew near; no obvious bruises or scrapes. Stimson’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle so that he appeared to be examining the deck boards at close range.
“Christ,” Charles muttered. He looked at Sykes, who seemed calm enough. “How long have you been here?”
“It might be ten minutes,” Sykes answered.
“How did you find him? I mean, how did you know to look here?”
“One of the men, Roberts I think, told Mr. Beechum. We came down to find him just like this. We ain’t touched nothi
ng.”
Charles wondered what one of his seamen was doing wandering around below the orlop in the middle of the night. Probably searching for rats. Some liked to make sport with them in their idle hours. He patted his pockets in the vain hope of finding his watch. Stimson’s death had clearly been no accident. There would have to be an official inquiry; he needed facts. “Do you know what time it is?” he said.
Sykes scratched his chin. “Sometime between four and five bells in the middle watch, I think. Least, I remember hearing four bells just before we came down.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. “Do you have any idea how it happened?”
“No, sir. I can guess though.”
“What’s your guess?”
“Some of the older able seamen don’t like Stimson much. They thought he was a trouble maker.”
“That’s a good guess,” Charles said. He heard the sounds of footsteps coming toward them. “Charlie,” he heard Bevan’s voice. “Are you under there?”
“Yes,” Charles answered. There was no more room in the cramped space so he crabbed back out into the hold where he could stand upright. He saw Bevan, Owens, and Ayres with two marines trailing behind.
“Stimson’s dead?” Bevan said.
“It looks like someone’s broken his neck for him,” Charles answered. He turned to the ship’s surgeon. “If you would be so good as to examine the body and establish the cause of death. I will require a written report on it.”
“Yes, sir,” Owens replied. He bent low and entered the space.
“Lieutenant Ayres, you will post sentries at both the fore and aft ladder-ways to the hold. No one is to enter or leave without my permission.”
Ayres nodded his comprehension and spoke to the marines behind him. “Anything else, sir?”
Charles tried to think of what he would need to do in order to find the perpetrators. “Yes. If you would please detach sufficient of your men to search the hold from stem to stern for anyone who might be hiding. They’ll have to check the carpenter’s walks as well. I would appreciate it if you would supervise this personally.” The carpenter’s walks were the space kept free along the inner sides of the hull so that leaks or shot holes could be detected and repaired without having to shift the stores. He doubted that anyone would be there, but it was important to be sure.
“Yes, sir,” Ayres said.
“And one more thing,” Charles said, beginning to think of the possible repercussions of Stimson’s murder. “I want all of your men to turn out at the change of the watch to keep order. That is all for now.”
“You’re expecting trouble over this?” Bevan asked.
“I don’t know, Daniel, but think about it. Stimson was a spokesman, maybe a leader, among the lower ratings. They may decide that it was the senior seamen who did him in and attempt some kind of retaliation. I won't have it.”
Owens and Sykes sidled out from under the orlop. “What have you found?” Charles asked.
“He’s dead, that’s a fact,” Owens said, brushing at some grit on the knees of his breeches. “His neck was broken. Someone twisted his head clean around. He must have died suddenly. There were no signs of a struggle.”
“There’s no possibility he injured himself, hit his head on a deck beam, tripped and fell, anything like that?”
“No. There’d be bruises around the head or face somewhere. The man didn’t even fall; he was lowered to the deck and then dragged under there.”
“I see. Thank you,” Charles said. “Are you finished with the body?”
“You may do with it as you please.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Owens.” Charles turned to Bevan. “Have someone sew Stimson into his hammock and we’ll bury him this afternoon. I will begin an official inquiry into who did this immediately after the men’s breakfast.” He paused for a moment in thought. “We’ll start by questioning some of the able seaman, and then the others. Somebody must have seen something.”
*****.
Jason Harley appeared promptly and respectfully in Charles’ cabin when sent for. Charles sat behind his table, the able seaman standing easily across from him. After Harley was sworn in, Lieutenant Winchester laboriously wrote down the questions and replies for the record from the table’s end. He wrote:.
Captain Edgemont: Do you know that seaman Stimson was found dead last night?.
Able seaman Harley: Yes, sir, I heared of it. Busted his fool neck, he did.
Capt: Do you have any knowledge as to who might have done it?.
Harley: No, sir. I thought it must of been some kind of accident. Those things happens all the time.
Capt: At any time during the middle watch did you observe or hear anything out of place?.
Harley: No, sir. I were asleep in my hammock. I didn't see or hear nothing.
Capt: Do you have any personal feelings about the victim?.
Harley: Yes, sir. Dickie-boy Stimson was a little sh. . . , person what didn't know what was good for him or how to treat with his betters. (more in this vein, but irrelevant to inquiry).
All of the half-dozen able seamen Charles interviewed gave much the same story. Others of the crew, those known to be the man’s associates or mess mates, were called next. None could, or would, shed any light on the matter. None saw Stimson or anyone else go below to the hold, heard any commotion, heard any rumor of any commotion, or expressed anything but cautious respect for the deceased. Charles learned that his entire crew, at least on the word of those he interviewed, spent their nights in the undisturbed repose of the truly innocent and never stooped so low as to pry into the concerns of others or to indulge in idle gossip.
All except possibly one. Last, Charles called Jeremy Roberts—a harelip in his forties, covered in tattoos, with a lazy eye and wildly disheveled hair—who had found the body.
Captain Edgemont: When did you discover Stimson and where?.
Landsman Roberts: Don't know the time. It were dark. Might have been nighttime. I were in the 'old under the orlop.
Capt: Did you touch or move the body after you discovered it?.
Roberts: Oh, no, sir. I only tripped and fell on it like. I knew it were a man though, it were soft.
Capt: Didn't you have a light?.
Roberts: Of course not. A lanthorn scares away the spirits.
Capt: Spirits?.
Roberts: The spirit of John Trambor for one, sir. 'E’s got my wife in the hold, do you see, to 'ave 'is way with 'er. I search real quiet when I can. I’ll catch them at it yet.
Capt: Your wife?.
Roberts: Yes, Aggie. We been married these two hundred years and more, since the time of 'Enry the Eighth. She was married to 'im too. At first I thought she might have been fornicatin' with Stimson, but I told you he were soft, so I don’t think so now. She were always free with her favors. Bless 'er black 'eart.
Capt: King Henry the Eighth?.
Roberts: 'E were a lustful man, don't you know.
Capt: Yes, I do. Thank you Roberts, you’ve been most helpful.
Charles ordered that Stimson’s body be consigned to the deep immediately after the men’s dinner. The crew were called to stand in their divisions, the marines aligned on the quarterdeck, and a pulpit rigged by the mainmast for the ceremony. He watched carefully for signs of dissension as the men sorted themselves into their places. Some among the able seamen shouldered their way roughly past the younger men, receiving angry looks and words in return. Inevitably, one offended topman, younger and fitter, shoved back. The two men quickly faced off with supporters for each gathering around.
“Avast, there!” Charles shouted. “Belay that. Petty officers, you will keep order among your men, or I’ll know the reason. Get them into their places.” The sergeant at arms, the boatswain, and his mates waded into the knot, separated the antagonists, and pushed them along. An uneasy quiet settled.
Charles hurried through what was in any case to be a brief ceremony—a few lines from the Book of Common Prayer and a single sentence abo
ut departed shipmates. When he was done, the plank on which Stimson’s hammock-shrouded body lay was tilted toward the sea. The form slid down and over the side with a splash.
A single snicker sounded out from somewhere among the men in the waist. All heads turned, looking for the offender.
“Silence!” Bevan bellowed, already embarrassed by the earlier disorder on the deck and furious at the disruption. “I want that man’s name.” None of the petty officers had seen who’d done it, and no one else would admit to knowing.
Charles decided it was best to end the ceremony quickly. He did not think that it was the time for a speech on comradely shipmates. He did think he should say something. “There will be no further outbreaks or altercations on this ship. Any persons involved in quarreling or fighting will be answerable to me.” He knew it was a weak gesture. Some captains would have promptly selected a few possible ringleaders or persistent trouble makers and ordered each thirty lashes to set an example. Charles did not believe that minor pushing and shoving warranted laying a man’s backbone bare. “You may dismiss the men,” he said to Bevan.
The incident angered him. The whole situation with his crew was frustrating. On Louisa, his only other real command, there’d been little trouble, and now he felt himself ill prepared to deal with the problem. He would have to devise a plan to establish discipline, but he was damned if he knew what it should be. He watched the hands milling about on the deck below, some returning to their duties, others to go below. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the topman that had been involved in the pushing incident angling across the deck with two of his fellows just behind. As he watched, the younger man bumped intentionally against the back of the able seaman he had scuffled with before. The older man spun around. A fist was thrown, then a flurry. Additional men rushed to join in the growing brawl.
