by Alaric Bond
It was a damn bad show, being posted to a ship-of-the-line, a damn bad show. The least he had hoped for was first luff of a frigate, although really he was ready for command, and promotion. He was aware of the strings his father had pulled to get him this posting; well he would just have to pull a few more, and harder.
The lugger drew near to a sixty-four, and for the first time Rogers looked on his new ship. Small, when judged against the average British liner, and lacking in power; twenty-four pounders rather than the normal thirty-twos. It would also be a good deal more crowded than a frigate and less likely to be despatched on the sort of cruise that won promotion and prize money. Of course a lot depended on the captain; Shepherd had been known as a frigate man in the American war, maybe he would breathe a bit of life into the old barge.
A heavily laden wherry was pulling away from the larboard side, the cackles of laughter and shouted farewells identified it as carrying doxies. So the ship had been under the wedding garland. That would mean a lax, and probably unhealthy crew with countless little stores of sailor's joy hidden about the place. Hardly an inspiring start.
The midshipman of the watch hailed Rogers' boat as it passed under the counter, and approached the starboard main chains. One of the boatmen looked at Rogers for confirmation, before bellowing “Aye Aye”, in reply: the accepted signal that a commissioned officer was on board. The boat bumped once against the side, before hooking on. Rogers stood up, fumbling in his pockets for coins, and clambered up the slippery battens to the entry port. A tall, fair haired lieutenant was there to meet him. Rogers accepted the hand guardedly and gave his name to the younger man.
“I'm Tait,” he was told in return. “Welcome aboard.”
Rogers eyed Tait evenly. “Been with the ship long?”
“Nearly two years,” Tait replied. “I passed my board in 'ninety and was commissioned in March 'ninety-one.” The man looked in his early twenties, a good five years younger and yet only a few weeks junior to him.
Rogers smiled for the first time. “February, same year,” he said, with ill concealed satisfaction.
Tait took the information in good heart. “In that case you'll be number two.”
That sounded like a fresh set of officers; it was better than it could have been, and Rogers began to perk up slightly.
“Is the captain aboard?”
“In his quarters, doesn't like to be interrupted though. First Lieutenant's in the wardroom, maybe you should report to him there?”
“When do we sail?” Rogers studiously ignored the advice.
“Ship's currently being cleared of wives, we're taking shot and powder tomorrow, with the last of the water the day after. Most of the convoy's been ready to leave for ages, but we've been waiting on two more John Company ships joining us. They won't be here 'till the morrow”
“Convoy?”
“Yes, we're acting as senior escort. Slow as far as St. Helena, then straight back with the next home bound.”
Tait had one of those open, honest faces that pleased Rogers. He'd be a useful junior; eager for the boring jobs and satisfying to boss about. That, and the almost independent command they would enjoy as a senior escort, placed him in a decidedly better frame of mind.
Rogers nodded at the younger man. “I have a few things to discuss with the First Lieutenant. Have my dunnage brought aboard and sent below, will you?”
He strode past Tait, and made his way to the wardroom without waiting for a reply.
*****
“Two more days of Peter Warren victuals,” said the old man, to no one in particular. “Then we're back to salt beef and pork, with pease puddin' twice a week, an' suet on Sundays.” He smiled to himself as his mates began dropping the meat into the boiling coppers. “That fresh stuff jus' ain't got the quality or the flavour; t'aint natural.”
The stained meat sack was almost empty. Three more would be needed to feed the men: that was two less than yesterday, when the women were being fed as well. The fact that the doxies were all but gone pleased the cook almost as much as the prospect of salt beef; he didn't care for the company of women.
The empty sack was tossed aside. It fell against the range with an ominous clatter.
The cook looked up. “That empty, Tom?”
The man pursed his lips. “Seemed like it.”
The cook retrieved the sack, and held it upside down. A horseshoe fell out onto the brick flooring of the galley deck, with a loud metallic ring.
“Well bless me!” said his mate, bending over it.
“They says it were beef!” said another.
The cook pulled a wry face, “'s what you come to expect from fresh. They don't check it like preserved.” He glanced up. “Stick it on the deckhead, with the others.”
Tom looked up to the beam just above his head, where five horseshoes already hung in a line.
*****
Tait remembered the traditional toast of the day as he moved his seat back and stood at the crowded wardroom table.
“Gentlemen, I give you, sweethearts and wives”
“And may they never meet,” added an anonymous voice.
The officers drained their glasses, before all eyes turned to Dyson, who dabbed at his lips with a linen cloth.
“I think this would be a good time to formally introduce our new fellow officer.” he said, conscious of their attention. “Please welcome Anthony Rogers who will be second lieutenant of Vigilant.”
Rogers sat at the far end of the wardroom table. He rose, a trifle unsteadily, or so Tait thought, although the emotion of the moment may have been partly to blame. In the few hours that he had been on board Tait had not acquired a good opinion of Rogers, and now, as he slurred his way through his reply, he studied him more carefully and liked him less.
Certainly you could not criticize his dress. To officers used to the relaxed regulations of a ship under the wedding garland, Rogers fairly dazzled in excellence. His uniform, and Tait guessed from his vast amount of dunnage that it was one of many, was tailored to the highest order, with bullion buttons and silk britches. His sword was also fine quality, with a five ball hilt and what appeared to be a family crest set into the grip. When snuff was offered, Rogers produced his from a gold and tortoiseshell box, and his hair was heavily powdered, a common enough sight in the wardroom of a flagship, but never before seen in Vigilant.
Rogers sat down to a polite tapping of glasses from the other officers, and there was a break in the general babble of conversation; Carling, the captain of marines, had asked Rogers a question, and Tait broke off from his study of the new man to hear his reply.
“My father? Quite possibly; he was fifteen years with the Guards before he went into politics.”
“He is a member of parliament then?” Dyson this time, asking in his casual manner that Tait had learnt was anything but.
Rogers winced. “God no, sir. The Lords!”
There was general laughter from the table, and Tait switched his attention momentarily to Dyson, who absorbed the reply without any visible reaction.
“No, despite being a soldier at heart, my father takes an interest in matters naval. In fact he regularly lunches with Sir Andrew at the Admiralty.”
His father's position, together with the casual mention of the Comptroller of the Navy by his first name was enough to stir every officer present. In a world where promotion was dependent on acquaintances and connections as much as personal achievement, any man who had the ear of government instantly became important in himself. Tait watched as most of the others preened themselves in Rogers' presence, each taking care as the conversation progressed to show him deference and courtesy. Only Dyson and Gregory remained unimpressed. From what Tait knew about the first lieutenant it was clear that the promotion and position he had achieved had been won entirely on merit. Very much the same could be said about Gregory, who had started his shipboard life as an ordinary seaman. Now as a lieutenant, and elevated to commissioned officer status, he had lost none of th
e common sense essential on the lower deck, where men who are frauds, cheats or liars are quickly identified and exiled.
From the head of the table Dyson tapped his fruit knife against his glass, and the conversation ceased.
“Gentlemen, this has been a pleasant evening, but I am sure you will all wish to get some sleep before tomorrow.”
Stewards appeared unbidden from the pantry and as a body the men rose from the table. In the crowded conditions of a ship-of-the-line, even the officers were cramped for space, and most had to walk just a few short steps before they were in the little penned off cubicles that were their cabins. Tait found his and closed the light door behind him, before loosening his stock and sighing. Rogers had the cabin next to his, and through the thin deal wall he heard the man belch loudly. He pulled a face to himself, and began to undress. Rogers was clearly ahead of him, and as Tait drew back the blanket and blew out his dip, he heard his rich, generous snores begin. He swung himself into his cot and stared up at the deckhead. The forthcoming cruise should not last long; they might even be back within three or four months. But long or short, Tait felt with that particular companion on board, it was certainly not going to be easy.
CHAPTER TWO
The night aboard the receiving ship had been a hard one. With morning Matthew eased his stiff body into a sitting position being careful to avoid the Irishman on his right who was sleeping fitfully. The place was airless and still quite dark, although enough light now penetrated the grating to allow him to examine his surroundings. He ran his fingers through his hair: he felt grubby and uncomfortable. His mouth tasted as if he had been sucking copper coins and he had a pain in his neck from lying awkwardly. The sleeping man snorted and gave a slight moan. Matthew looked at him, noticing that the shallow wound on his temple had ceased to bleed and that a bruise was now plainly visible along his forehead.
Matthew had been brought to the receiving ship late the previous night, after spending the evening in the Rondey, or rendezvous; the base used by the impressment men. He had been reasonably well treated, even to the point of being given hot food, and his first ship's biscuit. The latter had been a surprise to him, as Jake, the old carpenter, had regaled him with stories of biscuits riddled with weevils, or “bargemen”, as he had called them. Matthew had tapped the biscuit tentatively, but only managed to encourage a few dusty crumbs. It was hard to the touch, but he discovered it soon softened in the stew, and the actual taste was quite pleasant after the strangely flavoured meat of the meal.
The first press had gone out shortly before he ate, and returned within half an hour. He soon noticed a pattern to the evening's activities. The separate gangs were obviously working close by, and to a recognised plan. They seldom returned with more than one man, who was unceremoniously dumped in his room, which he also came to realise was actually a cell. By the end of the evening he had twelve companions, all wearing the short jacket and slop shirts of seaman, all holding up their trousers, from which the belt had been removed, and all there unwillingly. Three, he learned, were from the same ship, which had arrived that afternoon after a two year round trip to New South Wales. Of all the prisoners these were the most vocal, although most of what they had to say was lost on Matthew, who was as innocent of sailor's jargon as he was their profanities.
His companions had learnt of his enlistment with a mixture of scorn and pity. One, the wounded Irishman who now slept next to him, actually tried to persuade him to change his mind; to say he was younger, the son of a gentleman, under indentures, anything to avoid the path he had chosen.
The light increased as the grating was removed, a ladder appeared and a young officer, splendid in crisp, clean uniform, descended into their lair. With him he brought a draught of fresh air, and the contrast made Matthew realise how stuffy and oppressive the atmosphere in the hold had become. Around him men began to rise, clearly knowing what was to come. The officer produced a sheaf of papers and began to read out names. At the school in Leatherhead Matthew's father would begin each day by reading out the nineteen names of his pupils. This register was very much the same, with the relevant men answering when called. Matthew replied to his own name, and before long the officer finished. He then shuffled his papers and appeared to begin again, although this time the list was shorter. The men replied more readily on the second reading, and as the officer ended with the words; “Are here in fault.” a low sigh seemed to travel about the crowded hold.
Those chosen stood up, and climbed the ladder to freedom. The others watched, there were no words of envy or banter from either side; apart from that involuntary sigh, the free men left in silence.
“The remaining men will be transferred to a line-of-battle ship due to depart shortly. Those who have been of service before may retain their record; they will mention this to the rating board. They will also be given the choice to volunteer, and benefit from the bounty. Ten guineas is allowed every able man, eight for ordinary and six for landsmen. Boys will receive one guinea. False claims of ability will result in the forfeiture of all bounty.”
A murmur spread amongst the prisoners, and Matthew could tell it was generally favourable. Some, he guessed, might refuse the bounty out of pride, although the majority would take the money. The officer retreated up the ladder, and two seamen descended, carrying large wooden buckets of water.
“Clean yersel's up, lads!” one shouted, a toothless grin on his face. “Gotta make you look nice for the King!” There was no response from the crowd; the fight had been knocked out of them, and they were resigned to their fate.
“Better do as he says,” the Irishman muttered. “Else they'll only to do it for yer. An' you can kiss goodbye to them curly locks!”
Matthew joined the ragged queue next to the buckets, although when it came to his turn the water was quite stale. Despite this he threw a handful over his face, and collected some of the bread that had been tossed down to them.
“Right, then,” a voice came from above. “Let's have a look at you in daylight!”
The ladder came down almost in front of Matthew, and he climbed up, finding himself on a gundeck.
Heavy, blackened guns resting on wooden carriages sat at regular intervals along each side, their muzzles secured above the closed ports in front of them. They were much larger than he had expected; bigger in fact than any weapon he had ever seen. He wandered over to one as the rest came up from below, and placed his hand on the cold iron cascabel cautiously.
“Armstrong pattern,” said a seaman nearby, who was peeling an onion with his clasp knife. “Old stuff, but good enough for us.” He bit into the onion as if it had been an apple.
Matthew blinked at him. “It's big,” he said, instantly feeling foolish. The seaman gave him a good-natured grin.
“Na, tiddler. Twelve pounder. Accurate though.” He took another bite and spoke though the mouthful. “You with that lot?”
He nodded.
“You'll be going to Vigilant. Good ship, an' a fair captain.”
Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but felt the stammer building and knew he would be unable to add to the conversation.
“Better get 'n line, or you'll start off bad.”
Looking round he saw the men had formed up, and were about to climb an open staircase to the deck above. Hastily he joined the end of the queue, avoiding the eye of the officer who was counting them up. The sailor grinned at him again, and gave a small wave of his onion as Matthew clambered up to the next deck.
They lined the waist in the spring sunshine, the fresh air and light emphasizing their bedraggled state. A large boat hung from tackle at the front and middle mast—fore and main, Matthew hurriedly told himself. Guided by two men the boat swung above their heads, and was transferred to further pulleys set at the yardarms. The boat was then lowered, and the men clambered awkwardly aboard. Matthew found himself once more next to the Irishman with the head wound.
“You should've spoken to y'r man,” his companion told him. “Said you'd been mist
aken, that way you might've got away with the first lot.”
Matthew wanted to tell him that it was not that easy, that he had volunteered, and the idea of backing out now was abhorrent to him. Whether it was the shock of his surroundings, the dreadful night in the hold, or just plain nerves, he did not know, but again he found the words hard to find.
“You can do like me an' try it on with the rating board; they might take pity on you. Sometimes they're not so up to date with t'law, but it'll be a long shot.”
“I'll stay,” Matthew said, finally recovering the gift of speech. The man looked at him with a trace of concern on his soiled face.
“That's up to you,” he said. “But it'll be a mistake you're making.”
*****
“Lambs to the slaughter!” laughed Jenkins, as he watched the launch approach Vigilant. He and his mate were serving the starboard main backstay, and had an excellent view of the boat and its cargo. “Most of 'em look like they went to bed a prince and woke a pauper!”
The other man paused, mallet in hand. “Meybe you're right, and all,” he grinned. Both men had been pressed several times, and drew great enjoyment from watching others share their fate.
“That's Samuel Wilson,” Jenkins continued, in a quieter voice. “He was with me in the old Amazon.”
“Wonder what he'll call hisself now?” his mate, who was currently known as Simpson pondered. Simpson had used three names previously, on account of the three times he'd jumped ship.
“Na, not Samuel. He'd be fair and square.” Jenkins shook his head, before continuing, “You'll not find a man like Samuel running.”
Simpson considered this, aware that there might have been an insult hidden in what Jenkins had said. But men such as him lived precarious lives, and he decided to let it pass. He wrapped the paper around the backstay, while Jenkins covered it with another turn of lighter line that fitted neatly into the grooves of the shroud.
