His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  *****

  Flint slung his hammock at the end of the line, taking for himself the extra space normally only allotted to quartermasters and other junior petty officers. It would soon be the start of another voyage, another of the irregular anniversaries when he was leaving England.

  He was twenty-five, and had been listed in one or another ship's books continuously for the past nine years. His father had been a sailor, and it had always been Flint's intention to follow him. And he was doing exactly that, although not in the way that either had anticipated.

  Brighthelmstone, their home town in Sussex, had been under the care of the Duke of Newcastle, who proclaimed it a free port, where no impressment would be tolerated. This had protected Flint's father from the attention of the press, and allowed him to work in relative safety.

  He had been a fisherman; a respectable trade although one that did not quite provide for his family. To make up the deficit he also acted as a free trader, smuggling anything that could find a ready market. It was certainly less honest than his day work, but many times more lucrative. When Flint had turned ten he was considered old enough to accompany him to work, both legitimate and illicit, and his apprenticeship began.

  The first time he had seen action was with a revenue cutter. They had noticed it coming out of a squall on a dark night when they were just about to start the transfer with their French counterpart. She came down on them, the wind on her quarter, pendant flying and extended bowsprit waving an admonishing finger.

  Flint, who had charge of the tiller, had been terrified but his father leant across and briefly placed a steadying hand over his. Without a word or signal the French ship turned into the wind, and set a course, close hauled, that would take her from danger, while his father ordered their boat on to the opposite tack. Flint nervously brought the rudder across, the boat settled and began to take on speed. They passed the revenue cutter, with only the night and the weather to hide them. Flint took time to glance across and recognised the Shoreham boat; he had seen her many times before, moored in the nearby harbour, and probably knew most of the men who crewed her. The thought comforted him for a moment. Then a pinpoint of light followed by a puff of smoke that was instantly whipped away by the wind, caused him to wonder and it was only with the shriek of passing shot that he fully understood what was about.

  At that moment Flint had known true fear; he dropped the tiller, allowing the boat to fall off the wind, and scuttled for shelter. Immediately his father was at the helm and coaxing the boat back to her true course. Then he turned to his son.

  “Don't min' the noise, the one you hear has gone past—noise can't hurt you.” The ship was lightly crewed, and the threat from the cutter meant every available hand must be ready to tend the sheets. Flint knew he was needed and returned to the helm. His father bellowed for the men to be ready to tack, and as each went to their places, he turned back to grin at him. It had been dark and raining, and yet Flint could see his father's expression of confidence. He was treating this contest that could so easily end their lives as no more than an entertaining diversion; deriving excitement and actual pleasure from a situation that would have finished many men. It was a lesson that had stayed with Flint ever since, and one reason why he was often considered bold, self-assured and something of a rogue.

  Their boat had kept the cutter on the run for nearly an hour, tacking and wearing many times, each with Flint manning the helm like a seasoned hand. Eventually they were able to pass over shoals that forced the deeper hulled vessel to bear away or be grounded. At the time Flint felt relieved, although another sensation was also apparent. Never before had life seemed so clear, so vibrant. The heaving deck beneath his feet, the squeal of the blocks, the crack of the sails as the boat tacked, all these now held more for him, and the thought of a normal life on land seemed too ridiculous to even consider.

  In the following months he had continued to learn from his father and soon acquired a thorough grounding in the sailor's craft. Then, on the twenty fourth of July, the men from the Shoreham press had converged on Brighthelmstone, and surrounded the town. Flint and his father were at sea at the time, and knew nothing of this, or the death of the Duke of Newcastle that had occasioned it. For the ten hours that the town was besieged—no man left his house and only one stray unfortunate was captured and pressed. Disgusted by their failure the troops were heading back along the coast road when Flint's father's boat had been spotted.

  Contrary to popular belief, only those acquainted with the sea may legally be pressed. Of course there were always exceptions, and the occasional mistake, which accounted for the vast number of weavers, butchers, builders and the like that filled most ships' books. But smugglers? Which of them could claim that they were not men who earned their living on the water? Besides, capture meant prison, and possibly the gallows. It was likely that then they would be given the chance to volunteer for the Navy, so why not simplify matters, and take them straight away?

  The boat was beached, and being relieved of her cargo when the press struck. Being used to dodging five or maybe ten from the revenue service, no one was expecting the rush of forty or more disciplined men under the command of naval officers. The smugglers spread along the beach, ducking into old hiding places, and generally doing all they could to evade capture. But five were taken, and one was Flint's father.

  Flint, being under age, was ignored in the mayhem. He had watched, determinedly unmoved, as his father was manacled up, and led away. It was common knowledge that a man pressed for the navy would be gone for some years, maybe a lifetime, and in truth Flint had not looked on him since.

  And so he had gone from being the son of a successful fisherman and entrepreneur who provided well for his family, to one forced to accept the charity of others. His mother had died seven years before, during the birth of his sister. Fortunately John Mackenzie, the local schoolmaster, heard of their misfortune and accepted them into his family. Only later was Flint to discover why Mackenzie had shown such kindness. As far as he had known, he and his father were hardly on nodding terms, and had been surprised to learn of the part the Scot had played, and was continuing to play in organising the smugglers.

  Flint stayed with the family for five years, during which time he benefited from a sound education and the company of Amy, Mackenzie's daughter, who was a few months his junior. It was a relationship that was doomed to fail, for whatever plans Amy may have had for Flint, she could offer him nothing that would compete with the call of the sea, and the possibility of meeting up with his father once more. Mackenzie had been adamant that Flint could not join any of the other smuggling crews, and volunteering for a merchant ship did not appeal to the young fire brand.

  He had heard from his father once after he had taken part in the Battle of Dominica which some now called the Battle of the Saints, and again when Rodney returned to England and his fleet demobilised. There had been no welcome homecoming however. Despite Mackenzie's letters, no one could say what had happened to Flint's father. When he first offered himself at the rendezvous in 1786, he had hoped he might find out more.

  “There's got to be fifty thousand in the service now, lad,” the impressment officer had told him. “Can't keep track of 'em all.” Then Flint had taken the shilling, and made it fifty thousand and one.

  And now, now he was a seasoned hand, useful, if somewhat unpredictable, a sound man in a fight, and needed for as long as he could hand reef and steer.

  Flint closed his eyes and, smelling the sweat odour of clean canvas, fell quickly into a deep sleep.

  *****

  “Ah, King. Come in will you?” King took three more paces towards the captain, who sat behind his desk, his back to the open stern gallery. The cabin was all but dark, only the twin candles on the captain's desk, and the distant glow of lights from Ryde broke the evening gloom. Shepherd finished his work, and sat back in his chair. He smiled at King who, feeling something was expected of him, smiled awkwardly in return.

  “We
'll be putting to sea on tomorrow’s afternoon tide,” Shepherd told him, although every man on board knew as much. “That is if the water hoy arrives in time.” King felt something else was called for from him, and gave the only reply he could.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wanted to have a word with you before that.” King braced himself; this could be very good, or very bad.

  “The incident with the coaster, when was it—last year?”

  “End of 'ninety-three, sir.”

  “That's right. I said at the time how impressed I was, and I do so again now. You have the makings of a good officer, and I expect to see you progress.”

  “Yes, sir.” he was going to add something about trying to, but fortunately held his tongue at the last moment.

  “When Curtis left I had intended to promote you to acting lieutenant.” Had intended, this was not going as well as it could. “However, another man has been appointed and I am sure he will do very well.” Shepherd looked down at his desk. The last remark was a lie and he was ashamed of himself. The fact that it would do only harm to express his reservations about Rogers was hardly justification.

  “Still, I have considered the matter, and consulted other officers,” That could only mean the first lieutenant and Mr Humble, the master. “Quite a few third rates are carrying six lieutenants now, and we have decided that a further lieutenant is needed in Vigilant. For that reason I will rate you to the acting rank of lieutenant.”

  King stiffened, and swallowed hard, remembered at the last moment that it was Pite's hat that he now squashed under his arm.

  “You have nothing to say?” The smile was back on the captain's face, and this time King had no hesitation in smiling back.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Shepherd's expression faded slightly. “In giving you this advancement I wanted to be sure you deserve it.”

  “Sir?” King was still thinking about the promotion, but sensed that a reaction was called for.

  The captain's smile grew more thoughtful. “I have the power to promote and disrate; certainly as far as acting ranks are concerned.”

  King was not sure what was coming next, and for a moment placed his excitement on hold.

  “Let me just say that many men have been passed as commissioned officers who do not deserve the privilege. By giving you an acting rank I am protecting the service as much as anything else. Should you prove to be a competent officer,” he paused for a warmer smile. “As I think you will, I shall have no hesitation in putting you forward for promotion at the next round.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But if you in any way displease me, if I detect any of the practices that I personally find deplorable in a King's officer, I will not only send you back to the midshipman’s' berth, but also see to it that you never get so much as a glimpse of a promotion board for as long as you remain in this ship.”

  King swallowed again, he understood exactly what the captain meant in fact, viewing the matter dispassionately, he agreed with his sentiments wholeheartedly. A simple “Yes, sir” voiced all he could on the subject.

  “I have one more thing to add,” King was ready. “There are many points that impress boards, but none more so than book work.” It was King's turn to smile now, and he did so. The captain had often had cause to comment on his weekly journals.

  “Obviously as acting lieutenant you will be the junior, and I don't think I need spell out the important duties attached to that post?”

  Indeed he did not. King would be in charge of the ship's signals. It would mean learning the code book, and all the intricate ways the Navy used to send messages. A daunting task, especially for one who found reading arduous. Still, it was promotion; there were only four commissioned ranks in the Royal Navy, and he was well on the way to the first.

  Shepherd dismissed King, and watched as he turned and walked from his cabin. The expression on the young man's face had been obvious, even in the half light. He thought back on the conversation; what he had said was completely true, Shepherd was impressed by King, and honestly expected him to progress. With a modicum of luck the next board would see him a lieutenant. He could even envisage a time, not so very far away, when King made commander, or even post captain. What he did not know, indeed, what he would never have guessed, was that at that moment and for many more to come, King would have gladly died for his captain.

  *****

  At anchor the normal watch system was slightly modified, and by nightfall most of the hands were in their hammocks. Matthew felt at rest for the first time since he had met up with the warrant officer the day before. The thought naturally followed that just four days ago he was at home, and he quickly found something else to set his mind on. His hammock moved slightly as a man climbed in or out of his own, sending a jolt through the entire line. He himself had ventured out a few minutes before, struggling with his newly acquired skill for a much needed visit forward and returning to his own berth, miraculously without losing his way. The deck had appeared strange with all hammocks down, the closest he had come was when he had been caving as a child, and chanced upon a line of bats at rest. He remembered the time, and the smell of the tainted, airless cave. The stench on the deck was not dissimilar, except the cave had been cold and wet. The deck was warm with the combined heat of many hundred bodies, although there was still a rich dampness in the air. His berth was on the lower gundeck, close to the other members of his mess, and the guns they would serve. There was little ventilation, but at least the ports would be opened occasionally, better than being below on the orlop, which must be truly stifling.

  A few snores started, and somebody coughed. Then came the unmistakeable rumbling of a groan. He froze. The noise gathered in intensity, until he realised he was listening to not one, but many hushed voices in unison. Slowly a semblance of form appeared and the moaning grew into a song, sung deep and low. He recognised the tune as “Admiral Hosier's Ghost”, one of the many that Jake had taught the kids of Leatherhead. But that had been a spirited, majestic affair; this was more like a dirge. It grew louder still, until he knew that men on either side of him were singing; there could not be a sleeping soul on the deck. Jake had regaled them with stories of jolly parties, hornpipes and music, and the comradeship of fellow sailors. Never had he mentioned the monotonous roar of penned up men; men separated from their loved ones for heaven knew how long, men tied to a service that spoke highly of adventure and wealth, while it callously killed, maimed and maddened.

  From his cabin on the orlop the master at arms heard the singing and decided a prowl was in order. Setting his hat straight on his bullet head, Critchley worked his way to the lower gundeck as the song continued. He sniffed; there was a slight whiff of “sailor's joy”, the illicit spirit that was his constant enemy. Men had died from the lunacy it induced, or had been invalided out, blind and stupid. He knew from the amount in the air that there was not enough about to cause real damage, however; and with the wives only just departed and the ship due to sail on the morrow, he could hardly blame them for seeking some comfort in drink.

  The singing carried on, seemingly without break or repetition. He could order it to stop, indeed he would have to if an officer heard, or thought fit to complain. Critchley passed on, the song gently eating into his subconscious, bringing back times when he had been younger. Times when he too had been a normal hand, and frightened. Times that he only remembered in circumstances such as this, so ingrained in his job had he become.

  As a younger man he had married, indeed had sired a child and might be a husband and father still, for all he knew. The last time he had seen his family was some thirty years back. Since then the service had taken him as its own; given him food and shelter and his life a meaning. He was proud of his position, and proud of the life he led, although he would only admit both to himself. And he was glad to be at sea, rather than scratching out a living for children who didn't care and a wife who did, but only for other men.

  He had no illusi
ons on the last point; Critchley had heard too many stories of sailors' wives to have any respect for women. His own wife had been starting to show signs, which was probably one of the reasons he allowed himself to be sucked back into the Navy. Then there was the behaviour of the men the last few weeks; strong men, who he'd seen flogged without muttering a word, crying like babies because some woman or other had gone off with another man; a man who on his own was probably worth all the females in Christendom (if there were any, which Critchley firmly doubted).

  The bell rang three times, and from every sentry post came the call “All’s well.” Critchley completed his circuit. “All's well.” As senior hand, his cabin was a large as any warrant officer's, and he held the respect of every man on board. After a year or two he could expect to move from this to a proper line-of-battle ship, maybe a first rate, where the decks would always be white, and all the brassware shone like gold. And when it had to end (as Critchley was starting to see, would be the case one day), there should be an honourable retirement with, if not exactly riches, at least a comfortable time ashore, and he might even be in line for a berth at Greenwich if it all got too much.

  “All's well.” He considered the matter for a moment as he blew out the purser's dip that was another privilege of his rank, and soberly decided that they were probably right.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Matthew awoke to the shrill sounds of a whistle, followed by a hearty roar. “Whe-e-ugh all hands on deck ho-o-y; do you hear the news there below?” His eyes opened wide as his body slowly came to life. “Come jump up every man, every one, every mother's son of you!”