by Alaric Bond
A shout from the marine sentry at his door and the clump of his musket butt on the deck disturbed him, but he continued to write up to the end of his sentence. He sat back from his work and paused for a moment, before calling for his visitor to enter.
Dyson stood in the doorway, cold and precise as ever. “Last of the water's just been taken on, sir. We're ready to sail at any time. Tide rises in...”
“Yes, I know, thank you, Mr Dyson.” It was measure of the captain's impatience that he snapped at his first lieutenant. As always it gave him little pleasure and no satisfaction; Dyson appeared to absorb anger, and every other emotion, without any obvious change, just as a sponge takes in water.
“Very good, sir.” he turned to go, but Shepherd asked another question, if only to make amends for his behaviour.
“Not from the port admiral, sir.” Dyson replied. “And we've had no news from the other ships in the anchorage. All the hoys and lighters will be searched as a matter of course, but so far it looks as if Simpson had a clear passage.”
*****
Dyson was right: Simpson was still very much at large. Once clear of the other anchored ships he had risen to the surface before settling to a slow, powerful breaststroke.
He had considered making straight for Gilkicker Point on the west side of the harbour and the closest piece of land. However, the area thereabouts was quite barren and with the increased guard that patrolled to stop patients escaping from Haslar hospital, he thought it better to risk crossing the harbour and make for Southsea.
An early sun appeared as he swam; weak, but welcome and before long Simpson was actually enjoying himself. Unusual amongst seaman, who regard their natural element with caution, Simpson loved to swim and the steady progress across the harbour, sun on his shoulders and red pigtail flowing behind, brought a smile to his face. Whatever he was doing, whatever risks he took, it certainly beat stoning decks and was just the break from routine he had been looking for.
A victualling lighter set out from the harbour making for the anchorage. Simpson slowed his pace, content to almost drift in the gentle swell until it had passed. The shore was growing nearer now, and he could choose his spot, avoiding the area busy with fishing boats, and the castle that looked out over the harbour. Between the two was a small stretch of common, and a beach. Three small boats were pulled up there, but he could see no sign of life, and he cautiously approached the land.
A woman walked along the foreshore carrying something in a wicker basket. Simpson began to tread water until she had passed, then eased himself in with the gentle surf.
Clear of the sea he felt clumsy and vulnerable. He stepped quickly through the shallows, and made for the shelter of one of the boats. The beach consisted of loose shingle; the noise seemed immense as his horny feet crunched into the stones. The boat was small, with one mast that was set well forward. Simpson guessed it was for shellfish or sport, but gave it little thought other than that. His clothes were more important, they would take a while to dry, and for as long as he appeared wet he would be marked out as a runner. He pulled his shirt off, wrung it out, and rubbed it across his chest, before ringing it once more. The same procedure followed for his trousers. He was still damp, but not as conspicuously so, and he took two furtive looks about him, before making the quick sprint across the shingle for the common.
His feet left the smooth stones, and found soft grass. He paused in the lee of the first full tree; his heart pounded inside his chest, but still luck was with him. To his left the nearest house was three hundred yards away. Someone might have seen him come up from the beach, but Simpson decided it was unlikely. The castle was very visible to his right, and there his presence might well have been spotted; it would be best to keep moving. The common spread for two or more cables before the town of Southsea began. He set out once more, cutting an erratic route that made use of all possible cover, while suppressing the urge to run, as that would make him far more noticeable from a distance. If he kept to the outskirts of the town he could head east, round the back of the castle, flank Eastney, and up towards Milton. With luck he should be passed the Hilsea Channel and on to Drayton by the end of his watch. True safety would not come until he was at least thirty miles clear of the coast, but he should be relatively secure by evening, and with Vigilant sailing on the afternoon tide, he only had to keep his head down for the next few hours to say goodbye to the ship and her people for ever.
He was approaching the houses now, and deliberately hunched his shoulders and slowed his rolling walk down to a shamble. There was a pay ticket sewn into his trouser waistband. Once that had dried sufficiently he'd rig himself with a long jacket and see about some victuals. Really there was nothing to this desertion lark; all it took was a bit of gumption and a clear head. He slowed his walk further, and merged in with the people of the street, until all differences between them and him vanished completely.
*****
Topmasts had been set up immediately after the water hoy had left. Now it was just before noon; the time of day the men yearned for. At a nod from the officer of the watch, Baldwin, the ship's fiddler, stuck his violin under his chin and struck up Nancy Dawson. Immediately all eyes rested on the purser who walked ahead of two of his stewards as they brought a wooden pin of rum up from the spirit room. The pin was placed next to a kid of water and the ceremony began. Murmuring with anticipation, the senior hands from each mess queued in order. The purser's stewards emptied some water out of the deck kid, until it held roughly three times the amount of the rum they had drawn, and then tipped the contents of the pin into the water. It was naval custom that the rum must always be added to the water, never the other way. Sailors swore that it made a difference in the tasting, just as some insist that tea is added to milk. Once the ship had been at sea for six weeks, lime juice and sugar would be added, and the concoction served up: a rich fruit cup that would take the edge off the hardest day.
Morrison consulted a list, and formally authorised the issuing of spirits. Beer, at a gallon to a man, was more usual when a ship was in home waters, but Morrison had come to an agreement with Boyle from the victualling board, and there were few amongst the crew who would voice any objections. This was not the first “agreement” that Morrison and the victualling clerk had come to, and both earnestly hoped it would not be the last.
Apart from the scratch of the fiddle the ceremony continued in silence, until the hands carrying the grog reached their mess, when hushed murmurs rose up from the excited men.
From the quarterdeck Mr Midshipman Pite looked down on the proceedings without a hint of condescension. At a time when concern for fellow men was confined to liberals, some of the clergy and those of an unhealthy nature, Pite was careful to hide any compassion he held for the seamen. Few had joined the ship voluntarily, and none were allowed to leave unless illness, injury or enemy action made them useless to the Crown. Before that could happen they would eat preserved food and drink fetid water, while undertaking dangerous work for long hours. Discipline was customarily enforced by corporal methods of the most basic kind, and if they ever rose up to complain or object, they stood a good chance of meeting the hangman's noose. Of course life on land could be every bit as hard but Pite was of the opinion that, if the men found solace in a gill of rum twice a day, then it was probably less than they were actually due.
Lieutenant Gregory came and stood next to the midshipman, and together they watched the ceremony. Officers such as Gregory were commonly known as tarpaulins, men who had started on the lower deck, often via the press gang, and yet taken to the life well enough to achieve warrant, and even commission status. The odds against a common sailor rising as high as Gregory were approximately two thousand five hundred to one, which made Gregory quite an exceptional man.
“I've always thought that a bit of a waste, sir.” Pite ruminated. “Throwing the rum out like that.” The ceremony was almost over now, and the cooks from each mess were forming lines to the galley as two stewards carried th
e remains of the rum to the side.
Gregory smiled at the lad. “Offends you, does it; seeing the grog go to the deep?”
“Why don't they save it, issue it next time?”
“If they did there'd be problems, men would want to start sharing it out. 'sides it can't be saved; it's got water in, and rum and water only stays drinkable for a brief while.”
“Is that right?”
“Why do you think it's diluted in the first place?”
“To make it weaker?”
“No, lad. Water don't make alcohol disappear, just dilutes it. What it does is stop the men from hoarding the stuff. Like I say, rum in water's not worth a light later in the day. Stops them stowing it for a Saturday night spree!”
“I never knew that, sir” said Pite.
“Neither did I, once,” he smiled. “We was all born knowing nothing, but there's reasons for most things in the Navy.”
Gregory walked away. He was now a lieutenant, a King's officer, with a commission drawn out on parchment to prove it. Still the memories he carried of being a lower deck seaman were very much alive. In the wardroom he could choose from a variety of wines and refined spirits, but nothing could stop him secretly sniffing the air for the very last scent of that rum.
*****
The warmth of the drink stayed with the men as dinner was distributed. Matthew, too young for spirit issue, was conscious of a universal feeling of goodwill as they seated themselves at the mess table between the great guns. Even Crehan bore a neutral expression that was very nearly benign, while he stacked the square wooden platters that would serve as plates.
Matthew fingered one inquisitively. It was made of a dark, close grained wood, burnished by much use. The edges were slightly raised, giving it a frame.
“Fiddles,” said Jenkins, noticing Matthew's interest. “Stops the food fallin' off, an’ stops yon takin' too much.”
Matthew looked at the fiddles again.
“When they serve slop it got to stay inside, see? If you're found on the fiddle, you're getin' more 'n your share.”
“Why's it square?” Matthew asked.
Jenkins pursed his lips. “Blow'd if I knows. Easier to make, p'raps? But when you gets three servin's in a day, that makes the three square meals they promises in the Rondey.”
Matthew nodded. He'd eaten that morning's breakfast from a round wooden bowl, but didn't feel inclined to press the matter.
“Banyan days we get's slop.” Jenkins continued. “Boiled peas, fruit duff, an’ t'like—no meat. Otherwise its made meals like lobscouse: that's meat an' biscuit wi onion an' tatas, or skillygalee. T'day's straight boiled, with pickled cabbage. We got 'nother way of setting that out fair, you wait.”
Matthew watched while O'Conner opened the pewter tureen on the table, and began to load a platter with boiled beef. At the far end Lewis had turned away, and was staring intently at the spirketting below the nearby gunport.
“Who be this for?” O'Conner asked conversationally, holding the platter well out of Lewis's sight.
“That's Jenkins.” Lewis replied, and the platter was placed in front of Matthew's guide.
The serving continued with Lewis nominating each man in turn, until the entire mess had potions of varying size before them.
“Cooks cut the meat up into regular 'mounts,” Jenkins continued with his lecture, while he examined his meat with interest. “But some's more regular 'n others.”
Matthew watched cautiously while the other men ate. Some delicately cut off chunks with their clasp knives, while others bit deep into the joints and tore the flesh away with their teeth. He picked up a lump of beef, glossy with fat, and bit into it. The flesh was hard, but not unpleasant. A feint tang of salt gave it flavour, and he began to chew with a lad's appetite.
“Victual's good in Vigilant.” Jenkins informed him, generously spraying Matthew with shreds of beef as he spoke.” Some ships you'd be better off scrimin' the meat than' eatin' it.” He paused to belch. “I 'member Cambridge, my first ship. She's guard at Plymouth Dock now, but it were a terrible hulk for victuals when I knew 'er. Used to breed rats in cable tier, then fight the 'olders for 'em, just to keep body an' soul t'gether.”
Matthew swallowed his current mouthful dryly and paused for some moments before taking another bite.
O'Conner, an ordinary seaman of middle years, had noticed Crehan but so far had not spoken with him beyond the normal courtesies. He had kept an eye on the stranger however, and during dinner managed a place next to him.
“You're new then, are you?” asked O'Conner, through his food.
“To this ship, I am yes.” The broad accent was unmistakable, but O'Conner decided to sound out the man a little further.
“Volunteer?”
“For the King? No, I was persuaded.” Well over half the crew could have answered in the same way, but O'Conner had the clue he was looking for, and he continued in Gaelic, using a far softer voice.
“Are you straight?”
Crehan stopped eating for no more than a second, his eyes flashed across to O'Conner, who was looking nonchalant, as if he had just been passing the time of day. To speak in Gaelic was illegal on board a King's ship, and the subject made the crime more iniquitous still.
“I am.” The reply was hard to hear amongst the background noise of men eating.
“How straight?” Again there was no sign between the men that they were saying anything untoward.
“As straight as a rush.” Crehan was eating heartily now, although a faint tinge of red could be noticed in his complexion. The mess table was full, but in a ship of war a lack of privacy is almost expected, and the two continued, confidant that no one would overhear their language in the din that sounded all about them.
“Go on then,” O'Conner urged.
“In truth, in trust, in unity and liberty.”
“What have you in your hand?” O'Conner could see what he had in his hand, but that was not the question.
“A green bough.”
“Where did it first grow?”
“In America,” Crehan muttered, adding a belch for good measure.
“And where did it bud?”
“France.”
“Where are you going to plant it?” Crehan turned and looked O'Conner in the face.
“Where are we going to plant it?”
O'Conner nodded seriously, and the two men spoke together in no more than a whisper.
“In the crown of Great Britain.”
Now both were smiling, as they had a right to, for they had each found a brother.
“Are there any more on board?” Crehan, who had been a member for many years, reverted to English.
“Aye, some, I've yet to check out all the new men.”
“Now somehow that doesn't surprise me, when you can ignore a man in your own mess!”
O'Conner grinned despite himself. “There's been a purge of late; even to be Irish is seen as a crime in some ships.”
“An' do you always sound men out over dinner?” There was a hint of seriousness in Crehan's voice now.
“Where is private? 'sides, if the man can't take a risk, he's no use to us.”
No more was said, the conversation switched quickly to that of shipboard life, with no mention of Trees of Liberty, Wolfe Tone, Napper Tandy, of any other the other subjects the two latent revolutionaries would have much preferred to discuss.
*****
At just before four bells in the afternoon watch Shepherd stepped from his cabin and walked along the quarterdeck. Dyson was already waiting by the binnacle. It was the time finally agreed with the commodore for the convoy to sail, and he could see bustle on some of the merchant ships as their crews prepared.
“Taymar and Badger have signalled their readiness, sir,” Dyson said, when the captain joined him. “The flagship's flying a Peter; her sails are bent, and she's taking up the strain on her cable.”
“Very good,” he put his glass to his eye and inspected the small fleet
. Sure enough the ships appeared ready, there seemed little reason why they should not take maximum advantage of the tide. Furthermore the wind, blowing light from the shore, was fair. Shepherd wondered if his doubts about the voyage had been misplaced, certainly things were going well at the start.
“Commodore is signalling, sir” King had already taken up his duties as signal lieutenant. He fumbled through the book, while Mintey, an oldster midshipman, prompted him in a stage whisper. “C-Convoy will proceed, sir,” King said, although it was clear that he had not found the right page.
“Very good, Mr King.” Shepherd meant the words. The fact that the signal midshipman, until very recently the same rank, and actually senior to King, had assisted him was a sign that his promotion had been accepted by the other young gentlemen. He turned to Dyson.
“I think we can begin, Mr Dyson. Would you be so kind as to make sail?” The last two words, although phrased as a question, were enough to initiate a thousand orders.
“All hands make sail!” Dyson touched his hat and repeated the command, stirring up a cacophony of whistles and shouts. Topmen from the starboard watch ran to the weather ratlines and scampered up, followed by their midshipmen, who would stay at the tops to encourage them. The marine sentries standing guard at channels and entry ports, unfixed their bayonets as the men went aloft. The guard snapped to attention, before clumping from the posts they had manned for the last seven weeks, and taking up position at the braces. Below other marines were gathering at the main capstan where they would provide the motive power to raise the anchor.
“We are to take station to windward of the convoy, Mr Dyson, so allow them to foreach on us.”
“Aye, sir. Topsails and forecourse on my command, Mr Johnston,” Dyson called to the boatswain, as the men took their place along the yards, and the afterguard went to the braces.
Below Matthew had been herded with the other ship's boys, and now stood on the lower gundeck, holding a piece of light line uncertainly.
