by Alaric Bond
In battle, able seaman Lewis worked the flexible rammer on number three gun, lower battery. At twenty-four Lewis had been at sea for nine years, the last two in Vigilant. During his time he'd seen action at Toulon with Hood, and had been in numerous minor scraps, before the ship was transferred to the Channel Fleet and just missed out on the Glorious First of June. Most notably he had been one of a prize crew, sent to take a merchant ship back to Gibraltar and all but taken by her former company, who'd had other ideas.
Besides working the rammer, and his various other duties, Lewis was being trained up; in fact he would shortly be leaving number three gun, his mess and the lower deck. It was a change he had won for himself, not with youth and strength, but with his inherent thirst for knowledge, and natural affinity with numbers.
It had come about nine months back, when he was on the middle watch. At the time he had been part of the afterguard and, as the night was quiet, they had been stood down. Lewis lay on his back next to the mizzen braces, watching the stars through the shrouds. He noticed the constellation immediately next to one of the yards, and tried to see if it moved as Vigilant crept through the night. Of course, even without the swaying of the ship, the change would have been impossible to detect, but several nights later he found himself in the same position, and looking as before. To his disappointment the constellation lay in what seemed to be exactly the same position. Lewis felt cheated, cross that an observation so carefully taken should have let him down.
At that moment a midshipman had come on deck and began experimenting with his quadrant. Lewis watched him for a moment before crossing over and asking permission to speak. He mentioned his observations to the young man; it was King, one of the better mid's and Lewis had been lucky. Rather than scorn his ignorance, he had listened, before explaining a little about the accuracy of the instruments they used. This led to Lewis's first holding of a quadrant, and it had been a natural step for King to talk more about navigation, and finally lend him some books on the subject.
To Lewis, reading had always come naturally, but he still found the book difficult to follow. He had more questions and King, recognising genuine curiosity, was patient in answering them. He then drew Lewis's interest to the attention of the sailing master, who sent for him one evening during the second dogwatch.
The interview had been formal and, as it was the first time Lewis had stood in an officer's cabin, rather stilted.
“I understand you've been asking questions about navigation?”
The master surveyed him with a savage, almost angry stare. Lewis stiffened, and looked straight ahead over the older man's shoulder.
“Sir, I was interested in the stars. Mr King gave me some help.”
“Yes, and a copy of Norrie's Epitome of Navigation.”
“Sir.”
“Have you read it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what have you learnt?”
“A bit. Some of it's confusing.”
“Some?”
“Sir. Most of it; all at first, but I'm getting the way of things gradual.”
“What learning have you?”
“Three years reading and figures, then I was working as a clerk, sir. That was before I joined a collier. I was with the RN three year, sir in Aratus. Then did two tricks in an Indiaman 'fore joining Vigilant.”
For the first time the master's expression relaxed.
“You make it sound like you had choice in the matter.” Humble had gone to the trouble of checking Lewis's entry in the muster books: he was a pressed man.
“Sir?”
“Never mind. And never mind about not understanding the book. I have officers who have been studying Norrie for twelve month an’ more, and still make a tangle of it.”
It was a remark that worried Lewis. He was being given a glimpse of a world where he did not belong. The fact that it had happened without his making gave no comfort, and he silently cursed King for peaching on him.
“Tell me the use of an azimuth compass.” Humble's attitude had returned to that of an inquisitor.
“Taking bearings, sir.”
“Bearings of what?”
“Stars, sir. 'though I seen it being used for other things.”
“Quite. And a quadrant?”
Lewis swallowed. Either the master was involving him in some private joke, or King had got into trouble for lending him the book. Whatever, the only thing a lower deck man could do when an officer asked a question was answer it.
“It measures the angle of the sun, or a star.” He was about to say “celestial body”, but he had only read the word, and was not certain of the pronunciation. He continued rather lamely. “Or anything in the sky.”
“Against what?”
“Against the horizon, sir.” The last word was swallowed, as he realised he had missed it out before.
“Yes?”
“And once you know that, sir, you can work out where you are.”
“How?”
“You check the almanac for the distance between the star an the pole, an' the distance 'tween the star and the earth, sir. And you draws it out.”
“Show me.”
And so it had gone on, with Lewis fumbling over the master's table, clumsily using the instruments he had only recently read about. In his anxiety he almost wrote down the wrong figures, but the calculations came to him automatically, as they always did. To say he found complex arithmetic easy would give entirely the wrong impression; for Lewis arithmetic was not easy, it was natural. The master watched in silence, before taking the pencil from him, and checking his work.
“You have ability, I'll give you that, and clearly, some enthusiasm; rare qualities in my boys.”
The feeling that he was being told things that should not concern him returned.
“I can detail you for special duty. That's if you've a mind. I've already spoken to the captain, and he's willing to rate you able, if I think you're worth it. Then you can join the young gentlemen in their class. What say you?”
It was a question loaded with connotations. Certainly navigation held an interest for him, but Lewis could guess the reaction from his mess if he was promoted and began going to classes with officers. As it was they had given him a hard time over the book. And then there was the midshipmen and the master's mates; how would they take to a seaman taking lessons with them? He would be a marked man; revealed as one going up, and everyone loved to see one going up, come down again.
“You needn't worry about the mid’s,” said the master, echoing Lewis's thought. “I'll talk to them—if any give you trouble tell Mr King, and he'll tell me. Same with the men. I'll not have ability doused by bullying. Of course you'll have to keep your normal duties, unless a situation appears amongst the clerks.”
Lewis looked at the master properly for the first time. Before he had always been a uniform, a rank, and a high one at that. Now he saw a man, an elderly man, with a balding head and a slight paunch. One who had noticed a spark in him, and had decided to fan it.
“This is a hard service, Lewis, and I'll not deceive you, or make promises. But a man can make something of himself, if he's a mind; you only have to look to Lieutenant Gregory for that. You may as well try as not.” He smiled for the first time, and Lewis found that he was smiling in return.
In fact he found the classes surprisingly easy, and even discovered himself fighting down frustration when his betters took forever solving a simple calculation, or asked the same questions time and time again. As his knowledge increased he grew more confident, and proud of his abilities. The men in his mess appeared to sense this and took it philosophically, accepting that on occasions he would read, rather than share their company. There seemed to be no hard feelings, in fact Lewis noticed a certain hauteur in their manner when dealing with other men; after all one of their own was cleverer than most, and getting on.
Now he continued his duties with the secret pro
mise that the master was to put him forward as a prospective volunteer first class. The captain would have to approve him, of course, but it was the first stage to being a petty officer, and the chance to put theory into practice. He could expect the change at any time now, even during the course of this cruise. It might even be today, although Lewis was in no great hurry. Whenever the chance came, he'd be ready.
*****
The steady rain, together with a quiet time in middle watch, meant that the heads were unusually empty, a fact that had prompted Matthew, still touched with the self-consciousness of youth, to pay a visit. The novelty of being on a ship under sail, together with the absence of Flint made him feel slightly more vulnerable, a sensation suddenly heightened by the appearance of Crehan, as the lad was about to leave.
The Irishman placed a restraining hand against the boy's chest and smiled. Matthew twisted to one side, and tried to pass by, but he was fairly trapped.
“Not so fast, my young friend, not so fast.” A chill ran through the boy's body, and he felt dreadfully alone. “We have a few things to get straight, you an' me.”
Matthew opened his mouth, but no words would come.
“Trouble with the speakin', is it?” Crehan leered. “But you were ready enough to talk to the raitin' board, weren't yer? Ready enough to set me in this ship, an' stop me chance of freedom.”
“I'm sorry.” the words stumbled out at last. “I didn't mean nothing by it.”
“Nothin'? Didn't mean nothin' he says. Yet you put me in this lousy King's ship, an' now it'll be lucky for me if I ever see my home again.”
Matthew opened his mouth once more, but this time it wasn't the stammer that stopped him; he simply did not know what to say.
Crehan pushed him roughly onto the larboard chest. Matthew looked around desperately for help, the forecastle lookout could only be yards away, but there was no sign of him, not a man to be seen anywhere, and he dare not make a sound.
At the end of the row of heads stood a kid half filled with chamberlye, used by some of the older men when washing out clothes. Crehan's eyes flashed to the tub and Matthew saw an idea strike. Then came the heaven sent sound of approaching footsteps.
“What's about?” It was Critchley, the master at arms. Matthew felt relief flow through him at the sight of the swollen face and the lip that Simpson had so recently split. As a warrant officer Critchley had use of the private roundhouses that stood to either side of the men's facilities. Something must have aroused his suspicions to bring him here, a fact that was not lost on Matthew or Crehan.
“I said, what's about?” Critchley was certainly suspicious, and Crehan suddenly realised that he had placed himself in danger of the noose.
“Nothing, Mr Critchley. Just come to ease m'self, so I have.”
Critchley turned to Matthew.
“Out of here, lad,” he said, enforcing the order with a backward wave of his thumb. “I'll deal with this.”
For a moment the Irishman caught his eye, then Matthew stood up from the head and grateful hurried away, vaguely aware that his rescue was only temporary.
*****
The boat’s crew held more pressed men than volunteers, although Tait knew from experience that any trouble they might give would be through over enthusiasm. There was a fervour latent in the heart of every conscript that rose up whenever an opportunity came for another to share his fate. Its existence became useful when the Navy needed more men although, as a reflection on human nature, it was disappointing.
The first merchant ship was holding its course and had not shortened sail. Tait studied it as Midshipman Hayes wriggled uncomfortably next to him in the stern sheets of the long boat. She was three masted, of about four hundred tons, with a full, rounded hull that made it roll sickeningly even in the light wind. Her paintwork was blistered and peeling, giving the impression of tropical service, and Tait wondered briefly what exotic diseases may be included with the men they were intending to seize.
The coxswain had taken them past the ship, then skilfully turned on to a converging course. Hayes looked at Tait, who nodded briefly.
“The ship ahoy! Heave to, in the name of the King!” When shouted in Hayes's youthful tenor the words carried little of their potential, although every master understood the meaning, and what they were about. The ship luffed up into the wind, and came to a shaky halt, the sails flapping heavily in the drizzle.
“Take her in,” Tait muttered, and the coxswain closed the distance, aiming for a point slightly ahead of the main chains.
“Oars!”
They were almost alongside and well within reach of the two boathooks that stretched out for the ship. Tait stood up and glanced at Hayes, before bracing himself and leaping, as soon as the longboat touched the hull.
Pulling himself up over the side, Tait looked about him. The deck was surprisingly empty apart from a stocky man with a deep tan who stood next to a boy at the wheel.
“Navy is it?” he enquired, as Tait approached, with Hayes and most of the others following up behind him. He was no more than twenty-three or so, and his voice was tinged with that faint flat drawl, common among men who travel regularly to the Americas. His clothes also marked him out; the course cotton trousers being held up with a wide snakeskin belt, and a leather jacket, almost black from the rain, covered his collar-less shirt.
“Lieutenant Richard Tait, sir, His Britannic Majesty's Ship, Vigilant.” Tait touched his hat. “What vessel is this?”
“Skimington Castle, fifty-nine days out from Boston, carrying grain and resin.”
“You are her master?”
“Samuel West, an' my people are all American, or protected.”
It was an answer that Tait had heard a dozen times before and one that would make little difference to the outcome.
“You sail under the protection of the British flag, sir; I wish to inspect your crew.”
So routine had the procedure become that Tait was taken unawares as the master flipped a small pistol from his belt and held it straight out, pointing directly at his face.
“That you will not,” he said with elaborate unconcern.
The muzzle of the gun held a hypnotic attraction for Tait. An audible hiss erupted from the men behind him, although he sensed that any attempt to overpower West would end in his own immediate death.
“Now you will leave my deck, and return to your ship,” the man wetted his lips with his tongue. “And nothing more will be said of the matter.”
Tait drew breath before answering. “If I leave this ship it will be to order mine to board you.” His heart was pounding, but his voice sounded cool and composed—not unlike Dyson's although this was not the moment for comparisons.
“Like I say, my people are protected. A man could get in a deal of trouble if he weren't mindful.”
West was probably right. Simply taking a few hands off a homebound ship was one thing; boarding by force and seizing the ship was far more public and altogether different.
“I wish to inspect your crew,” Tait said, returning to his original tack. “If you refuse you will be charged with...” He hesitated, suddenly uncertain of the offence, and it was then that a flash of movement caught his eye. West must have noticed this, for he half turned, and made to cry out just as Flint swung his fist and sent him spinning across the deck, to land against the combing of the hold.
Tait reached down and picked up the pistol, closing the hammer on the frizen with a shaking hand. The crowd behind him broke out in cat calls and laughter as West clambered groggily to his knees.
“That was well done, Flint.” The noise from the men covered the crack in Tait's voice.
Flint grinned and rubbed his knuckles. “I was the last to leave the boat, sir. Gathered somethin' was up, so I made me way 'long to the stern, and came over be'ind 'im.”
His cheerful confidence was like a tonic, and the effect stayed with them as the crew were rounded up and inspected. They left with nine prime hands, none of which had volun
teered. American or not, they were being taken back to a ship where men who were experts at their craft would meld them into the cosmopolitan mass that was her crew. In time most would have no real country; they would belong to Vigilant. Some may even learn to love her as much as any clod of soil, and she in turn would give them a home as well as a community tighter and more protective than many found on land.
Tait took his position in the sternsheets, looking about him, and wondering at the casualness in which he had left the boat so very recently. Something dug into his stomach as he sat down. It was the master's pistol, still in his belt and all but forgotten. He took it out and inspected it once again.
“Interesting souvenir, sir.” Hayes commented.
“You'll pardon me, sir.” Flint was pulling stroke oar, and had also seen the pistol. “But I reckon's it won't be loaded.”
Tait looked up. “No? Why is that?”
“Wouldn't be no point. The only time they'd need to be armed's on the West Coast. There's pirates about that'll take a ship with nothin' more an' a rowing boat, given the chance. But no master'll have a loaded pistol comin' up Channel.” Flint flashed his teeth in a smile. “Otherwise I wouldn't 'ave jumped 'im.”
*****
In the launch Rogers had collected twelve men, five from the second ship and seven from the third. It had been his intention to allow his junior to call on the last ship, but Tait had spent so long with the first that Rogers had been forced to put himself out. The consequence was that he now felt he had been taken advantage of. In addition he would doubtless be late for wardroom dinner, and was almost soaked to the skin from the rain; all capital offences in Rogers' eyes. He sat in the sternsheets brewing curses, so that the noise of a shot ringing out across the water made him physically jump. This was compounded by the chorus of laughter that rose from Tait's boat, mirrored by grins from his own crew, and Rogers began to boil. Tait, it was clear, was making a fool of him. Leaving his senior to do the work, while he gambolled like a child, then holding him to ridicule in front of his own men. A lesson might be in order; something to show Tait just what kind of man he was dealing with. He glared at the hands as they rowed him back to Vigilant, while his mind selected a suitable way of evening the score, and asserting his proper position. Tait would be sorry, he would make absolutely certain of that.
