by Alaric Bond
“Mr Tait volunteered his furniture to me only the evening before last.” Rogers turned to Gregory as a child might an adult. “I have merely taken him up on his offer.”
“I'll be damned if I did!”
“And what about the carpenter?” Rogers continued. “Did you not ask him to make you a fresh set of furniture yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes, but for you, and at your request, damn it!”
Rogers smiled an ingratiating smile that was totally wasted. “Well surely, once the carpenter has completed his task, all will be well?”
“All will be well? All will be well?” Tait was very nearly breathless. “I fail to see how that will come about when rogues like you walk the deck!”
Roger's look grew cold and concentrated. “I have warned you about your language, Mr Tait. Now you have called me a rogue in front of other gentlemen. For that I must seek satisfaction!”
The atmosphere, already tense with anger and the enormity of the occasion, was amplified by a change in sound. The groaning of the ship's timbers took precedence as Vigilant rode out a sudden increase in the gale. For a moment all attention was turned to the weather, and it was only when a lull came that the conversation resumed. It was Gregory who finally broke the impasse.
“Both of you should be aware that it is a court martial offence for King's officers to challenge, or take any part in a duel while on active service.”
Rogers' anger, together with his eyes, fell on Gregory.
“I know of no rules that prevent us from settling this matter like gentlemen!”
“Then you are ignorant of King's Regulations, Mr Rogers. An' before you try the same trick on me, I am speakin' the truth.” It was Rogers' turn to be lost for words as Gregory continued. “It is also against regulations, and common law for that matter, for a fellow's possessions to be taken or moved without his allowance. I suggest you ask your man to return Mr Tait's furniture to his quarters.”
“Damned Sea Lawyer!” Rogers glared at Gregory. “Damned peasant dressed up as a gentleman!”
“You should watch your language, Mr Rogers,” Gregory twinkled. “That's another offence you've just committed!”
It was more than he could stand, and Rogers stormed out of the wardroom, slamming the door behind him.
Timothy let out a long held breath. “He's supposed to be pretty influential, y'know?”
“I couldn't care if he knows Farmer George personally,” Gregory allowed himself a brief smile. “Now Mr Timothy and I were exploring the intricacies of whist, perhaps if Mr Tait would join us I could teach you both another game. The Colonials call it poker; I learned it while stationed in New York back in eighty-one. A trifle less complex, but enjoyable nevertheless.”
It was when they were starting their second hand that Rogers' servant entered, and together with a wardroom steward, returned Tait's furniture to its proper place.
CHAPTER TEN
By midnight the storm was at its worst. The wind blew across their larboard quarter with such force and energy that it ceased to be simply moving air, becoming instead something solid in the minds of the men who had to fight it. Spray mixed with the rain and scoured their skin, teasing their throats with thirst. A thirst that could never be satisfied, despite the water that constantly attacked every sense in their bodies.
Shepherd had been summoned from his cabin for the third time in three hours and now stood by the binnacle, leaning into the gale at such an angle that he appeared on the very brink of falling over. He wiped the salt from his eyes as he tried to penetrate the deep black night.
“Still under full reefs?” he bellowed at Humble, who stood no more than a yard away.
“Aye, sir,” came the reply. “An' all safe. But I'd like permission to heave to. We've been lucky; she can't take this punishment forever.”
Shepherd caught his balance as Vigilant heeled into a particularly deep wave that drenched a group of topmen sheltering by the break of the forecastle. Humble was right, they had been lucky. But the men on deck were all seasoned hands, and it was luck that came from preparation, training and not a little skill. He wondered if the merchant ships with their laden hulls and meagre crews would have met with such fortune and survived for as long before giving in.
The traverse board banged incessantly against the binnacle, trying to disrupt his thoughts in its bid for freedom. To heave to meant losing what control they had; Vigilant would be at the whim of wind and wave. They might drift for days without the chance of a solar sighting; the idea went against all Shepherd's instincts, both as captain and seaman.
“What of the convoy?” he asked, with little hope.
The master held his hands wide in an attitude of despair. The storm had increased as darkness fell, and the convoy disappeared into the gloom. Shepherd had ordered sail reduced early, knowing the Indiamen's habit of snuggling down when the weather was bad. That was over six hours ago. Now, even if the merchants' lights were as bright as Eddystone he doubted that they could have been made through the darkness. It was highly likely that, whether she hove to or not, Vigilant would find an empty horizon come morning.
“Yes, let her go, Mr Humble!”
Gregory, who had just taken the watch, bellowed the order, while boatswain’s mates appeared, and piped impudently against the screaming wind. The afterguard mainly consisted of marines and landsmen. They staggered to their positions at the braces, while Humble and Gregory organised the coordination of wheel and yards, so that Vigilant could shelter in relative safety and ride out the storm.
From his refuge by the larboard bulwalk, Flint heard the order and drew a deep sigh of relief. He had been on deck since before nightfall, his sodden clothes preventing him from going below for even half an hour's rest. Four times he had gone aloft, first to take in the forecourse, then to reef topsails each time the wind increased. Had they been on some mission that demanded maximum speed, whatever the weather, he might well have been called upon to set storm canvas; the worst of jobs, and one that had caused the death of many men in the past.
The hull reeled unexpectedly as she turned, before beginning a sickening roll while the braces came round and took the pressure off the masts and shrouds. Almost immediately Vigilant dipped, allowing the sea to wash over her deck, but her lack of resistance drew the force from the oncoming waves and she soon settled into a regular motion. She had ceased to fight, although it was not defeat, merely a temporary truce.
The bell rang twice; one o'clock in the morning. Flint was officially off duty for the next three hours, and it was almost worth going below, providing he had a set of dry clothes, and the energy to change into them. To “turn in wet and come up steaming” was the alternative, and the idea held little appeal. Instead he dropped down into the waist, and clambered under the shelter of the weather gangway. Beyond him he could make out the vague forms of Crehan and Simpson, both still manacled in the bilboes that would not be removed until their punishment was decided upon. They too would be wet and cold, but Flint, usually a compassionate man, spared them no thought; he was weary, horribly so, and needed sleep. He tugged his sodden jacket about his shoulders, and tucked his face into the lee of the bulwark. By pulling his cap down and resting his head upon his arm he could keep his head warm and his mouth clear of the deck, while the gangway, and his back would keep out all but the worst of the weather. The position could never be considered comfortable, but his needs were sufficed for the moment. Before long Flint had adjusted to the motion, as Vigilant wallowed in the heavy sea, and he too gave in, allowing sleep to wash over and carry him under.
*****
The midshipmen's berth was damp and stuffy. Pite hung his oilskins outside and ducked under the narrow entrance. His eyes were already accustomed to the gloom, and yet it still took several seconds to make out Hayes, Mintey and Roberts seated round the mess table.
He picked up a stool that had fallen over and joined them. The remains of supper lay on the table; Pite helped himself to biscuit and acce
pted a tumbler of wine from Hayes.
“What's it like up?” Roberts asked, his eyes round in the doubtful light from a single sconce. Pite remembered that this was Roberts' first proper blow, and decided not to tease the boy.
“Been through the worst, I reckon.” he said confidently. “See it quieter by dawn.”
Roberts nodded, although he still had a strained look on his face.
“What of the convoy?” Mintey this time; at thirty-seven he was old for a midshipman, and more experienced than many of the lieutenants.
“Convoy's on the Atlantic,” Pite answered. “Other than that I couldn't say.”
“Is the ship sound?” Roberts again.
Mintey snorted, “If twern't, Mr Roberts,” he banged on the spirketting that lined hull of the ship, barely feet away from each of them. “We'd all know 'bout it!”
The other two laughed, and even Roberts allowed a faint smile. It was not unheard of for a plank to spring in weather such as this, and when one could go, two might easily follow. The British Navy had lost more vessels to foundering than enemy action, and better set up ships than Vigilant had gone to the bottom in heavy weather.
“Is there any meat to go with this biscuit?” Pite asked as he cleaned a fork by stabbing it through a piece of the canvas that covered the table. Hayes shook his head.
“Nothin' cooked. One of the boatswain's mates reckons he's a rat's nest in the cable tier, but we'd never be 'lowed a fire.”
Pite put the fork down and stood up, his head bent to miss the low deckhead.
“Better turn in, then.” he said, and at that moment they all heard the crack.
It was loud and sharp, like a pistol shot. No one spoke; the noise of rushing water that followed said everything necessary.
“We've sprung!” Roberts shrieked hysterically, although the expression on the other men's faces was no less calm. The berth was cleared in seconds and outside, in the gloom of the orlop, it was obvious that more had heard the sound.
Morrison, the purser, staggered towards them in a long white coat. He singled out Hayes. “Get up there, laddie and warn the quarterdeck!”
Hayes was gone, and a few idlers, not wanting to be trapped below the waterline in a sinking ship, followed.
Pite caught sight of Smith, the carpenter, who came striding from the stern, a large lanthorn in his hands.
“Where was the sound?” he asked. The noise of the incoming water had almost died now, presumably due to the hole being underwater; it did not look well.
“Further forward,” Pite said, pointing towards the main hanging magazine.
Smith nodded. “You, there,” he said, indicating Roberts. “The main chain pump is in use already, take two of my mates and get the second manned and active.” The difference in rank, and lack of courtesy went unnoticed by all. If a plank had started there was no one on board more important than the carpenter.
“Forward, you say?” Smith was lightly built, although he had a loud voice and an air of confidence that made him appear larger.
“I think so.”
The carpenter considered this. “More likely to be right at the bows or stern, but we'd better take a look.” He turned to one of his mates. “Sound the well, and report to me. I'll be in the middle hold with Mr Pite.”
Pite swallowed, he would rather have been detailed for Roberts' duties, besides, he only thought he knew where the sound had come from.
They drew back the gratings on the middle hold and stared into the black void beneath. In the noise of the storm it was impossible to say exactly what was going on. Two men appeared with ladders which were lowered into the opening.
Smith looked hard at Pite. “If we're leakin', barrels may be afloat. Keep your eyes about you!”
Pite nodded, and accepted a lanthorn from one of the bystanders. There was no time to wait for a lieutenant: it had to be done now, and Pite resigned himself to the fact that it had fallen upon him to do it.
Together the two men clambered over the combings, and down the ladders into the hold. The light was bad; Pite raised his lanthorn and could just make out a line of barrels lying on their sides; the first bank of several rows. The sound of water had stopped, and as he walked he felt the shingle that covered the hold through the soles of his boots. He reached down reluctantly, and felt the stones to be wet. Wet, but not actually awash. So what had caused the sound?
“Seems solid enough here,” Smith shouted, from his side of the hold. “Belike we'd best look for'ad.”
Pite heard the carpenter's words, although he was strangely reluctant to leave. Now that he was in the hold he was even more certain that it held the source of the sound. He felt his way over to the far side, next to the hull, and shone his lanthorn on the shingle. Again, just the faintest tinge of moisture from the bilges; exactly what would be expected of a ship in a storm.
“Come on, lad!” Smith shouted. “We've to check number one!”
He was quite right, time was vital, but something about the look of the shingle caught Pite's eye. There seemed to be a lot more, quite a pile in fact and of a different size and colour. He bent down, collected a piece in his fingers, and held it up to the light. His tense expression relaxed as he knelt and picked up a complete handful.
“Mr Smith, over here!”
The carpenter came quickly, staring anxiously over his lanthorn. “What is it? What you got?”
Pite said nothing, instead he released his grip and allowed what has been covering the hold to fall from his fingers and rattle back onto the pile with a sound like falling rain.
*****
“You'll be wantin' to see the kid,” the surgeon told him.
Jake nodded. “If that's 'lowd, sir”
“Aye. Everyone else 'as, so one more won't make no difference.” He called to Skirrow, one of his loblolly boys, a wasted looking man with a squint. “Take him to see Jameson. Not long, mind, you got them draughts to grind.”
Skirrow led Jake to the side of the sick bay where a cot was secured to the deck.
“Ain't supposed to put head wounds in 'ammocks,” he explained blithely. “Mind, the thrashin' about he's had over last day an' night, I don' sees it makes no difference. You awake, Jameson?”
Matthew sat up carefully in the bunk and smiled.
“Hey, you stay lyin',” Skirrow cautioned him, and watched until Matthew lowered himself back into his bed. “I'll leave you to talk, but I'll know if you've been muckin' 'bout. He's in our care, y'know?”
Skirrow shuffled off and Jake settled himself down on the deck next to him.
“How's it with you, then?”
Matthew shrugged. “Not bad.”
“We all thought you was a gonna. Cutter's crew reckoned you were dead when they picked you up.”
“Right, I was lucky.”
“Lucky? I'll say!” Jake quickly moderated his voice to a level more suited to the visiting of the sick. “I've heard of men fallin' off the poop ladder and not survivin'! What'dja do, anyhow?”
“Couple of ribs are bruised an' I banged me head. Other than that, I'm sound.”
“I borrowed you an apple.” Jake said, returning to more important matters. “Surgeon doesn't know, otherwise he'd probably 'ave taken it off me.” Jake held out a rather withered specimen.
“Thanks, but I'm gettin' good food here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah; raisins, soft cheese, lobscouse, bit of chocolate last night. An' soup.”
“I'd 'eard you do all right in sickers. Didn't know it were that good. Mind if I hang on to the apple then?”
“No, you keep it.”
Jake returned the apple to his pocket and looked around, as if searching for things to talk about.
“When you back to duties?”
“Can't say. Surgeon wants to check out me head firs'. Says it can still give trouble, headaches an the like. I got to stay out of 'ammocks an' not go aloft for a while.”
“'Specially when Crehan's about, right?”
Both boy's laughed, then Jake grew more serious.
“They say he could end up goin' roun' the fleet.”
“How's that?”
“Punishment. Floggin' round the fleet. Man gets rowed from ship t' ship, an flogged at each one. They can give over an 'hundred lashes, some say nearer a thousand—that's if 'e don't 'ang!”
“Hang?”
“Right. Not the sort of thing they want; people pushin' others off tops.”
Matthew closed his eyes for a moment, and saw the look on the Irishman's face when he knew he was going to fall. “Wasn't really 'is fault. He didn't mean me to fall. He was jus' trying to frighten.”
“Makes no difference; man fools about aloft, he gets punished. It's not for you, it's for the res' of us, an' to put others off doin' the same.”
That made sense. He also saw that it would be the end to the worry about Crehan; whatever they did to him, there was no way the Irishman could continue a feud that had become so public.
“I'd better leave you to caulk.” Jake stood up. “Don' stay there too long. No pay in sick bay, an' t'purser will dock money for the treatment when you're ripe!”
Matthew couldn't be sure if Jake was serious, although he wanted to get back, pay or not. The fall had changed a lot of things; he almost seemed a different person. It was as if those few seconds of panic had frightened the boy from him. He felt more grown up, and the stammer that had plagued him ever since he could remember had all but vanished. He didn't know what had caused the change, but now it seemed that there were so many things out there waiting for him, and he had no time to waste getting back.
There was another reason. Now he was definitely part of Vigilant. There couldn't be anyone on board who didn't know about the boy who'd fallen from the foretopmast. Most, it seemed, had been to visit him, including two officers, other than Mr King, and the chaplain. Today he'd seen most of his mess at discreet intervals, and now Jake. It was still little more than a week from the time he was walking from Leatherhead to Portsmouth and yet already there were people who cared about him. In some cases he might be no more than a macabre source of interest, but nevertheless the contrast was strong.
