by Alaric Bond
“Right, I’ll be off, then.”
“Thanks for comin',” he grinned “An' the apple.”
“Do you get onions?” Jake asked.
“No, not had any onions.” Matthew said seriously
Jake assumed the manner of a worldly benefactor, “I'll bring you one then.” he said, and left.
*****
“You stupid God-damned fool,” O'Conner informed him. Crehan looked straight ahead, as if the words had not been spoken. His feet were secured by rings stapled to the deck, although his hands were free, and currently engaged in picking oakum. Simpson was similarly employed next to him, his presence, together with that of the marine sentry who stood at ease behind them both, made O'Conner choose his words with care.
“You could have killed the kid; you know that, don't yer?”
“He knows,” Simpson replied after a pause. “He knows 'cause I, an' every jack aboard this ship 'as told him.”
“No man will converse with the prisoners,” the marine spoke in a dull monotone as if reciting from a book.
O'Conner nodded, “I've no wish to talk with this one,” he said, and withdrew.
*****
Crehan had been tried under Group Three of the Articles of War, which covered crimes against the fellow man and his rights. His offence could easily warrant the death penalty, for this however, a court martial was needed, and Shepherd disliked the idea of two men on the punishment deck awaiting possible execution. Besides in theory Crehan had committed a crime that was against every man in the ship, and he felt an immediate and public punishment was called for.
“Twelve lashes is the maximum I can order officially.” Shepherd said when Crehan had been removed from their presence.
Dyson nodded. They both knew this, and of the various ways that punishments could be extended. “Or you could flog him to death; there's more than just cause. And the crew would be behind you.”
Shepherd closed his eyes briefly, remembering the scared look on Crehan's face as he admitted to dropping the boy “in a fit of carelessness”. Whatever the truth of the matter it was clear that Crehan regretted the incident deeply. The position of captain of a ship-of-the-line was not known for its pleasant aspects, and Shepherd found imposing discipline one of the more distasteful.
“If it came to it I could hang him, but I feel a flogging is enough, especially as the boy seems willing to forgive.” That was certainly true. Jameson, brought into his presence before they had seen Crehan, seemed almost as frightened of the impending punishment as the Irishman.
“The boy is lucky to be able to,” Dyson's voice was like ice. Shepherd guessed his first lieutenant would have found little trouble selecting a punishment were the choice left to him.
He snapped to a decision. The passage so far had not been bad; they had ridden out the storm without significant loss. There had been the scare, when most of the orlop thought a plank had started. Apparently the noise of whole dried peas flowing out of a crushed barrel had sounded like the seas rushing in, but apart from a few bruised egos, no harm had been done. And they had been fortunate with the convoy; already they had rounded up most of the scattered ships, and he had no wish to insult the good luck that had come his way with a show of spite.
“No, a flogging will do. Make it seventy-two.”
Seventy-two lashes; certainly not enough to kill Crehan, but he could still be left crippled, in mind, if not in body. The sight would also be sufficient to convince most of the crew that he had been properly dealt with.
Dyson nodded, betraying little of his opposition to what he considered extreme leniency. There were some crimes that merited compassion, even in a heart as cold as the first lieutenant's. Simpson, languishing now in bilboes until he inevitably met death, could almost be excused his offence. But to wilfully endanger another man, worse, a boy who had barely been in the ship a couple of weeks: Dyson felt nothing but contempt for the creature.
The captain spoke again. “You can trump up the charge?”
“Aye, sir.” By accusing Crehan of a series of offences, real or imagined, he could be awarded twelve lashes for each. Thus the letter of the law was seen to be obeyed, while Shepherd imposed a heavier punishment than was officially allowed. “Shall we tell him his fate?”
Shepherd sighed. “Yes, have him brought back.”
*****
“Poetry, Timothy?”
Rogers reached over the lieutenant's shoulder, and plucked the leather bound book out of reach of his sudden, desperate, grasp.
“I had no idea we had men of words aboard!”
The wardroom was reasonably full as the midday meal was due in less than half an hour.
“I'll have that back, if you please, sir!” It was hard to keep the panic from his voice, although Timothy had been in such situations often enough to realise that a cool demeanour is essential if matters are not to escalate.
“Fond of the odd rhyme miself, as it happens.” Rogers continued. He closed his eyes, and was still for a second, before breaking out in a loud voice. “Sarah was a sailors' pet, she worked the local hard.” Timothy ached to grab his book back while Rogers declared the crude dogrel to the room. A few, notably those who had had little experience of Rogers, made the occasional guffaw, while Wilson, the surgeon, cackled without reserve. Some, however, remained silent; Carling, Tait and Gregory coldly so.
When he had finished Rogers opened his eyes once more and turned his attention back to the book and began leafing through the pages. “Can't say there's anything here I know, certainly nothin' as good as that!” He closed the book to look at the title, and Timothy's heart dropped into his boots.
“Here's a rum thing an all: Hamilton Moore's ‘Practical Navigator’, yet the whole thing’s filled with rhymes and ditties!” He thrust the book under the noses of those seated at the table, flipping through the pages to prove his point. “I'd take's more care when I bought my books were I you, Mr Timothy!”
Timothy said nothing; his eyes were lowered, and his face betrayed his shame.
“But I forget, you're of that ilk, are you not?” Three of the wardroom stewards were standing by the pantry watching the scene: Rogers' voice was uncommonly loud.
“My father is a bookbinder,” Timothy admitted, wondering how such a discreditable thing should be so widely known.
“Then I can only think he is a very bad workman!” Rogers chortled, this time to total silence.
“No man here need be ashamed of his station, nor his history.” Carling spoke with calm assurance. “Myself, I come from farming stock, and am proud of it.”
Rogers' face took on a look of abject delight. “Farming stock, Mr Carling? Why does that not surprise me? And pray tell me, exactly which field did you grow up in?”
“That'll do, Mr Rogers!” Gregory this time, although only a breath before Tait.
“Ah, Mr Gregory—you do prefer to be addressed in that manner I understand, although I dare say another form was used afore the mast!”
“You really are a deeply unpleasant man.” Carling had contained his fury and now looked on Rogers in cold anger.
“Gentleman, Mr Carling, gentleman. Unpleasant I may be, to your unrefined eyes, but a gentleman I undoubtedly am; that is something incontestable.”
Something of the hostile atmosphere must have been apparent as his eyes swept about the other officers. “And another thing,” he tossed the book disdainfully in front of Timothy, and continued in a tone that was both clinical and menacing. “I am senior to all here present; every man jack of you. And likely to stay so for as long as we are in the service. I could buy and sell every man in this ship. Every man; and its about time I was shown a bit more respect.”
*****
Matthew was to be present when Crehan was flogged. All formal punishments were witnessed by the entire crew. The publicity acting both as a deterrent to others, and as an attempt to ensure that the officers were not taking undue liberties with the men. The helmsmen, watch keeping officers and
masthead lookouts were the only exclusions, and even they would have an excellent view of the proceedings. As Matthew had already been allowed up for a day, he really couldn't avoid it, however detestable the idea was to him.
“You could look on it as the end of the incident,” the chaplain told him, as he led him up from the sick bay into the sunlight of the waist. “When this has ended, so will any argument between you and Mr Crehan.”
Matthew eyed him doubtfully. The chaplain looked very young for his job, and there was something about him, and the way he spoke, that did not ring true.
“Mr Skirrow will look after you. The sight is not pleasant, I understand.”
Matthew allowed himself to be propped against a gun carriage almost opposite the grating, which had been raised from over the main hatch, and rigged vertically at the break of the quarterdeck. Behind it a detachment of marines were lined up, bayonet’s fixed and muskets loaded.
Dyson and King were on watch. The boatswain formally approached them and knuckled his forehead. Dyson nodded, and the boatswain turned away and signalled to his mates. The squeal of their pipes filled the ship, and slowly the men began to appear, talking quietly amongst themselves as they formed into their divisions. Matthew could see Flint, and the rest of his mess standing on the opposite side under the gangway. Flint gave him a quick toothy smile, and raised one reassuring thumb. Of all the men who had paid Matthew a visit, only Flint had been allowed into his confidence, and really understood how he felt about the business.
Then the captain appeared on the quarterdeck, along with the rest of the officers. All wore swords, and serious expressions; none spoke.
Skirrow, next to him, fidgeted slightly. “I 'eard they've made a couple of south paws 'onnery bosun's mates.” Matthew looked at him enquiringly, and he continued. “Bosun's mates does the floggin'. They change 'em every twelve lashes, so they need six. If three of 'em are left 'anders, Crehan'll 'ave a nice checked shirt at the end of it.”
Matthew had little time to take in Skirrow's words, as the marine drummer began to beat out the Rogue's March, and Crehan appeared on deck, an armed marine to either side of him.
The last time Matthew had seen Crehan was on the fore crosstrees, six days ago. Since then he seemed to have aged ten years; even the colour of his skin looked washed out and faded. For a moment his gaze swept over Matthew, but there was little chance of catching his eye, as his stare was blank and empty. A growl, possibly belligerent, possibly sympathetic, emanated from the men as he was brought to the grating. A marine removed Crehan's shirt and secured his hands to the top two corners of the grating. A boatswain's mate tied a leather apron backwards about his waist, so that the scarred hide draped down over his buttocks. Another boatswain's mate stepped forward, with a bright red canvas bundle in his hand. More murmuring spread through the crowd as the cat was removed from the bag, and flopped down towards the deck.
“Half a fathom of log line,” Skirrow informed him. “You'd think it was made of wire, the mess it makes!”
The drummer stopped, and for a moment there was an eerie silence. The captain read the charges in a low but powerful voice and the air hung heavy as time was suspended. Then Matthew looked away and the punishment began.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The day after Crehan's punishment was a Sunday. By then the wind had dropped completely, the clouds all but disappeared, and the sun shone down on the small convoy that drifted untidily across the smooth sea. On the previous day the decks had been stoned twice, once in the morning, and once in the late afternoon, to reduce the work for the official day of rest. The hands were roused half an hour earlier than other days, and jostled with each other over the shaving kids, running the open razors over their necks and faces with nothing but their own hands and experience to guide them. Then it was clean shirts, white duck trousers and best blue jackets; the bell had been rung for divine service, and the common pendant raised to the mizzen peek.
Bryant, the chaplain, watched them surreptitiously as he laid the union flag over a pair of upturned casks on the break of the quarterdeck. Bryant knew himself to be unpopular, and was sorry, although it seemed that any move he made to rectify the situation was doomed to rebound. On earlier voyages he had tried to empathise with the men, come down to their level and share their lot, but what could a man brought up in a bishop's palace share with another whose idea of refinement was raw spirit and a freshly toasted rat? The efforts made on his part had merely robbed him of the dignity his office held, and Bryant knew that the next few weeks were not going to be easy.
Strangely it was precisely that knowledge that had made him stay on as chaplain, when he could so easily have resigned during his recent leave. He had decided to go ashore as soon as the wedding garland was hoisted, knowing the scenes of debauchery and sin that normally followed would be too much for him. The time with his father had been a test in itself and it had been hard to turn from the luxury of a home where he was loved and respected, to one where he could expect to be taunted, tripped or spat upon at any moment. Some chaplains could carry themselves well with seamen, could earn their respect, and even be taken into their confidence. Bryant was not one of those, and he had long ago resigned himself to the fact, along with the abuse that seemed to go hand in hand with his calling. His only consolation lay in the knowledge that, if he was truly serious in his vocation, there were few more needy places for him and the Lord’s word than a ship of war at sea.
And so he had returned to Vigilant, knowing that to do otherwise would be to deny his faith—the faith that led him as strongly and effectively as any press-gang. There was empathy indeed and the irony was not lost on Bryant for, of all the pressed men on board, he was certainly the most miserable.
“Fine weather for it, padre.” Gregory informed him as the hands fell in to their divisions and waited patiently for the service to begin. Bryant smiled cautiously at the lieutenant, never certain if he was being teased, or merely tolerated. Dyson appeared next, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement, followed by Carling, the captain of marines, and the other lieutenants. A few junior officers then emerged, taking a moment or two in deciding their rightful place on the quarterdeck, for there was little to tell which was the leeward side on such a still day.
Shepherd was last of all, and he strode up to the chaplain's primitive altar with such assurance that Bryant felt strangely jealous. He returned the captain's nod and turned to start the service; for this was his time now, the time when he had charge over the ship, the men, and their souls. And God help them all, he thought, as he began.
The marine band made a credible start to the hymn, and Bryant boldly led the singing, his voice often wavering several keys away from the musicians. Eventually it was done, and he began his short sermon. This was based on one he had read at the start of the previous voyage, and broadly similar to that used on the onset of the voyage before that. It covered the leaving of home, with more than a mention of the duty every man owed to his country. In a time when wars were paid for by the rich, but fought by the poor, Bryant took care to keep the satire from creeping into his voice. Then he went on to describe the adventure that lay before them. That they, like the ship, were on a voyage, a voyage that would take them through life. He looked down at the bored faces, still and silent due only to the discipline they were under, and realised what a waste of time it all was.
The captain was also watching his crew while Bryant's sermon droned on. The men were hardly paying attention, but there was nothing new in that: seamen and conventional religion were hardly common bedfellows. Many held a strong faith, but few accepted the conformity of organised denomination, while others satisfied any such need with aphorisms and superstition. The men appeared impatient; there were signs of shuffling and whispers; nothing a warrant officer could actually identify and punish, but the first symptom of disruption. The first suggestion of a rebellion that might end with the loss of his ship, and possibly even his life.
That afternoon had been declar
ed a holiday, a make and mend period when the decks became filled with men immersed in a dozen different tasks, from tattooing to scrimshaw. In a ship where some were new and untrained, Dyson had organised a series of drills and exercises that should knock them into shape. Looking at the hands now Shepherd longed to bring it into effect straight away, but felt almost instinctively it was not the time. In a world where men were mainly valued for their muscle power, it was easy to consider them as nothing more than beasts of burden. He looked along the faces, the young and old, tough and sensitive; these were people, many of whom had recently been wrenched from their homes. The next few days would give them ample time for training, but to rush things might just encourage the restlessness he had already noticed.
The sermon finished adequately enough, and after leading them through the Lord's Prayer, Bryant left the stage to more competent players.
Shepherd stepped forward and cleared his throat. This was an opportunity to address the crew, but he resisted the temptation. Perhaps in a week or so, when they had properly shaken down, would be a better time. He opened his copy of King's Regulations, as important to him as any bible was to Bryant. It was no accident that the divine service ended with the reading of the Articles of War, and Shepherd did so now with due reverence and clarity. These were the rules that bound each hand to him, the ship, and the Navy. And these were the laws each would be tried by, should they fail in any of their duties. The silence that greeted him was respectful and complete. It was their world that he spoke of, and the rules held a greater relevance than any supposed kingdom in the sky. The service ended abruptly, and the hands fell out, to mingle socially while the purser and his stewards issued the morning grog. Once this was down, they had a meal of pork and pease pudding to look forward to, followed by the afternoon's holiday of “make and mend”.
