A Sea Unto Itself (20 page)

“I do most sincerely apologize, sir,” Charles said as the man climbed through the entry port. A number of the topmen, British and American alike, were descending the mainmast shrouds a few feet away.

“Got lubbers for a crew, have you?” the pilot answered testily. “I’ve seen better ship handling on scows.”

Before Charles could answer, one of the topmen, just having reached the deck, cast his eyes upward at another. “It’s you Yanks what done it, you know. Ye’r all as slow as Boston whores.”

“Shut your fuckin’ gob, Limey, or I’ll shut it for you,” the American replied. “It weren’t me gawkin’ over the rail.”

“Belay that kind of talk,” Charles snapped at the two. They were being closely followed down the ratlines by a dozen more. He turned back to the pilot. “It’s been a long voyage, and a trying one,” he said. “It’ll be a blessing to be in port.”

“All right, then. We’ll get underway, shall . . . “ The pilot stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes wide, staring over Charles’ shoulder. “My God,” he uttered.

Charles turned. At the head of the ladderway to the gundeck a knot of topmen returning below were pushing and shoving. One threw a fist. The recipient tumbled bodily down the stairs while others rushed up from below to join in the confrontation. In an instant, half the crew were wrestling and punching in a disorganized, seething mass. Charles looked on in disbelief.

“Avast there!” Bevan bellowed, hurrying as best he could on his gimpy leg toward the growing disturbance. “Sergeant at Arms! Where are the marines? Stop that; I’ll have order, do you hear me?”

None of the words made much impression that Charles could tell. His first thought was to stop it, with force if necessary. Then he decided not to. Afterward he would show them that he would tolerate no more. “Excuse me for a moment, if you will,” he said to the astonished pilot. He then started back toward the quarterdeck. “Lieutenant Bevan,” he shouted over the melee.

Bevan looked up, his eyes wide in frustration. “I’ve sent for Ayres to fetch his marines,” he sputtered. “We’ll have order restored one way or another in a moment.”

 
Charles shook his head. “Let it go. This has been building since we left Chatham. Maybe a good fight will help to get it out of their system.”

“Do you think so?” Bevan said, unconvinced.

“Maybe,” Charles answered. The men were packed so tightly in the still growing fracas that there was little room to cock an arm or deliver a blow. Most of the conflict appeared to involve grappling at close quarters. There would be scrapes and bruises aplenty, he thought, the odd broken nose, and any number of lost teeth, but few serious injuries. He saw Baker and his two mates approaching from forward along the gangway, staring incredulously at the uproar. “Clear the ladderway, if you please,” Charles ordered as two men spilled onto the quarterdeck. “Do not intervene otherwise.”

Baker nodded with a grim smile and touched his forehead. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said. The three petty officers moved to the head of the stairs, picked up the first seaman they came to and pushed him back onto the heads of the men below. A second quickly followed as Charles noticed Lieutenant Ayres, his sword drawn, at the head of a file of red-coated marines hurrying aft.

“Your orders, sir?” Ayres said, his eyes on the confusion in the waist.

Charles scratched his chin. “Line your men along the break of the quarterdeck,” he said. “We will do nothing for the moment. Once they have worn themselves down we’ll sort them out.” He glanced again at the struggling mob below, then decided he should return and speak to the harbor pilot before the man gave up in dismay and left.

“It’s a fine day, isn’t it, Mr . . . , Mr. . . ,” he spoke to the pilot, still standing with a disbelieving expression at the place where he had come on board.

“Barkley,” the man answered, then stared at Charles. “Is this a normal occurrence?”

Charles grimaced. He wasn’t answerable to the harbor pilot but he had to say something. “There are some hard feelings among the crew. We will be ready to proceed as soon as they are finished.”

“You’re going to tolerate this?” Barkley asked. To Charles it sounded like an accusation.

“Until they’re done,” Charles answered tersely. “Then I’ll deal with it.”

The brawl continued for a relatively short time, a broiling mass of forms. Charles didn’t think they knew who they were fighting—landsman, seamen, Americans, British—all seemed to be working out their discontent on whomever was closest. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. He would give them a quarter of an hour—if it lasted that long. After five minutes he thought he detected a flagging in their enthusiasm. Individual seamen began to stagger out from the midst of the fray to collapse on a clear space on the deck, more from exhaustion than injury; nose bleeds seemed a common ailment, although some might be more serious. Charles turned to Midshipman Hitch, watching the contest with considerable enthusiasm. “My complements to the surgeon, if you please,” he said calmly. “I would appreciate his presence on the gundeck as he has the leisure. Ask that he bring a goodly supply of dressings and unguents.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Hitch responded and hurried along the gangway toward the bow, where he could descend in relative safety to the surgeon’s quarters by way of the forward hatch.

Charles checked his watch again. There was more moaning and gasping for breath than cursing coming from the waist. The men lay mostly in an undifferentiated heap on the deck. Here and there an effort was made to strike a blow or simply to clear some space. “Lieutenant Ayres,” he called. “If you would be so good as to send your men down to separate the combatants.”

“Yes, sir,” Ayres answered. He gave the necessary orders and the marines started down the ladderway, collecting bodies and dragging them without ceremony to the unoccupied parts of the deck. Owens arrived with his case of supplies, and began moving from man to man in search of the more seriously injured.

“Daniel,” Charles said next. “We’ll give them a few moments to catch their breath. Then I want them on their feet, those that are able, and aligned in their divisions.”

“What are you going to do?” Bevan asked, visibly furious at what had happened.

Charles frowned. “There'll be no shore leave, that’s a fact. I intend to lay down the law.”

“Floggings?” Bevan prompted. “You can’t let this go with a slap on the wrist.”

“You can’t flog the whole crew,” Charles answered evasively. He had yet to come to a final decision on what he would do. Bevan was right in at least one respect: He could not overlook it. He watched with as much patience as he could muster as the men were sorted out. A number, having recovered some of their strength, pushed themselves into sitting positions. A few were ordered below by the surgeon where he might better treat broken bones or dislocated fingers. Soon, Bevan sent Winchester and Beechum, the midshipmen and petty officers down to get the men to their feet and into some sort of order. They were a sorry mess with torn clothing, missing hats, some with only one shoe. Any number had blood down their fronts from bleeding noses or minor cuts.

“The men are all present and sober,” Bevan reported when he was satisfied that the crew were assembled in as orderly a fashion as they were going to get. “Except for those with the surgeon, of course.” Their sobriety was not Charles’ greatest concern.

Charles nodded and stepped to the forward edge of the quarterdeck where everyone could see and hear him. The faces below, bruised and scuffed though they were, mostly looked up dully, some sheepishly, a few with some satisfaction. He spoke loudly: “If you poor sods fought half as hard with the French as you do against each other, the war would be over by now.” There were a few grins at this, as he knew there would be. Now he resolved to wipe them away. “Do you want to fight with your own shipmates?” he went on. “Fine. Fight to your hearts’ content. But if anything like this occurs again, not a man jack of you will set foot ashore at any port of call so long as I am captain of this ship.”

The grins vanished, as did any expressions of satisfaction. “What about Cape Town?” a voice shouted up.

“Silence there,” Bevan growled.

Charles lifted his hand in forbearance. “There will be no shore leave in Cape Town,” he answered. “I had planned to allow it, but you have scotched that.” The seaman opened his mouth to protest. Charles spoke first. “It is not a question that is open for discussion. I will not have this kind of behavior on board my ship. In the future, any man caught taunting or fighting will receive a dozen lashes for the first offense. There will be two dozen for the second, three for the third, and on, until you get it into your heads that I won’t tolerate it.” There, he’d said it. He hoped that the threat would be sufficient. “If you expect liberty in port in the future, you will have to earn it by your good behavior. Is that understood?”

Bevan looked at him with a surprised expression. “Do you mean it?” he said.

Charles nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I mean it. Now, if you please, we’ve still to make port. Set the men–those that are able–to trim the sails. I will go and apologize to the pilot for the delay.”

“Hoist out the jollyboat, if you please,” Charles said. “See that the mail is passed down. I’m to call on the port admiral; be back by suppertime, I expect.” As soon as the boat went down over the side and its crew had settled in, Charles climbed down. He seated himself in the sternsheets, two satchels—one with dispatches he carried from England, the other with the ship’s mail to be returned there—lay at his feet.

Cassandra had finally come to rest in the Cape Town roads almost a half mile from the harbor front. It was not an ideal anchorage since it left them exposed to the steady westerly winds and steep rollers sweeping across the Atlantic, but the increased distance and rough seas would discourage most from jumping ship to attempt the swim ashore.

“Out oars,” Malvern ordered. “All pull.” The boat started across the chop for the long row into the port. As they neared, Charles saw that a party had gathered at the end of the closest pier. A welcoming committee of some sort, he assumed. Since the pilot boat had returned earlier, word of the activities of his crew would have long since spread up and down the waterfront. He was already in a sour frame of mind and did not relish having to explain why there had been a riot on his ship in the very mouth of the harbor.

“Boat yer oars,” Malvern snapped at the boat’s crew. “Smartly now, damn yer eyes. Dick, get a hook on that ladderway.” At least the coxswain was making an attempt to show that Cassandra was a capably manned and disciplined ship. Of course, the large black bruise around one eye, already swelling shut, went some way to counter the impression. The boat pulled alongside the ladder; Charles stepped across and climbed upward.

The first person he encountered on the surface of the dock greeted him warmly. “Captain Edgemont, what? May I welcome you to the Cape Colonies? I am Samuel Cobbham.” The speaker was a middle-aged man with a round face and a comfortable paunch. He wore the undress uniform of a vice admiral in the Royal Navy. “It’s a pleasure to greet a real navy man for once, eh? Mostly we get those John Company duffers; not real captains, if you take my drift. The Admiralty has informed me that you”d be passing our way, don’t you know?”

“Thank you, sir,” Charles answered, touching his hat carefully and looking for something solid to hold onto. He found himself unsure of his balance on the rigidly unmoving surface of the wharf.

Cobbham laughed. “Been at sea long, what?”

“Eighty-one days from Chatham, sir. I expect it will take me a time to find my land legs.”

“Eighty-one days, eh? Long enough for your lads to work up some raw feelings, I do hear.” The admiral’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Is everything shipshape where your people are concerned, or do you require some assistance, eh?”

Charles hesitated. He could fob off any excuse to the harbor pilot, but he didn’t want to lie to the Admiral. He didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t control his own crew either. “It’s not as serious as it might have appeared to the pilot,” he said carefully. “Just at present I have factions among my crew. We recently pressed a number of Americans at Bunce Island and they haven’t adjusted to their role on board as of yet. I expect to have the matter in hand before long.”

Cobbham glanced reflectively at Cassandra, absurdly small in the in the distance, then back at Charles. “I see,” he said easily. “It doesn’t do to pry too closely into other officers’ methods is my rule, but if you’re to require resupply, she’s going to have to come into the harbor.”

Charles said nothing to this.

“If you’re worried about your men running,” the admiral continued gently, “I’d be more than pleased to post sentries for any strays that find their way ashore. I wouldn’t be concerned if I were you, it happens more often than you’d think, don’t you know?”