A Sea Unto Itself (9 page)

The purser laid his ledger book on the table so that it was exactly centered in front of him and precisely squared to its surface. “I am not authorized by the victualing board to expend unlimited sums on independently procured foodstuffs, sir,” he said tightly. “I am required to draw provisions from the yards whenever possible.”

Charles understood that pursers were at least in part independent contractors who were expected to enhance their minimal salaries by economizing on provisions and through the sale of certain “necessities” such as tobacco, candles, and clothing to the ship’s company. There was ample room for corruption in this system and some pursers amassed small fortunes at the expense of their crews’ comfort. On the other hand, there were those who overspent their allowances and were bankrupted when held responsible for the deficit. A ship's captain was officially responsible for reviewing his purser's accountings and checking for any malfeasance. Some were diligent in this tedious task, others scarcely bothered. Pursers were rarely beloved figures by a ship’s crew, who universally assumed they were being cheated, real or not.

“I am aware of the requirements of your position, Mr. Wells,” Charles said. “I know, for example, that when in an English harbor you are entitled to draw fresh provisions from the victualing wharf.”

The purser did not apologize. “I have only come onboard these three days past,” he said. “I have not yet had the leisure to attend to it.”

“I trust you will find the leisure for it the first thing on the morrow,” Charles said.

“If that is your wish,” Wells answered pertly.

“It is my wish to have a healthy and happy ship, Mr. Wells,” Charles answered. “I may tell you that we are about to embark on a prolonged cruise into potentially hostile waters. Neither you nor I would wish the temper of the ship’s company to be otherwise.”

The purser nodded noncommittally. He was a close man with his feelings, Charles decided, and had probably been caught making a few extra shillings by keeping the crew on seagoing rations. Wells would bear watching in the future.

“Is that all, sir?” the purser asked.

“That is all for now, Mr. Wells,” Charles said. “Thank you for attending me so promptly. I will be pleased to review your ledgers regularly on Wednesdays. I trust you find that agreeable.”

When the purser had gone, Charles looked once more at his watch. He needed to come to a decision on what to say to the crew when he read himself in. The thought of it stirred up the bile in his stomach. He would be expected to speak about their pay and what he would do about it. But what could he do about it really? He must make no more empty promises. It would be important to set the right tone, to reassure the men that he would be a fair commander, that he believed in a disciplined ship, that he expected hard work from them and their best efforts at practice with the guns or aloft. He could appeal to their patriotism, or even religion—the French were after all known to be Catholic. He considered this for a time, then decided that it wouldn’t do. They would have heard it from every captain assuming a new command. In fact, he wouldn’t give any speech at all beyond the briefest reading of his orders. Instead, he would have them speak to him.

Augustus soon returned. Charles busied himself with showing his steward how to arrange his belongings and explaining in general terms what his duties would be. He was considering where to hang a framed pen-and-ink drawing of Penny, a memento of his last cruise, when a knock came at the cabin door. The ship’s bell rang three times. It was time to be on deck. “Yes,” he yelled at the door.

Isaac Beechum, Cassandra’s Third Lieutenant, entered. “Hello, Captain Edgemont. Welcome aboard, sir. Lieutenant Bevan’s respects. He says the ship’s company are assembled as requested.”

“Yes, yes,” Charles said. Now that the moment was upon him he felt unsettled and unprepared. “Hello, Beechum. How are you?” Without waiting for a reply he turned to Augustus. “My dress uniform coat and hat, quickly please.” To Beechum, “My regards to Lieutenant Bevan. I will be on deck presently.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum said, and departed.

Charles slipped his arms into the heavy garment, then buckled on his sword and took up his hat. As he gained the quarterdeck he saw the marines, drawn up in a neat line, snap to and present arms. Bevan stood at the base of mainmast. Below in the waist, the crew milled in an undisciplined mass. He noticed that the senior seamen mostly collected around the edges in groups of three or four. There were probably about seven or eight score present in all, Charles guessed, which was probably right if they were fifty short of a complement. His nervousness increased. Their eyes were turned on him as he passed behind the line of redcoats. What would they see? That he was a junior captain from his single epaulette, that he looked young. What would that mean to them? From what he could tell, none exhibited any indication that he was especially welcome in their presence.

He stopped beside Bevan and removed the envelope from his pocket. “All right,” he said.

“Off hats,” the lieutenant bellowed in a voice that could be heard in the tops. Before Charles could unfold his document, Bevan signaled to the marine lieutenant standing behind his men.

“Atten-shun!” the lieutenant barked, and simultaneously the drummer began a long rat-at-at-at roll. The marines loudly stamped their boots on the deck and came to a rigid parade-ground attitude.

Charles frowned. He guessed that Bevan had arranged the ceremony in order to impress the crew. It was not the tone he wanted to set at all. “Stop the drummer,” he said.
 
When the noise ceased he pointedly turned to the lieutenant of the marines. “Stand your men at ease.” He said loudly enough for those in the waist to overhear.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” the surprised lieutenant answered back.

“Stand your men down,” Charles repeated. “I do not wish to give the impression that I take up this command by right of military force. I have been appointed by the King to this position. I am sure that is sufficient for every man on board.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the lieutenant said in a surprised tone. He then ordered his company to parade rest. Charles had not yet been introduced to him; he would have to make amends later. With barely a glance at the men below he unfolded the paper and read. “To Captain Charles Edgemont, Esquire. Sir, you are hereby directed and required . . . ” He finished the page barely having taken three breaths. Charles raised his eyes to look out over the men that were legally under his authority now. He knew it, and they knew it. There was an expectant silence followed by a commotion of exchanges from below.

“What have you to say for yourselves?” Charles said in an almost normal voice. The mutterings died away. “Come now, why are you refusing orders?”

“What ‘bout ar pay?” a voice shouted up almost immediately.

Bevan shifted uneasily beside him. Charles knew that he did not approve of seamen speaking directly to their captain, particularly in that tone of voice. “Leave it be, Daniel,” he said. He saw that the speaker was a hard looking man with a golden earring and his hair tied back in a club—an able seaman if ever he’d seen one. He was sitting on the first reinforce of a gun with two of his mates, all had quids of tobacco in their mouths and a bucket on the deck between them to expectorate into. “I am aware that your pay is in arrears and I will do my utmost to address it before we sail,” he answered.

“Wif all respect, zur,” the man shot back, spitting a gob expertly into his receptacle, “Ye tol’ Mrs. T ye’d do it, not look into it.”

Charles saw the other seamen perched on the cannon nod in agreement. An angry murmur started up again from the crowd. He knew he was on thin ice, but it was best to be truthful whether they liked it or not. “It was a mistake for me to have said that. I can’t force the navy to deliver your pay. I will promise you that I will do everything that is in my power to see that it is done as quickly as possible.”

Another seaman lounging against the bulwark on the other side of the deck pushed himself to his feet. He was of indeterminate age with deeply weathered skin, eyes narrowed to slits. “We ain’t sailin’ wifout our wages. It be our money what we earnt it. Ye got that, captain?”

Charles took a deep breath. He felt his fingers tapping against his thigh and balled the hand into a fist. “Yes, I got that. Thank you,” he said. “I will make this bargain. You will come under orders and return to your duties. I promise that we will not sail until you are paid. We will sit in this stinking harbor until hell freezes over or the paymaster comes, whichever is first.” He saw heads nod in tentative approval, particularly among the older seamen.

“That’s not good enough,” another voice shouted out from somewhere in the middle of the company. “Back pay be only one of our demands.” Charles searched the faces until he saw a red-headed man, his hair cropped short. The speaker waved a sheet of paper in his hand. There was a commotion of agreement, mostly from those close by him. The older seamen watched from the edges with interest.

Charles’ heart sank. He thought he’d made an offer they could accept. It was as far as he could go—farther than he should have gone. “Who’s that, Daniel?” he asked under his breath.

“Dick Stimson,” Bevan answered. “Rated as a landsman. Was a clerk of some kind, I think. He fancies himself a regular shipboard barrister. I’ve had words with him before.”

Charles held up his hand for silence and faced Stimson. “Fine,” he said, biting off the words. “I’ll listen.”

The man held his page before him and read. “The first is, we want our back pay before starting any labor, and full in cash, no tickets.” He had six demands, which he had evidently spent some care thinking through. The others were: 2) no floggings or harsh punishments, 3) better food, 4) leave at every port, 5) the redistribution of all prize money so that one-half would be divided among the crew instead of the established quarter, and 6) pardons for everyone who had participated in the work stoppage. “We ain’t lifting a finger lest you agree to all of it,” he concluded.

It was strange, Charles thought, that he had sympathy for most of the demands; but he couldn’t do it—not unless he wanted to hand the running of the ship over to the crew. “I’ll grant pardons to any man who hasn’t committed a more serious crime. That includes you, Stimson, on your promise of good behavior in the future. As for the rest, I won’t agree to any of it. I’ve made my offer and I’ll honor it. This ship will be run under the same rules as every other in the navy.”

Stimson moved to protest, but Charles decided the man had said enough. It wouldn’t do for him to stand on the quarterdeck arguing back and forth. He took a breath. “It is my wish that you come under orders immediately. If you refuse, I will take whatever steps are necessary to make it so, bargain or no bargain.” He said it flatly, he meant it, but he did not relish the prospect of making it so.

A confusion of exchanges broke out in the waist. “Then we ain’t none of us returning to work,” Stimson shouted up.

Charles turned to the lieutenant of the marines. “Form up your men, if you please.” When he turned back he noticed that the man on the cannon, the one who spoke to him first, had gotten to his feet and was shouldering his way through the crowd along with his mates. A few of the older seamen were also moving quietly toward the center. Mostly the men moved out of their way to let them pass. He wondered what they were doing.

“A-ha,” Bevan said.

Four senior seamen arrived without a fuss around Stimson with his page of demands. For a moment they blocked him from Charles’ view. Quite suddenly the mass began to break apart, the men drifting or hurrying away. Stimson was revealed sitting alone on the deck boards, blood running from his nostrils onto his shirt.

“Beg pardon, zur,” Charles heard a familiar voice speak to him from just below on the gundeck. He looked and saw the earringed man from the cannon who promptly knuckled his forehead. “We’re under yer orders, zur.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, unable to think of anything else.

“Mind that ye live up to yer end.”

“I will.” The man turned to leave. “Wait,” Charles said. “May I ask why . . ?”

The seaman pushed his tobacco into his cheek, pulled a filthy piece of cloth from his pocket, spit into it, then put it back. “I saw as you tied orf that halyard at the mainmast all nice and neat. I reckoned ye might be a fair captain if ye’d do a thing like that. We’ll see though, won’t we.”

“We will that,” Charles said. He turned to Bevan. “You may dismiss the hands below.”

“Who was that?” Charles asked after the men had started toward their messes.

“Able seaman Thomas Sherburne,” Bevan answered. “He’s a hard case.”

That evening Charles received an invitation from his officers to share their supper. The wardroom occupied the after third of the mess deck below Charles’ own quarters and was reserved for the ship’s lieutenants, senior standing officers, and warrants. Individual cabins the size of large closets lined both sides of the space. Between was a low-ceilinged room with a long table aligned fore to aft where they did their paperwork and took their meals. Charles was introduced to the men who would be responsible for Cassandra's administration, navigation, maintenance, and the health of its crew. He shook the offered hands and attempted to fix names to faces: Mr. Silas Cromley, the sailing master whom he had been assured was specially selected for his knowledge of the Red Sea; William Owens, surgeon; and Lieutenant Thomas Ayres, a Scot commanding the marines, he managed to place firmly. Wells, the purser, he had already made the acquaintance of. He found himself too tired to form an impression of them except that the master took an unusual amount of time to answer a direct question. Ayres seemed decisive enough. They would all sort themselves into their places as he heard their reports in the coming days.