Battle Fleet (2007) (18 page)

‘The poop deck’s not a bad posting,’ he said after a while. ‘I know it’s safer below, but when you get close enough to an enemy ship, and everyone’s bludgeoning away at each other with the guns, then the gun deck can be a pretty hellish place too. And you know what the Admiral’s favourite order is, don’t you? “Engage the enemy more closely.” That’s his motto. Lord Nelson believes the only way to win a battle is to put yourself right down the enemy’s throat and annihilate him. It certainly worked for him at Copenhagen, and I’m sure
it’ll work for him wherever we’re going.’

‘Are you certain we’re heading for a battle?’ I asked. ‘You can never know for sure.’

‘I’m certain of it,’ said Robert. ‘Nelson is determined to take on the French and Spanish and he won’t stop until he succeeds. He’s been halfway across the world chasing their Admiral Villeneuve. If we can bring them out to fight, I’m convinced we’ll obliterate them. And once the French and Spanish fleet is destroyed, there’ll be no need to fear a French invasion of England. If we hold the Channel, and can take our troops across at will, then Napoleon can never win. Should we fail, then his soldiers will be in London before the year is out.

‘Who rules the world? Britain or France?’ said Robert. ‘We’re here to decide the fate of nations.’

A part from Robert, and Captain Hardy, there was one other seaman aboard the
Victory
who I knew. One morning late in August, a week after we had come on board, I was supervising the stowing of the hammocks on the poop deck. A wiry, pasty-faced sailor caught my eye. It was Michael Trellis from HMS
Miranda
. He had bullied me when I first went to sea. I had last seen him taken away as a prisoner when we fell to a Spanish frigate.

I knew a little about him, not least that he was a Marine Society boy. The society had been set up for
orphans or abandoned children to provide them a home of sorts in the Navy. Such boys had a reputation, even among tars, for being particularly rough. Many had been in trouble with the law and had been offered the choice of the Navy or prison.

I suppose I should have felt some glee, finding myself in a position of power over my old enemy. But instead, I felt a surge of pity. Like many of the men on this warm morning he was not wearing a shirt. I would guess he was twenty now – old enough to be full grown. But he still looked scrawny and underfed. I could see on his back criss-cross scarring that could only have come from a severe flogging. The injuries were not new, but I wondered if they still troubled him. When I caught his eye, he looked like a beaten dog. A dull resignation hung over him like a soggy cloak. All the spite and aggression he had shown as a lad had gone. I remembered he had nearly been shot for cowardice when the
Miranda
had fought
La Flora
and
Gerona
, and wondered if his flogging had come from a similar incident.

At first he did not recognise me, but when I caught him looking at me later that morning, I knew the mist was clearing. One of the Lieutenants addressed me as Mr Witchall in his hearing, and I saw him flinch. When I saw him later, I noticed he tried to keep away from me. Even when he came to pack his hammock, he acted as if I were going to strike him at any moment, or
order a bosun’s mate to do so.

I wondered how I could put him at ease. I meant to talk to him when I found him alone on deck. But that afternoon I passed him and several other young sailors and could faintly hear them going ‘Ooo-ooo-ooo’ and sniggering. I ignored it, finding it bizarre.

Then the penny dropped. These were monkey noises. They were letting me know they knew I used to be a powder monkey. When I mentioned it to Robert, he was angry with me. ‘Sam, you can’t let a thing like that go. It’s plain insubordination. You must stamp it out the instant it happens again, or you’ll be the laughing stock of the lower deck.’

He was right, but I was determined there would be no violence. When I saw Trellis and another seaman on the fo’c’sle that evening, they began their monkey noises again. I called over a bosun’s mate at once and simply told him to have the two of them clapped in irons.

I left them there for an hour, then went to talk to them. I thought long and hard how to play this and was determined to put on the best front I could muster. I sauntered up behind Trellis and his pal, who both seemed to be dozing as they sat slumped face forward on the deck. I called on the marine who was standing guard over them to release the other seaman. He was roughly awakened and sent on his way. Trellis dozed on uneasily.

‘Hello Trellis,’ I said in his ear, making him almost
jump out of his skin. ‘I see you’ve been in all sorts of trouble since we last met.’

Some of his old cockiness returned. ‘Not half as much as you,
sir
,’ he said with sarcastic courtesy. ‘I heard you were nearly hanged for desertion.’ With that, the marine guard stepped up and kicked him hard in the side. ‘You’ll speak when you’re asked to speak,’ he said sharply. I signalled to the marine to stand back. I looked Trellis in the eye, shook my head and smiled.

‘What you heard was wrong,’ I said. ‘But listen carefully to this. If I have any cause to rebuke you again, then I shall have you flogged. Poorly packed hammock, tarrying in your caulking of the deck, slovenly work in the rigging, I shall be watching your every move. I see you’ve suffered a great deal from the cat already. It would be a shame to add to those scars. You can stay here for another two hours. Shame you had to miss your supper.’

Then I walked away. ‘If that doesn’t work,’ I thought, ‘then I shall have to take more drastic action.’

That final week in August I made it plain to every man I oversaw that I was not to be trifled with. During inspections I made a point of insisting every hammock or deck plank be scrubbed spotless. During the storing of supplies, if a man did not address me as ‘sir’, I would speak sharply to him. When I caught two Cornish lads
sitting around chatting when I had ordered them to stow handspikes, I had them clapped in irons for the afternoon. I did not enjoy throwing my weight around, but I was determined to make my mark with these men. I was proud of the fact that no one I chastised had been punished with a blow of the fist or the whip.

I watched Robert at work, to see what I could learn. Now he had gained in confidence, and grown to his full height, he commanded his men with firmness and respect. They understood he was to be obeyed – his manner made that clear. But they also sensed he knew what he was doing and would treat them fairly.

September arrived and the ship filled with its full complement of twenty-four midshipmen. Our mess became very crowded. Most of my comrades were pleasant, but I felt drawn to few of them. They found out soon enough I was not ‘one of them’ when we talked at meal times.

On 13th September we heard the ship would soon sail, although Lord Nelson had yet to return from London. I was ordered to accompany a lieutenant, two marines and a small party of seamen to take on fresh water at Portsmouth docks. We set off in the
Victory
’s launch, some fourteen of us, and rowed for the shore. I was quite excited to be heading there. I hadn’t expected to set foot on land again before we left. I noticed Trellis among the tars on the launch, but he
would not catch my eye.

We pulled up close to the water supply on the dockside and the men began to roll out barrels from a nearby store, then winch them on to the launch. It was late afternoon by the time our work was done and as we prepared to cast off it was obvious a place was vacant at the oars. Searching the faces of the men, I saw at once it was Trellis that was missing. The Lieutenant looked mortified. He was a young man, probably on his first commission and would be held responsible. He turned to me and said, ‘Notify the authorities, Mr Witchall. He can’t have gone far. I shall depend on you to bring him back.’

I climbed up to the quay again. I was surprised to see the Lieutenant casting off. I felt annoyed to have this problem passed on to me.

‘How shall we get back, sir?’ I called down.

‘If you can’t find a boat, we’ll return tomorrow.’

This sense of trust and freedom I had as a midshipman was heady stuff. There was some instinct in me that wanted to run away as Trellis had. We were all facing battle and injury or death. I could walk out of this place – they would salute me at the gates rather than stop me. I dismissed the notion and went at once to the dockyard office. Two marines were despatched to accompany me to the main gates. ‘He’ll never get past us, sir,’ said one of the soldiers.

A horse and cart covered by a black tarpaulin was being searched by the men at the gates. The horse clopped away. But as we stood at the entrance and the soldiers warned their comrades to be vigilant I saw a slight figure drop down from underneath the cart. ‘Look!’ I shouted. ‘It’s him.’

One of the marines immediately raised his musket and fired. I was horrified. There were people about. He could have hit anyone. The man on the horse and cart stopped at once and started to shout, ‘Who d’you think you’re bloody firing at?’ I ran past the cart and left the marines to face his anger.

There was blood on the dirt road next to the cart. Trellis had been hit. It should be easy to catch him. But the light was fading and before me stretched a warren of narrow streets and alleys.

I lost track of him several times in this maze of back-streets but it was not hard to find the trail of blood he left behind. Desperation drove him on. It took me several minutes to catch up with him.

Following him down a back alley along the side of a warehouse, I drew my pistol and shouted, ‘Hold still or I’ll fire.’

Trellis was cornered. ‘Go on then, Witchall, shoot me,’ he said. ‘I’d rather die now than be flogged to death.’

We stood there panting, trying to get our breath back.

‘Don’t think I won’t fire,’ I said. ‘You’re coming back with me. It’ll be a court martial that’ll decide what happens to you.’

Trellis’s eyes darted around. I could see he was weighing up the odds. He was pushing me as far as he dared.

‘They’ll flog me round the fleet,’ he said, his voice betraying his desperation. ‘Kill me, go on, kill me.’ Then, seeing I wasn’t going to murder him, he carried on trying to stagger away. But he was too weak to run. Blood was running down his leg, pumping out in a steady stream.

I tossed him a handkerchief to use as a tourniquet. ‘Tie that round your leg. It’ll stop the bleeding.’

He sat down on the pavement, looking deathly pale.

‘We’ll wait here until you feel strong enough to move.’

He didn’t reply. I shook him roughly. ‘If we’re quick, we can have you seen by a surgeon.’

‘Let me bleed. I don’t want to go back to that.’

I ignored him and tied the handkerchief tight around the top of his leg.

The back alley caught a ray of the late summer sun and shielded us from the autumn wind coming off the harbour. What Trellis had said was true. They would flog him, almost certainly, around the fleet. Deserting on the eve of battle was one of the most serious offences a seaman could commit. He would be an example to the
rest of them. Those facing such a flogging could expect three hundred to five hundred lashes. It was enough to flay the flesh and muscle from a man’s backbone. I looked at Trellis’s gaunt body as he lay on the ground and knew he would not survive. The burliest, toughest Jack Tars were destroyed by such brutal punishment. Even if they lived, they would be crippled for life. It was common knowledge in the Navy that many a sailor sentenced to be flogged around the fleet begged to be hanged instead.

But what could I do?

Trellis began to ramble. ‘I always looked up to sailors when I was a boy. I’d see ’em in the taverns with a girl on their arms and plenty o’ money in their pockets …’ Under his breath he began to sing a little song:

I sails the seas from end to end
And leads a joyous life
In every mess I finds a friend
In every port a wife.

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Some friggin’ joyous life this turned out to be.

‘I can’t face it. I can’t face another battle.’ Now tears were trickling down his face. ‘When I hear a gun go off, even when we’re drillin’, I just want to empty my guts …

‘You think that makes me a coward. I don’t care. I’m a coward. My mate got torn to pieces and I got covered in his guts. I wish I’d been killed too …’

That outburst exhausted him and he passed out.

I kept expecting the marines to hare up the alley after me, but they didn’t. An idea came, clear as a mountain stream. Let him go. Leave him here. When he came round, he would be alone. With the tourniquet to staunch his bleeding maybe he could find the strength to escape.

Then I saw the marines, or at least the tops of their bayonets on the other side of a wall.

I thought to call out but something stopped me. They would be here soon. They were working their way along these passageways. They would find him. He would be treated by the surgeon and then punished. Whatever happened he was going to die. I didn’t want to see him flogged to death. It was too horrible a fate for someone who had only done what I wanted to do when I was a pressed man.