His Majesty's Ship (10 page)

      
Two things that could not be changed were tides and weather. As far as the former was concerned, the first of the Solent's double high was due in three hours and if the wind held, Shepherd was determined to sail with it. He picked up his pen, and began to scratch notes. Later he would call for Lindsay, his secretary, and dictate a letter that obeyed the rules in every respect, but first he had to decide what he really wanted to say.

      
A shout from the marine sentry at his door and the clump of his musket butt on the deck disturbed him, but he continued to write up to the end of his sentence. He sat back from his work and paused for a moment, before calling for his visitor to enter.

      
Dyson stood in the doorway, cold and precise as ever. “Last of the water's just been taken on, sir. We're ready to sail at any time. Tide rises in...”

      
“Yes, I know, thank you, Mr Dyson.” It was measure of the captain's impatience that he snapped at his first lieutenant. As always it gave him little pleasure and no satisfaction; Dyson appeared to absorb anger, and every other emotion, without any obvious change, just as a sponge takes in water.

      
“Very good, sir.” he turned to go, but Shepherd asked another question, if only to make amends for his behaviour.

      
“Not from the port admiral, sir.” Dyson replied. “And we've had no news from the other ships in the anchorage. All the hoys and lighters will be searched as a matter of course, but so far it looks as if Simpson had a clear passage.”
 

*****

      
Dyson was right: Simpson was still very much at large. Once clear of the other anchored ships he had risen to the surface before settling to a slow, powerful breaststroke.

      
He had considered making straight for Gilkicker Point on the west side of the harbour and the closest piece of land. However, the area thereabouts was quite barren and with the increased guard that patrolled to stop patients escaping from Haslar hospital, he thought it better to risk crossing the harbour and make for Southsea.

      
An early sun appeared as he swam; weak, but welcome and before long Simpson was actually enjoying himself. Unusual amongst seaman, who regard their natural element with caution, Simpson loved to swim and the steady progress across the harbour, sun on his shoulders and red pigtail flowing behind, brought a smile to his face. Whatever he was doing, whatever risks he took, it certainly beat stoning decks and was just the break from routine he had been looking for.

      
A victualling lighter set out from the harbour making for the anchorage. Simpson slowed his pace, content to almost drift in the gentle swell until it had passed. The shore was growing nearer now, and he could choose his spot, avoiding the area busy with fishing boats, and the castle that looked out over the harbour. Between the two was a small stretch of common, and a beach. Three small boats were pulled up there, but he could see no sign of life, and he cautiously approached the land.

      
A woman walked along the foreshore carrying something in a wicker basket. Simpson began to tread water until she had passed, then eased himself in with the gentle surf.

      
Clear of the sea he felt clumsy and vulnerable. He stepped quickly through the shallows, and made for the shelter of one of the boats. The beach consisted of loose shingle; the noise seemed immense as his horny feet crunched into the stones. The boat was small, with one mast that was set well forward. Simpson guessed it was for shellfish or sport, but gave it little thought other than that. His clothes were more important, they would take a while to dry, and for as long as he appeared wet he would be marked out as a runner. He pulled his shirt off, wrung it out, and rubbed it across his chest, before ringing it once more. The same procedure followed for his trousers. He was still damp, but not as conspicuously so, and he took two furtive looks about him, before making the quick sprint across the shingle for the common.

      
His feet left the smooth stones, and found soft grass. He paused in the lee of the first full tree; his heart pounded inside his chest, but still luck was with him. To his left the nearest house was three hundred yards away. Someone might have seen him come up from the beach, but Simpson decided it was unlikely. The castle was very visible to his right, and there his presence might well have been spotted; it would be best to keep moving. The common spread for two or more cables before the town of Southsea began. He set out once more, cutting an erratic route that made use of all possible cover, while suppressing the urge to run, as that would make him far more noticeable from a distance. If he kept to the outskirts of the town he could head east, round the back of the castle, flank Eastney, and up towards Milton. With luck he should be passed the Hilsea Channel and on to Drayton by the end of his watch. True safety would not come until he was at least thirty miles clear of the coast, but he should be relatively secure by evening, and with
Vigilant
sailing on the afternoon tide, he only had to keep his head down for the next few hours to say goodbye to the ship and her people for ever.

      
He was approaching the houses now, and deliberately hunched his shoulders and slowed his rolling walk down to a shamble. There was a pay ticket sewn into his trouser waistband. Once that had dried sufficiently he'd rig himself with a long jacket and see about some victuals. Really there was nothing to this desertion lark; all it took was a bit of gumption and a clear head. He slowed his walk further, and merged in with the people of the street, until all differences between them and him vanished completely.
 

*****

      
Topmasts had been set up immediately after the water hoy had left. Now it was just before noon; the time of day the men yearned for. At a nod from the officer of the watch, Baldwin, the ship's fiddler, stuck his violin under his chin and struck up
Nancy Dawson
. Immediately all eyes rested on the purser who walked ahead of two of his stewards as they brought a wooden pin of rum up from the spirit room. The pin was placed next to a kid of water and the ceremony began. Murmuring with anticipation, the senior hands from each mess queued in order. The purser's stewards emptied some water out of the deck kid, until it held roughly three times the amount of the rum they had drawn, and then tipped the contents of the pin into the water. It was naval custom that the rum must always be added to the water, never the other way. Sailors swore that it made a difference in the tasting, just as some insist that tea is added to milk. Once the ship had been at sea for six weeks, lime juice and sugar would be added, and the concoction served up: a rich fruit cup that would take the edge off the hardest day.

      
Morrison consulted a list, and formally authorised the issuing of spirits. Beer, at a gallon to a man, was more usual when a ship was in home waters, but Morrison had come to an agreement with Boyle from the victualling board, and there were few amongst the crew who would voice any objections. This was not the first “agreement” that Morrison and the victualling clerk had come to, and both earnestly hoped it would not be the last.

      
Apart from the scratch of the fiddle the ceremony continued in silence, until the hands carrying the grog reached their mess, when hushed murmurs rose up from the excited men.

      
From the quarterdeck Mr Midshipman Pite looked down on the proceedings without a hint of condescension. At a time when concern for fellow men was confined to liberals, some of the clergy and those of an unhealthy nature, Pite was careful to hide any compassion he held for the seamen. Few had joined the ship voluntarily, and none were allowed to leave unless illness, injury or enemy action made them useless to the Crown. Before that could happen they would eat preserved food and drink fetid water, while undertaking dangerous work for long hours. Discipline was customarily enforced by corporal methods of the most basic kind, and if they ever rose up to complain or object, they stood a good chance of meeting the hangman's noose. Of course life on land could be every bit as hard but Pite was of the opinion that, if the men found solace in a gill of rum twice a day, then it was probably less than they were actually due.

      
Lieutenant Gregory came and stood next to the midshipman, and together they watched the ceremony. Officers such as Gregory were commonly known as tarpaulins, men who had started on the lower deck, often
via
the press gang, and yet taken to the life well enough to achieve warrant, and even commission status. The odds against a common sailor rising as high as Gregory were approximately two thousand five hundred to one, which made Gregory quite an exceptional man.

      
“I've always thought that a bit of a waste, sir.” Pite ruminated. “Throwing the rum out like that.” The ceremony was almost over now, and the cooks from each mess were forming lines to the galley as two stewards carried the remains of the rum to the side.
 

      
Gregory smiled at the lad. “Offends you, does it; seeing the grog go to the deep?”

      
“Why don't they save it, issue it next time?”

      
“If they did there'd be problems, men would want to start sharing it out. 'sides it can't be saved; it's got water in, and rum and water only stays drinkable for a brief while.”

      
“Is that right?”

      
“Why do you think it's diluted in the first place?”

      
“To make it weaker?”

      
“No, lad. Water don't make alcohol disappear, just dilutes it. What it does is stop the men from hoarding the stuff. Like I say, rum in water's not worth a light later in the day. Stops them stowing it for a Saturday night spree!”

      
“I never knew that, sir” said Pite.

      
“Neither did I, once,” he smiled. “We was all born knowing nothing, but there's reasons for most things in the Navy.”

      
Gregory walked away. He was now a lieutenant, a King's officer, with a commission drawn out on parchment to prove it. Still the memories he carried of being a lower deck seaman were very much alive. In the wardroom he could choose from a variety of wines and refined spirits, but nothing could stop him secretly sniffing the air for the very last scent of that rum.
 

*****

      
The warmth of the drink stayed with the men as dinner was distributed. Matthew, too young for spirit issue, was conscious of a universal feeling of goodwill as they seated themselves at the mess table between the great guns. Even Crehan bore a neutral expression that was very nearly benign, while he stacked the square wooden platters that would serve as plates.

      
Matthew fingered one inquisitively. It was made of a dark, close grained wood, burnished by much use. The edges were slightly raised, giving it a frame.

      
“Fiddles,” said Jenkins, noticing Matthew's interest. “Stops the food fallin' off, an’ stops yon takin' too much.”

      
Matthew looked at the fiddles again.

      
“When they serve slop it got to stay inside, see? If you're found on the fiddle, you're getin' more 'n your share.”

      
“Why's it square?” Matthew asked.

      
Jenkins pursed his lips. “Blow'd if I knows. Easier to make, p'raps? But when you gets three servin's in a day, that makes the three square meals they promises in the Rondey.”

      
Matthew nodded. He'd eaten that morning's breakfast from a round wooden bowl, but didn't feel inclined to press the matter.

      
“Banyan days we get's slop.” Jenkins continued. “Boiled peas, fruit duff, an’ t'like—no meat. Otherwise its made meals like lobscouse: that's meat an' biscuit wi onion an' tatas, or skillygalee. T'day's straight boiled, with pickled cabbage. We got 'nother way of setting that out fair, you wait.”

      
Matthew watched while O'Conner opened the pewter tureen on the table, and began to load a platter with boiled beef. At the far end Lewis had turned away, and was staring intently at the spirketting below the nearby gunport.

      
“Who be this for?” O'Conner asked conversationally, holding the platter well out of Lewis's sight.

      
“That's Jenkins.” Lewis replied, and the platter was placed in front of Matthew's guide.

      
The serving continued with Lewis nominating each man in turn, until the entire mess had potions of varying size before them.

      
“Cooks cut the meat up into regular 'mounts,” Jenkins continued with his lecture, while he examined his meat with interest. “But some's more regular 'n others.”

      
Matthew watched cautiously while the other men ate. Some delicately cut off chunks with their clasp knives, while others bit deep into the joints and tore the flesh away with their teeth. He picked up a lump of beef, glossy with fat, and bit into it. The flesh was hard, but not unpleasant. A feint tang of salt gave it flavour, and he began to chew with a lad's appetite.