His Majesty's Ship (12 page)

      
The lad stood back and grinned at Matthew. “Y're lucky we'd singled up day 'for yes’day.” he said. “Otherwise we'd 'ave it all to do again with starboard 'ook!”

      
Matthew had grown used to feeling incompetent amongst men, it was almost a natural feeling; he was young after all. But now, with lads of his own age and younger, he wondered if he'd ever really settle to the work. Something of this must have shown on his face, as the boy gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder that almost produced tears.

      
“Next time you'll know.” he told him, then grinned. “An' you'll wear som'at different!” He was right; they were both damp with slime. “Come on, let's watch the topmen!”

      
Matthew followed his glance up to the mast where the men stood at the yards, waiting to release the sails. Topsails and forecourse, Dyson had ordered, so the mast nearest to them had a row of men along the two lower yards. They stood, with feet resting on a thin line, and their bodies bowed over the yard, while at each yardarm a man sat astride looking inwards.

      
“Most times they make sail while the anchor's comin' up, but tide's with us an' there ain't no hurry t'day.”

      
Matthew nodded, hoping his lack of speech would not be taken as unfriendly.

      
“They got to 'lease the yard arm ends firs', followed by the bunt.” the lad continued. Matthew gathered that the bunt was the middle part of the sail, and he tucked the information away for future use. “If they does it all together the sail can fill 'fore the all the gaskets are loosened. Best way to get pulled off the yard, they say.”

      
Matthew nodded wisely, although the men's perches seemed perilous enough as it was. Ahead the convoy was under sail and creeping from the anchorage. It was time for
Vigilant
to tag along. A shout from the quarterdeck was quickly followed by another whistle and the sail began to be let out. Matthew and the boy watched in awe.

      
The sails were not the white silken affair of stories, but dark patched canvas that smelt of mould and had a line of damp running just below the yard. The forecourse flopped heavily as each section was released, until it was almost within reach of Matthew. Above, the topsail, a subtly different shade of grey, was also released, and for a moment it seemed that the wind had died. Then, with a slight rustle, followed by several loud claps, the sails began to billow with graceful ripples.

      
“Let go an' 'aul. Let go an' 'aul!” The yards creaked round as the afterguard at the braces hauled them into the wind. Now the sails were full and proud, the sheets tightened and the ship began to heel. It was as if a hibernating animal had finally stretched itself awake, and Matthew was transfixed.

      
“It's a sight an' there's no mistakin',” the lad next to him was clearly as impressed as Matthew. The deck leant slightly and the bows began to rise and fall. A faint murmur issued from the stem as it cut through the water.

      
“It's beautiful!” Matthew stammered, eyes fixed on the sails.

      
The lad grinned at him. “Aye,” he said. “It s-s-certainly is!”
 

*****

      
Tait approached the captain and removed his hat. “Shore boat's making for us, sir”

      
Shepherd sighed. That would be from the port admiral's office. Probably nothing more than someone forgetting to sign a return, but the unexpected delay was infuriating when his mind was already at sea, especially when he had his own personal reasons to be free of the land.

      
“All right,” Shepherd said testily. “Back mizzen top's, let's see what they want.”

      
The lighter came alongside smartly enough and stayed for no longer than two minutes. Shepherd was about to pace the quarterdeck when he decided he would be better off seeing to the matter personally. He hurried down to the entry port where a small group had assembled. There seemed to be a great deal of talking, and someone was rattling a chain. He drew closer and the group separated as the unexpected presence of their captain was felt. Shepherd noticed one of his lieutenants, and automatically addressed his question to him.

      
“What's going on here, Mr Timothy?” he asked, and opened his mouth to add more, when the cause of the confusion became obvious. Hands and feet were bound by chains, and the face was dirty and bruised, but there was no mistaking the red hair, and that pigtail. The port admiral must have acted quickly to get him sent back on board; probably glad to rid himself of the problem. The problem was firmly in his hands now, and so, in effect, was Simpson.

PART TWO

AT SEA

CHAPTER SEVEN

      
Vigilant
emerged from the shelter of the Isle of Wight and met the full force of the channel. Her fabric, spoilt by many weeks at anchor, grumbled and groaned as it was forced to flex once more, while the fresh rigging stretched and sagged at the unaccustomed punishment. Johnston, the boatswain, stood in the waist, looking up at his beloved masts and shrouds and tapping his cane on his leg with annoyance.

      
“Take another turn on the larboard t'gallant backstay!” he bellowed to one of his mates positioned above him at the fore crosstrees. He turned to Jake, who had just brought a message and was now eager to leave. “You sees, it’s important to keep all stays even and regular,” he said to the boy. “They can do it easy enough using t’lanyards that run through the hearts.”

      
Jake nodded wisely, rolling his eyes only slightly as his better continued. “Problem is the masts are flexin’.” He held his hands up to demonstrate. “That means if you tighten up at the wrong time, when they’re slack, like, an’ the masts springs back, you strain the housing in the foretopmast hounds.”

      
There was a pause that Jake felt obliged to fill. “That bad is it, Mr Johnson?”

      
The man snorted. “It’s never happened in any ship I served in, and I’m damned if it’s going to happen now.”
 

      
Jake edged back as the boatswain’s attention returned aloft. “Handsomely, handsomely, now,” he bellowed, using the word's original definition, and slowly and with care the slack was taken up, and the shroud tightened.

      
“Fastening her up, are you bosun?” Gregory approached, looking up appreciatively at the rigging, while Jake grabbed his chance and departed.

      
“Aye, sir.” Johnston touched his hat briefly. “Cordage they gave us fair stretches like wool. We've taken in about as much as we set.”

      
Johnston trusted Gregory more than most, in fact he held a grudging respect for any commissioned man who had risen from the lower deck. However talented or educated an officer may be, none, in Johnston's view, would have the necessary understanding of a ship unless they had started out as an ordinary hand. But then captains and lieutenants might only stay for a year or so whereas the standing officers, like Johnston, had been with
Vigilant
since her re-commissioning, and would remain devoted to her until one of them was of no further use. Consequently he was inclined to be a bit of an old woman as far as the ship was concerned, jealously guarding her from danger and openly mistrusting any officer who might command her badly.

      
“How's she feeling?” Gregory asked, He too held a good deal of regard for the boatswain. The man knew
Vigilant
like his own child and loved her every bit as much. Johnston swayed back and forth slightly before answering.

      
“Trifle light in the bows, sir. Nowt to worry 'bout though. Know more when we wear.”

      
A loud crack cut the air, and both men looked up to see part of the mizzen forestay fly forward in the wind. Immediately the boatswain let forth with a stream of orders in a voice intended to carry to every part of the ship.

      
Standing next to him Gregory watched for a moment, before turning back and making for his rightful place on the quarterdeck. The boatswain had recently been charged with cap-a-bar; the misappropriating of government stores. The case revolved around a length of supposedly used three inch hemp that was meant to have been returned to the dockyard, but mysteriously ended up at a commercial chandler. The single black thread that identified government rope from standard mercantile was an obvious give away, and Johnston had grudgingly admitted the theft when confronted with the evidence. There was little unusual in the crime; boatswains were often nicknamed “missionaries” due to their talent for converting anything that came their way, and with his good record Johnston would probably get off with nothing more than a reprimand.

      
A thief he may be, but there was no question that Johnston held the ship's interest dear, and with him in charge
Vigilant
could be manoeuvred and sailed with absolute confidence. It was not something that would even be commented on publicly; no boatswain was ever commended for a shroud that held, or a spar that stayed firm, but when an action could be lost or won on a ship's ability to manoeuvre, it was important nevertheless. Gregory reached the quarterdeck ladder and clambered up. Mintey, the oldest midshipman, was sharing the watch with him. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, next to the binnacle. Gregory nodded; Mintey had failed his examination for lieutenant at least four times, and yet he was well liked by the crew and seemed perfectly competent at his work.

      
“Boatswain's sweating her up,” Gregory said and gave a half smile. Then, as he opened his mouth to say more, it happened.

      
A fiddle block, a heavy double pulley with a metal loop to one end, fell from the maintop and hit the deck almost midway between them. The action made both men freeze mid step and it took a second or two for them to realise how near to instant death they had come. Gregory was the first to recover; looking up at the main top he drew his breath in and bellowed.

      
“There, in the maintop!”

      
The head of one of the topmen peered down at them.

      
“Keep hold of your tackle you lubbers, or I'll see you all on report!” He pointed at the fiddle block, now in the hands of Mintey, who was examining it with interest.

      
The man knuckled his forehead and withdrew before Gregory was certain who he was.

      
“Trouble, Mr Gregory?”

      
It was the boatswain, who must have heard the block fall.

      
“Your mates are not too careful with the running tackle,” Gregory said.

      
Johnston looked at the block. “Sorry about that, sir. We've had a deal of bother, an' it ain't al'ays easy to keep the traps together.”
 

      
Gregory nodded; with the ship just out of harbour there was bound to be a few mishaps; it was simply fortunate that no one had been hurt.

      
“Shall I note it in the log?” Mintey asked. Gregory was conscious of the boatswain stiffening slightly. A mention in the log might well bring forth an official reproof, and the man was in enough trouble already.

      
“No, let it be,” Gregory told him. He could see no need to record the matter; a block falling from a top was something to be expected, expected and dismissed without further thought. It wasn't as if anyone had done it on purpose.
 

*****

      
Critchley, the master at arms, led the small procession towards the punishment deck. Simpson scraped after him, flanked by corporals to either side, while two uniformed marines, their pipeclayed straps glowing in the half light, marched stiffly behind.

      
“Got a nice little berth,” Critchley said, glancing down at the dull metal bilboes that lay waiting for him. “Strap you up safe, 'till the cap'n decides what's to do wi' you.”

      
Simpson said nothing as the chains were removed from his ankles. His mind ran back over the day's events: the pawnbroker who had turned out to be a crimp, and sold him to the impressment men. The laughter as they dragged him through the crowded streets, streets where he had only recently walked as a free man. The brief time in the Rondey, before being packaged off in the lighter. And now he was back in
Vigilant
, the ship he had written off in his mind. Back and facing punishment, twelve lashes at the least—the most? Flogging round the fleet or, with his record, even the noose. He felt the anger well up inside.

      
“Teach you to run from this man's navy!” The face of the master at arms was fat and gloating. It hung in front of Simpson as the bilboes were clamped about his ankles.

      
“An' I'll be watching you.” Critchley continued, while the chains were released from Simpson's wrists. “Watching you for as long as you're in this ship.
If
you survive punishment, you can say goodbye to shore leave, boat work, or anything that takes you off the board.” He paused, drawing breath with satisfaction. “We're in for a long commission, laddie, an' you’re gonna be around for all o' it!”