His Majesty's Ship (7 page)

      
Jenkins was the worst; he had also collapsed on to the deck and sat there now, laughing and pointing at Matthew, his mouth wide enough to swallow an apple. Matthew struggled to his feet. Flint was laughing as well, not quite as outrageously, but enough. Of all his so called shipmates, only Crehan was seemingly ignoring him.

      
“You tricked me!” Matthew clambered to his feet, and glared at Jenkins.

      
“Nay, lad. I'd not tricked yer!” still the humour was capable of impairing his speech. “I'd not have to, you tricked yerself!” Another chorus of laughing erupted, and Matthew had time to study his hammock. Both ends were still firmly secured, and it appeared no different to any of the others that were being slung about him.

      
“I don't understand, I-I...”

      
Flint took a pace towards him, his face still showing signs of laughter.

      
“He's not done nothing, its how you climbs aboard.” Then, holding on to the canvas, he kicked his right leg up, gave a small jump and swung himself in. The hammock rocked to and fro a couple of times as Flint settled himself. He peered over the side to Matthew.

      
“It's a knack, one we all 'as to get when we're learnin’” The others smiled in confirmation, and Jenkins stood up.

      
“Aye, Flint's right enough,” he said. “Time I joined I was too small to get up into an' 'ammock at all. They 'ad to lift me in, they did!”

      
“Still do,” Simpson, the man with the red pigtail added. “'specially when 'es got more'n two sheets to the wind!”

      
The laughter came again just as it had with Matthew and the boy noticed Jenkins taking it in good heart.

      
“Let me try again,” he said to Flint, who immediately swung himself down from the hammock, and steadied the canvas for him. Again there was the pregnant silence, although this time Matthew was more on edge, knowing that another failure would bring an even greater reaction. He kicked up suddenly, and swung in a manner he hoped approximated Flint's. The canvas stayed more or less beneath him, and despite the whole world swinging left and right, he was able to grab the edges and straighten his legs. The men were laughing again, but it had a different edge to it this time; as if they were sharing in his success. Matthew pulled the blanket over his feet, and settled himself on the mattress. It was then that he discovered to his amazement that he was laughing as well.
 

*****

      
Flint slung his hammock at the end of the line, taking for himself the extra space normally only allotted to quartermasters and other junior petty officers. It would soon be the start of another voyage, another of the irregular anniversaries when he was leaving England.

      
He was twenty-five, and had been listed in one or another ship's books continuously for the past nine years. His father had been a sailor, and it had always been Flint's intention to follow him. And he was doing exactly that, although not in the way that either had anticipated.

      
Brighthelmstone, their home town in Sussex, had been under the care of the Duke of Newcastle, who proclaimed it a free port, where no impressment would be tolerated. This had protected Flint's father from the attention of the press, and allowed him to work in relative safety.

      
He had been a fisherman; a respectable trade although one that did not quite provide for his family. To make up the deficit he also acted as a free trader, smuggling anything that could find a ready market. It was certainly less honest than his day work, but many times more lucrative. When Flint had turned ten he was considered old enough to accompany him to work, both legitimate and illicit, and his apprenticeship began.

      
The first time he had seen action was with a revenue cutter. They had noticed it coming out of a squall on a dark night when they were just about to start the transfer with their French counterpart. She came down on them, the wind on her quarter, pendant flying and extended bowsprit waving an admonishing finger.

      
Flint, who had charge of the tiller, had been terrified but his father leant across and briefly placed a steadying hand over his. Without a word or signal the French ship turned into the wind, and set a course, close hauled, that would take her from danger, while his father ordered their boat on to the opposite tack. Flint nervously brought the rudder across, the boat settled and began to take on speed. They passed the revenue cutter, with only the night and the weather to hide them. Flint took time to glance across and recognised the Shoreham boat; he had seen her many times before, moored in the nearby harbour, and probably knew most of the men who crewed her. The thought comforted him for a moment. Then a pinpoint of light followed by a puff of smoke that was instantly whipped away by the wind, caused him to wonder and it was only with the shriek of passing shot that he fully understood what was about.

      
At that moment Flint had known true fear; he dropped the tiller, allowing the boat to fall off the wind, and scuttled for shelter. Immediately his father was at the helm and coaxing the boat back to her true course. Then he turned to his son.

      
“Don't min' the noise, the one you hear has gone past—noise can't hurt you.” The ship was lightly crewed, and the threat from the cutter meant every available hand must be ready to tend the sheets. Flint knew he was needed and returned to the helm. His father bellowed for the men to be ready to tack, and as each went to their places, he turned back to grin at him. It had been dark and raining, and yet Flint could see his father's expression of confidence. He was treating this contest that could so easily end their lives as no more than an entertaining diversion; deriving excitement and actual pleasure from a situation that would have finished many men. It was a lesson that had stayed with Flint ever since, and one reason why he was often considered bold, self-assured and something of a rogue.

      
Their boat had kept the cutter on the run for nearly an hour, tacking and wearing many times, each with Flint manning the helm like a seasoned hand. Eventually they were able to pass over shoals that forced the deeper hulled vessel to bear away or be grounded. At the time Flint felt relieved, although another sensation was also apparent. Never before had life seemed so clear, so vibrant. The heaving deck beneath his feet, the squeal of the blocks, the crack of the sails as the boat tacked, all these now held more for him, and the thought of a normal life on land seemed too ridiculous to even consider.

      
In the following months he had continued to learn from his father and soon acquired a thorough grounding in the sailor's craft. Then, on the twenty fourth of July, the men from the Shoreham press had converged on Brighthelmstone, and surrounded the town. Flint and his father were at sea at the time, and knew nothing of this, or the death of the Duke of Newcastle that had occasioned it. For the ten hours that the town was besieged—no man left his house and only one stray unfortunate was captured and pressed. Disgusted by their failure the troops were heading back along the coast road when Flint's father's boat had been spotted.

      
Contrary to popular belief, only those acquainted with the sea may legally be pressed. Of course there were always exceptions, and the occasional mistake, which accounted for the vast number of weavers, butchers, builders and the like that filled most ships' books. But smugglers? Which of them could claim that they were not men who earned their living on the water? Besides, capture meant prison, and possibly the gallows. It was likely that then they would be given the chance to volunteer for the Navy, so why not simplify matters, and take them straight away?

      
The boat was beached, and being relieved of her cargo when the press struck. Being used to dodging five or maybe ten from the revenue service, no one was expecting the rush of forty or more disciplined men under the command of naval officers. The smugglers spread along the beach, ducking into old hiding places, and generally doing all they could to evade capture. But five were taken, and one was Flint's father.

      
Flint, being under age, was ignored in the mayhem. He had watched, determinedly unmoved, as his father was manacled up, and led away. It was common knowledge that a man pressed for the navy would be gone for some years, maybe a lifetime, and in truth Flint had not looked on him since.

      
And so he had gone from being the son of a successful fisherman and entrepreneur who provided well for his family, to one forced to accept the charity of others. His mother had died seven years before, during the birth of his sister. Fortunately John Mackenzie, the local schoolmaster, heard of their misfortune and accepted them into his family. Only later was Flint to discover why Mackenzie had shown such kindness. As far as he had known, he and his father were hardly on nodding terms, and had been surprised to learn of the part the Scot had played, and was continuing to play in organising the smugglers.

      
Flint stayed with the family for five years, during which time he benefited from a sound education and the company of Amy, Mackenzie's daughter, who was a few months his junior. It was a relationship that was doomed to fail, for whatever plans Amy may have had for Flint, she could offer him nothing that would compete with the call of the sea, and the possibility of meeting up with his father once more. Mackenzie had been adamant that Flint could not join any of the other smuggling crews, and volunteering for a merchant ship did not appeal to the young fire brand.

      
He had heard from his father once after he had taken part in the Battle of Dominica which some now called the Battle of the Saints, and again when Rodney returned to England and his fleet demobilised. There had been no welcome homecoming however. Despite Mackenzie's letters, no one could say what had happened to Flint's father. When he first offered himself at the
rendezvous
in 1786, he had hoped he might find out more.

      
“There's got to be fifty thousand in the service now, lad,” the impressment officer had told him. “Can't keep track of 'em all.” Then Flint had taken the shilling, and made it fifty thousand and one.

      
And now, now he was a seasoned hand, useful, if somewhat unpredictable, a sound man in a fight, and needed for as long as he could hand reef and steer.

      
Flint closed his eyes and, smelling the sweat odour of clean canvas, fell quickly into a deep sleep.
 

*****

      
“Ah, King. Come in will you?” King took three more paces towards the captain, who sat behind his desk, his back to the open stern gallery. The cabin was all but dark, only the twin candles on the captain's desk, and the distant glow of lights from Ryde broke the evening gloom. Shepherd finished his work, and sat back in his chair. He smiled at King who, feeling something was expected of him, smiled awkwardly in return.

      
“We'll be putting to sea on tomorrow’s afternoon tide,” Shepherd told him, although every man on board knew as much. “That is if the water hoy arrives in time.” King felt something else was called for from him, and gave the only reply he could.

      
“Yes, sir.”
 

      
“I wanted to have a word with you before that.” King braced himself; this could be very good, or very bad.

      
“The incident with the coaster, when was it—last year?”

      
“End of 'ninety-three, sir.”

      
“That's right. I said at the time how impressed I was, and I do so again now. You have the makings of a good officer, and I expect to see you progress.”

      
“Yes, sir.” he was going to add something about trying to, but fortunately held his tongue at the last moment.

      
“When Curtis left I had intended to promote you to acting lieutenant.”
Had intended
, this was not going as well as it could. “However, another man has been appointed and I am sure he will do very well.” Shepherd looked down at his desk. The last remark was a lie and he was ashamed of himself. The fact that it would do only harm to express his reservations about Rogers was hardly justification.

      
“Still, I have considered the matter, and consulted other officers,” That could only mean the first lieutenant and Mr Humble, the master. “Quite a few third rates are carrying six lieutenants now, and we have decided that a further lieutenant is needed in
Vigilant
. For that reason I will rate you to the acting rank of lieutenant.”

      
King stiffened, and swallowed hard, remembered at the last moment that it was Pite's hat that he now squashed under his arm.

      
“You have nothing to say?” The smile was back on the captain's face, and this time King had no hesitation in smiling back.

      
“Thank you, sir.”

      
Shepherd's expression faded slightly. “In giving you this advancement I wanted to be sure you deserve it.”