Powder Monkey (11 page)

I had not seen Rosie and the Hookes for a couple of years. That evening we had sat down to a splendid feast. Benjamin's wife Anne cooked us a goose, and we children were even allowed a little wine. Throughout the meal Rosie caught my attention as she had never done before.

After we'd eaten, Benjamin had suggested a stroll by the shore to walk off our meal. The beach was just a short walk from the house, and the night was mild. A strong wind blew in from the sea, but it was warm and pleasant. High cloud covered the sky, and moonlight shone through in mottled patches.

Anne, Benjamin and my father had walked ahead, leaving Rosie and I to keep an eye on her two younger sisters, but after a while they ran to their parents, demanding to be carried. Rosie was keen to know what I was going to do, quick to laugh at my stories. After a while we stopped, and walked to the very edge of the sea. The warm wind came in strong along the shore,
blowing her dress tight against her slender body. She stared up at the moon as it darted quickly between the scudding clouds. Now we had stopped talking and there was a comfortable silence between us, and I wondered if I dare kiss her. I had never kissed a girl before. In fact, until that evening, I had never even thought of kissing a girl before. Then my father had shouted over to us from a hundred yards ahead, ‘Come along, Sam,' and the moment passed. But the next morning, as I had prepared to leave, Rosie asked me to write to her when I could, and let her know how I was finding my life at sea.

I had left the house feeling like I was walking on air. I wrote to her a couple of times from the
Franklyn
, but no post ever came back. On the
Franklyn
George assured me that letters often took months to catch up with a coastal merchantman. Now I supposed it would be even more difficult for post to catch a patrolling frigate.

I slowly lost my fear of the heavy guns. If I kept my wits about me I knew I should be able to keep myself from injury. But the prospect of hand-to-hand fighting still haunted me. I had no idea how to defend myself if anyone attacked me, so I was pleased when Ben told me I was to be trained in the use of hand-held weapons.

This took place in the afternoons after dinner, and I was usually accompanied by Richard. Our instructor was Sergeant Oates of the marines. He would line up
the sailors like soldiers, and talk about these fearful instruments and their gruesome purpose in a clipped, matter-of-fact tone – almost as if we were being instructed in the finer points of carpentry.

Of the pike he'd say, ‘Thrust and withdraw. Short sharp prod. That's all you need.' Of the pistol, ‘Discharge at no less than ten yards for full effect. Once discharged it can be used as a club.' Then he'd produce a cutlass. ‘Slash and jab, but mind your guard. Never raise your arm above the shoulder.'

The tomahawk seemed to fascinate him, maybe because it was a recent addition to the Royal Navy arsenal. ‘A useful weapon in a melee, especially when directed against the side of the head. If you have two such instruments, the spike opposite the blade is useful for hauling yourself up the side of an enemy ship.'

I marvelled at the idea that a sailor could row over to another vessel, then haul himself up the side just using two tomahawks to make a series of holds. Then, if he managed to get to the deck, have the strength to fight for his life.

When we had been instructed in the use of the weapons, we would be taught fencing steps to ensure our effectiveness with the cutlass. Richard and I called these movements ‘ballet lessons'. At first I could not take them seriously, but these steps had a deadly purpose. The more nimble the cutlass wielder, the more
likely he was to survive in hand-to-hand combat. Many of the steps were designed to put as much distance as possible between the man with the cutlass and his opponent.

I made good progress, and Richard was a natural. After observing us in our drill, I heard Mandeville remark to Lieutenant Spencer, ‘Yes, put a B against both their names.' I wondered what on earth he meant. Spencer returned soon after to explain.

‘Congratulations, boys,' he said cheerily. ‘You're now both designated boarders.'

My heart sank, and the creeping fear I had felt all through the first month aboard the ship returned. ‘B' stood for boarder – men whose duty it was to swarm over to an enemy vessel during combat, when the captain called out, ‘Boarders away!' I should have known that showing any skill in this deadly art was a mistake.

Silas confirmed my fears. ‘I'm staying well out of that, Sam. Having a B against your name brings you no special privileges or extra pay. But it's more likely you'll be killed when we go into action.'

Ben wasn't having this. ‘Don't you worry, lad. I'm a boarder too and I'll look after you in a scrap. Being a boarder will get you noticed by the Captain or lieutenants. If you fight well and bravely, you may find yourself promoted.'

I felt inclined to agree with Silas. I knew I could be
killed if we attacked another ship, but had convinced myself that if I was careful with my cartridge box, this was unlikely. It had never occurred to me that I might be sent over to another ship to fight in hand-to-hand combat.

From that moment onward I felt I was fated to die or suffer some hideous injury. Some nights I would lie in my hammock twitching my toes or wiggling my fingers. ‘Be grateful you have all your limbs, Sam,' I'd say to myself. ‘One day, you might have to do without some of them.' I'd wonder what it would be like to have a leg or an arm off, or watch the world with only one eye.

The day the
Isabelle
had come to get me still lingered in my dreams. I tried not to think about what it would feel like to be disembowelled with a cutlass, and then swiftly turfed over the side of the ship to drown and bleed to death in freezing water. I prayed that if I had to die, it would be a swift end – cut in two or beheaded by a cannonball, or dashed to death on the deck after a fall from the topgallant.

Despite these dark thoughts, the time I had lying in my hammock was still my favourite part of the ship's day. Alone at last in this tide of humanity, I would close my eyes and wait for sleep to carry me away. Unless it had been a sunny day, this was the only time I felt warm. Cold and damp was as much a part of life aboard the
Miranda
as the daily scrubbing and drilling. As we lay in
our hammocks, the master-at-arms and his corporals would creep by, extinguishing any stray light. Beneath the low rumble of a hundred and fifty sleeping men I could hear the sea wash against the side of the ship, the forlorn ring of the ship's bell as it marked each passing half hour, and even the creaking of the rigging. Once a fortnight or so, during this middle evening time, two of the officers in the gunroom would play flute and cello duets. I never found out who it was who played or who wrote these melodies, but the music they made was like nothing I had heard in Wroxham – flowing lines that intertwined one over the other, twisting in long graceful curves, like two courting gulls riding the currents in a summer afternoon sky.

When I listened to this music I would yearn for home or wonder what Rosie was doing. I could imagine her walking along the beach where I had last seen her, the wind blowing her frock tight against her body. Perhaps she would turn her face to the sinking sun, and allow the pale evening light to caress the curve of her cheek. Maybe it would be raining, and her hair would be plastered down her face as she hurried home, her cotton dress soaked through to the soft skin beneath. Or maybe she was sitting by the fire at home, candle close to her chair, writing a letter to me. Sometimes, if the day had gone badly, I would wonder if she was out walking with another lad – someone bolder and better than me, who
knew how to woo a girl. Perhaps she'd kiss him, and let him run his hands up and down her dress. I tried not to think of this. I needed to imagine that Rosie was thinking of me just as much as I often thought of her. Then a dreamless sleep would overtake me until the bosun's whistle blew, and another day would come crashing down upon me.

‘Just look at that,' said Silas to me one day when we were both on deck, eight weeks out at sea. ‘Strutting around like he owns the ship. I bet he's only just stopped sucking his thumb.' He was staring at a young midshipman whose name I did not know. Immaculately dressed in a smart blue coat, similar in style to that of a lieutenant, he was handsome and dark-haired, although his creamy skin was flecked with a few spots and the beginnings of a moustache. I noticed a shiny new dirk dangling from his belt. This was unusual – even among the senior officers. Such was the
expense of purchasing a new sword that most officers often carried their father's or even their grandfather's.

Midshipmen were an aspect of the Navy I had known little about. Silas told me they were officers in training – hoping after six years to pass their examination to become a lieutenant. Despite their age and inexperience, they had the same authority as any other ship's officer. Seeing small boys, some with voices not yet broken, cursing and even striking hulking tars, seemed faintly comical. When I first saw this, with Vengeful Tattoos no less, I expected the man to pick up the boy, and hurl him thirty yards out to sea. But he didn't. Any sign of insolence towards a midshipman met with swift retribution. As we discovered.

Silas stared a little too long, and a little too disrespectfully. The midshipman noticed, and stared back with ill-tempered disdain. This was a clear case of dumb insolence. He turned to a bosun's mate, then pointed at Silas and demanded, ‘Bosun, start that man,' his voice wavering unsteadily between treble and tenor. In an instant, the bosun stepped forward and delivered a swift lash with his rope.

Silas winced a little, and for a second I thought he was going to utter an oath. I grabbed at his shoulder and hurriedly dragged him away to the bow. ‘Say nothing,' I whispered, fearful that a bad-tempered outburst would earn Silas a flogging. He angrily pulled away
from me, teeth clenched tight.

When we were out of earshot, Silas seethed quietly to himself. ‘The little shit, I'll have him for this.'

That evening I was walking from the forecastle down to the mess deck for supper when I heard a voice right behind me hiss, ‘Thief.' It was Michael Trellis, along with a couple of his friends. They all started. ‘Thief, Thief, Thief,' in a low hiss. All three of them were Marine Society boys, street urchins sold into the Navy by a parent who could no longer afford to keep them. They stuck together like a tight outlaw family, and unsettled me with their hard stares and brutal manner.

The taunting continued. I walked ahead, trying to shake them off. They followed just behind me, keeping up their whispering. Now my crewmates were beginning to turn and look. ‘Thief, Thief, Thief . . .'

I knew I should have ignored them, but I fell into their trap. My temper snapped, and I turned to face them. ‘What are you talking about?' I said angrily. ‘Why are you calling me a thief?' I tried to sound threatening, but I suspect I sounded more hurt and upset than I intended.

Michael Trellis, sure now he had an audience, spat out his poison. ‘Him, he's the thief. I heard tell it's him that's been thievin' them trinkets. Where you got 'em hidden then, Witchall? Somewhere in the hold I'll bet . . .'

I was so surprised by what he said, I could think of no sensible reply. Then Trellis and his boys started to dig their fingers at me. ‘Thief, Thief, Thief . . .'

I snapped. ‘Get off me, you wretch.' I pushed Trellis in the chest, and he threw himself at me. Before any blows could fall, Silas stormed in to separate the two of us.

Lewis Tuck, the bosun's mate Silas and I had crossed in our first moments aboard the
Miranda
, arrived like a bad penny. He thwacked all three of us with his rope.

‘There's no fighting on this ship. What's happening here?' No one said anything. ‘Right,' said Tuck. ‘Let's take the three of you aft.'

We were swiftly taken to the quarterdeck, where Lieutenant Spencer held sway. He seemed annoyed by this intrusion on his time.

‘Now, don't mess me about. I want to know why you two boys were fighting, and why you, Mr Warandel, were involved in this unseemly scuffle.'

Trellis spoke up. I was astounded at his gall. ‘Witchall, sir, he's the one who's been stealing things around the ship.'

This was too much. ‘That's not true,' I shouted before Tuck cut me short with a smack around the head.

‘You'll speak when you're spoken to.'

Spencer looked at Trellis with utter contempt. With some relief I realised he had no regard for the boy's
story at all. ‘And on what basis do you make this assertion?' he said coldly.

‘Somebody told me . . .' said Trellis, ‘and I seen him sneaking around.' He was losing his nerve by the second.

Spencer turned to me. ‘And what have you got to say, Witchall?'

‘This is all a complete lie, sir. I've never stolen anything in my life.' I tried to sound as reasonable as I could.