Powder Monkey (17 page)

I looked over at Richard, hoping to find a glint of amusement in his eye. But I saw only cold contempt. I'm glad I did. If he had been stifling a laugh, I too might have joined him.

But then, rather to my surprise, Captain Mandeville drew this conversation to an end by remarking that he had served with several Americans, and indeed several were even among his crew today, and that they were all fine men.

‘Despite our recent difficulties,' he said, ‘America and Britain still have close ties and even warm feelings towards one another.'

Dislike him as I did, I admired him for having the courage to voice a clearly unpopular opinion, and for some small defence of my friend.

His words were well chosen. ‘Quite so, Mandeville, quite so,' said the Admiral firmly. His wife shrugged in a non-committal way and Miss Beverly blushed a little, perhaps wondering if she had incurred her father's displeasure.

Talk swiftly turned to lighter matters. When the party finished the Admiral and his girls were escorted away with much ceremony. I watched them go, and wondered when I would ever see any three girls as lovely as those.

After the guests had gone Richard and I helped the
Captain's other servants to clear away the table and prepare the cabin for the next day. Mandeville returned. He took us two boys to one side, and gave us each a shilling.

‘You did well, lads,' he said. ‘You may yet have the honour of waiting on my guests again.' Then he went over to the cat basket, which had been placed by the window. ‘Witchall, take responsibility for this. I can't stand the wretched things myself. But look after it well. If Miss Beverly visits again, I'd like her to know that “Bounder” here is thriving.'

I was surprised that Mandeville had remembered my name, although he had already half forgotten the cat's. I felt embarrassed by this sudden geniality, and hurriedly saluted and scurried away. Bouncer, no doubt taken from his mother only the day before, mewled pitifully in his basket. The cook came over and called me into the galley. A saucer of milk was produced, and then a few scraps of pork. The cook slipped a few slivers over to me too, with a quick wink, and I wolfed them down. I had not tasted meat as good as this since I left home.

I crept back to the mess deck and placed Bouncer and his basket under my hammock. But he kept up a lonely meowing and other men, sleeping nearby, began to complain. I plucked him out, and he snuggled up next to me – warm and purring. Having him there in my hammock brought me some contentment, and I fell asleep almost at once.

That night I dreamed of home. I was sitting by the fire. Outside, dusk was falling over snow-covered fields. Light from the fading sun bathed the scene in a pink glow, casting long shadows over the hedgerows. Pepper, our family cat, was sitting by the window sill, meowing to be let out. I felt safe and warm and snug, until the day began with the bosun's cry of ‘OUT OR DOWN'.

When I woke, the cat was no longer there, although he had left a small damp patch on my bedding. I found him lurking around the galley. Word quickly got round the men that the
Miranda
had acquired a ship's cat, and that I was entrusted with its care. The cat adjusted to life aboard the boat well enough. The cook would feed him scraps, and I dare say his diet was as good as ours. Every so often Bouncer would go missing, and I would spend an anxious half hour scouring the ship. Being responsible for the cat was a mixed blessing. If any harm should come to him, I was sure Captain Mandeville would hold me responsible. Some of the crew sensed my concern, and told me lurid tales about what happened to the ship's previous cat.

‘Took him to the hold, to get rid of the rats, and nothing more was 'eard of him,' said Edmund Ackersley. ‘'Cept they found a bit of his tail among the ballast.'

‘That Bouncer's a fine-looking cat,' said Tom Shepherd, ‘but I don't like having them aboard. I was on
a coastal trader a few years back, sailing out of London. There was a cat on that – MacTavish he was called. Big black hairy thing with green eyes. Belonged to the cook. Always scurrying round the galley, begging for scraps. One day, when we were docked at Whitby, a coal from the oven dropped out and landed right on his back.'

‘Poor old thing.' I winced.

‘Cat shot into the air,' Tom went on, ‘screeched like a mad thing, then shot off down into the hold with its back on fire. Went straight into a cargo of hemp, which went up like a tinder box. That we could have dealt with, only there were twenty-odd barrels of gunpowder right next to it. We all ran off that ship as fast as we could. It blew half the quayside to pieces. Funny thing is, the cat survived. He came out from under the hemp, still blazing, then blundered straight into the bilgewater in the keel. That put him out, and he ran up the stairs straight off the ship. The cook was distraught. He cared more about where the cat was than what had happened to the ship.'

Bouncer soon grew out of his little basket. The carpenter made him a larger one so he could nest among the sheep and goats in the pens in the upper deck. Sometimes he slept there, among his fellow creatures, and sometimes he snuggled up with me. In truth, he didn't live up to his boisterous name, or his reputation as a ratter. Bouncer was a soft and friendly cat, and small for
a Tom. Many of the crew doted on him, giving him an affection they could not lavish on their absent wives or children. Small he may have been, but he grew quite portly on all the scraps he was given.

Many of the more superstitious members of the crew were sure the cat could sense the restless spirits said to haunt the ship. Sometimes, especially at night, Bouncer would stop dead, and his tail would bristle and shoot up. He'd hiss and spit, then back away. Richard was convinced he'd seen a rat. I wasn't so sure . . .

‘I like this cat,' I said to Richard when Bouncer leaped up to sit on my lap. ‘But I don't like having to be responsible for him. Mandeville would have my guts for garters if anything happened to him.'

‘No fear, Sam. I have a brilliant idea,' said Richard. ‘We need an understudy in case he meets an untimely end. What we need is a lady cat, and a set of kittens. We can pick the one that's most like his dad, and keep him hidden away. If Bouncer goes over the side, or gets eaten by the rats, we'll just substitute the other one. I'll bet the Captain, and his lady friend, if she ever comes back, won't notice the difference.'

‘Richard,' I said, ‘how on earth are we going to find a lady cat in the middle of the Gulf of Cadiz?'

‘He'll have to make do with a catfish,' said Richard. ‘Maybe Ben's mermaids will have one as a pet.'

As we sailed up the Portuguese and Spanish coast on our journey home, the talk around the mess table and forecastle was mainly about battle. If and when it would come, who we would fight, how quickly we would overwhelm our enemy, how much prize money we'd make. Most of all, the men liked to boast about how they had fought in previous battles. Down on the mess deck, among our gun crew and on neighbouring tables, I overheard far more than I wanted to know about the awful reality of hand-to-hand combat.

‘And I crept up behind him and cracked his napper with my musket butt . . .'

‘I dodged that knife he threw down from the fighting top, and felled him with my pistol . . .'

‘Just as we drew alongside, I threw down a grenade and it landed in a group of French marines, and killed five of them . . .'

James Kettleby was more wary. ‘The French and Spanish carry more men and marines aboard their ships,' he told me. ‘That's why we try to kill as many of them as possible before we get to boarding. They, in turn, try to destroy our rigging so we can't manoeuvre the ship. Then they can board us and crush us.'

None of this helped to ease my fear of boarding.

When talk turned to battle I always kept quiet. Ben noticed my silence. When we were alone he said, ‘They like to brag, don't they? A good battle gives a chappie the chance to show his mates what he's made of. Don't you worry, Sam. I'll look after you. And besides . . . us Tars have a well-deserved reputation. When we meet Johnny Dago or Johnny Frog, you can bet your life he'll be more frightened of us than we are of him. I'm not frightened of battle, lad. So you shouldn't be either. It's what we've been training so hard for over the whole of this voyage. And if things get bad, just remember “The hotter the battle, the sooner the peace”.'

Richard was keen to avoid a scrap too, but he
understood why the men were keen to fight. ‘I'd be quite happy never to see a single Spanish or French ship, believe me. But for this lot, it's a bit of variety. Still, if we ever do get dragged into a fight there's always the prospect of prize money – that's something to look forward to.'

Every morning I woke fearful that the day would be the one in which we'd meet an enemy ship. At every dusk I felt a bitter-sweet twinge of anxiety. Today I survived, I'd tell myself, but tomorrow . . .? Several of my messmates reassured me most frigate patrols passed without incident, but I just knew in my bones that the
Miranda
was not going to be so lucky.

Eventually it happened.

‘Sail ho!' We all heard the cry from the lookout at the main mast. A shiver went through me. It was half an hour before noon, on a bright January morning. We were just off Cape Ortegal, on the northern tip of Spain. A ship was coming up from the coast and heading straight for us.

Soon after we heard that warning cry, the bosun's whistle summoned the whole crew on deck. The Captain, surrounded by his lieutenants and a squad of marines, was waiting to address us from the quarterdeck. We gathered around the mainmast, waist rail and up the rigging, each of us straining to hear the Captain
speak. He looked excited. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself.

‘Men. A Spanish frigate is approaching us from starboard, no doubt keen to claim us as a prize. I intend to meet her head on in battle. The Spanish sailor is poorly trained and poorly led, and I'm confident that by the end of the day we shall all be drinking a victory toast. Meanwhile, I estimate our foe will be upon us within an hour or so, which leaves enough time for a good dinner. You shall all have an extra ration of rum today. I should like to remind you that the British Tar is unbeatable in battle. Nevertheless, according to the Articles of War, the penalty for desertion of post, refusal to obey an order, and open cowardice, is death. But I'm sure you will do me proud today.'

With that, the men burst into a loud cheer. Then they began to sing the battle song ‘Hearts of Oak'.

Hearts of oak are our ships,
Jolly tars are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again
.

It is an extraordinary thing to hear two hundred and fifty men singing at the top of their voices. Despite my fear, it filled me with euphoria. Even Richard, who was
by my side, joined in. When we were alone together he would quietly scoff at displays of British patriotism. But not today. ‘When in Rome . . .' he whispered to me between lines, and winked.

We headed for the mess deck and sat down at our usual table. The atmosphere was certainly lively. I looked around the mess at my friends and comrades, stuffing their faces and talking excitedly with their mouths full. I wondered how many of them would live to see the coming evening, and how many gaps there would be in the benches the next time we all sat down to eat.

‘Now then, Sam,' said Ben. ‘No gloomy thoughts.'

Richard chided me. ‘You should feel lucky. You're down on the gun deck, safe behind your wooden walls and big gun. I'm up in the mizzenmast with a musket – plain as daylight for anyone to pick off!'

‘You sound remarkably cheerful about it,' I managed to say.

My messmates were in a fine good humour, but I could barely eat. My mouth was so dry every mouthful of dinner seemed like a cold stone in my throat. I had to force myself to concentrate on what was being said to me. From that moment the lookout issued his warning, with everything I did I wondered if I would be doing it for the last time. I thought fleetingly of Mother, Father, Tom and Rosie. What were they doing now that death
was staring me in the face? Peeling potatoes, buying tea in Norwich, picking mussels from the rocks?

The Spanish frigate was making slow progress – sailing up to meet us against the wind. We ate our meal with no great sense of urgency. I began to regain confidence when I downed my ration of grog. My fear receded, and I felt a brief surge of pride. Ben was right. These men were magnificent. They would give our Spanish foes a good hiding.

By the time we were called to quarters by the marine drummer boy my fear had returned, but I was trying hard to keep it well hidden. I bid Richard a hearty farewell, and put out my hand. He ignored it, and gave me a bear hug instead.

‘See you later . . .' he said with a grin. But I could tell he was frightened too and trying hard not to show it.