Powder Monkey (23 page)

‘Yes, yes,' the officer replied, speaking to us at once in English. ‘Very well, sir. The ship is yours. I will tell my men to surrender.'

‘Make sure you do,' said Middlewych coldly. ‘My man here is all too eager to slit your throat.'

And that was it. The Spanish officer, closely guarded by three of our men, went over to his crew and ordered them to stir themselves. Surrounded as they were, he could see they were outnumbered, and there seemed little point in trying to resist us. There were only thirty or so of them. They had been foolish to leave so few to repair the ship and guard us. Perhaps they thought that after our defeat the fight had gone out of us. His men stirred in the dim lantern light, and we swiftly herded them down to the gunroom. Meanwhile, Middlewych took the Spanish officer on a quick tour, to round up any sentries scattered around the ship.

I felt utterly spent. All around me my comrades were laughing and bellowing like mad men – as if they could not believe their good fortune. I wandered through the wreckage of the ship, still only partially repaired, and went to find a quiet spot on the orlop deck. Here I sat down and cried. I felt so happy to have survived this ordeal, but weighed down with the terror I had felt and the horror I had lived through. Soon after, Tom Shepherd came to sit with me and place a consoling arm around my shoulder. Then, to my surprise, he recited a poem.

‘What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song?

Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

Of all a man hath, his house, his wife, his children
.

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
,

And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain . . .'

‘My friend William, from London, he told me that. I can't remember any more.'

I made Tom write it down for me.

Tom continued to talk softly to me. ‘And if you have to fight again, you'll know what to expect, and you'll be much better prepared for it. And you'll know how to survive. But going through all this . . . you have to pay for it, don't you?'

Now all we had to do was sail an undermanned, badly damaged frigate back home through winter storms and several hundreds of miles of enemy seas.

The dawn was a fine one – a calm sea, and the promise of a sunny day. We all knew we had no time to waste repairing the ship, and making good our escape. During the course of the day Middlewych was everywhere – encouraging, cajoling, hounding and praising. By eight bells that afternoon we had rigged up a jury foremast. With that, and our tattered mizzenmast, we set all sails to return home to England.

In the evening Middlewych gave orders for the cook to prepare the best feast he could muster. But it was a
sorry affair. Much of our food had been ruined by the rising waters in the hold. In fact, it was lucky there were so few of us left to feed, otherwise we may have had to make a dangerous return to Gibraltar to reprovision. There was to be no extra grog either – we would not be making the same mistake as our Spanish friends, and celebrating too much too soon. The thirty or so prisoners we took when we regained our ship were kept confined to the Captain's cabin. The guards who stood watching them at the open doors were changed every hour. There on the gun deck we also took the precaution of setting up a carronade filled with grapeshot. This was constantly manned and pointed straight at an open door to the Captain's cabin.

Despite our repairs, the
Miranda
was a shadow of her former self – especially with our mainmast still missing. The timbers at the side of the ship had been particularly badly damaged. Now there was a constant need for men to man the pumps to keep the water in the hold from rising further. Here we made use of our prisoners in this task – letting them out two at a time from the Captain's cabin. Middlewych ensured their cooperation by telling them that if they didn't work they would not eat. Most of the Spaniards seemed to be grateful to still be alive. Like us, most had been compelled to serve on their ships. As long as they behaved, we bore them no ill will.

The wind blew in our favour, and we made good
speed. Within days, as the
Miranda
sailed north, we could feel the weather getting cooler. But that return journey was a melancholy one. With so many dead or taken prisoner, the mess seemed three-quarters empty. Still, it had its compensations. Officers and midshipmen mingled more freely with the ratings, and I learned a little more about Robert Neville. The voyage had been the making of him, and it was difficult now to imagine he had ever been the snivelling boy I had once watched being reprimanded by his uncle. Lieutenant Spencer had survived the battle, but had been one of those taken off on the
Gerona
. Robert fretted about him to me. He was fond of his uncle, despite the Lieutenant's harsh words. I learned too that Robert's family were wealthy, influential people. His father, Viscount Neville, held a senior position at the Admiralty.

When time allowed, Robert taught me some of his seafaring skills. I learned how to use a sextant to calculate the ship's position on a map, and how the constellations could be used to establish our direction. Robert was full of fascinating information, which he was keen to share. In me he found a willing pupil. Although my father had encouraged me to take an interest in the world, and develop what he termed ‘a well-furnished mind', he had a blind spot when it came to science. Especially any scientific discovery which conflicted with his religious beliefs.

Robert's father, in contrast, was especially interested in the new science of geology. He loved to poke around in the ground, studying fossils and the varying layers of soil and rock beneath the surface of the land. Most of all, said Robert, he loved to debate the nature of the formation of the Earth. Before he went to sea, Robert had sat at the family dining table listening to his father's friends and relations discuss these very topics, and what he had to say filled me with curiosity. Why was it, they would argue, that the remains of ancient sea creatures could be found on top of high mountains such as those of the Alps?

‘I could tell you that,' I said. ‘They were swept up there during the great flood, when God covered the Earth with water.'

‘Yes,' said Robert. ‘That's what my Uncle Henry says. But then, he would. He's Bishop of Chichester. You and him, you're what we call Neptunists.' I was flattered to be placed alongside a bishop. Then Robert went on, ‘Uncle Henry believes the world was created exactly as it is – mountains, hills, rivers and valleys – all in the first week of creation.'

‘So do I,' I chimed in. ‘Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. On the third day of creation, in fact. It's all there in the first book of Genesis.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Robert impatiently. ‘And they say if
anything has changed then it's due to the action of the seas during times of great flooding. But there's another school of thought here. My father and I, we're Plutonists.

‘We think that volcanoes and earthquakes, and the wind and the rain and the sea, all change the face of the planet. We think that the mountains with the fossils of sea creatures at the top used to be part of the sea bed, and they've risen up. All of this, though, has taken place over an extremely long period of time. Hundreds of thousands, or perhaps millions, of years . . .'

I couldn't agree with him. ‘But Reverend Chatham told us the world was created in 4004BC, on Sunday 23rd October. So it's less than six thousand years old. So that puts paid to your explanation.'

‘That's another argument altogether,' said Robert. He was beginning to sound impatient. ‘That's the case if you want to take the Bible literally. My father would argue that the Book of Genesis is an allegory.'

‘A what?' said I.

‘It's not meant to be taken literally. I believe in the same God as you, Witchall, but I think some parts of the Bible are open to interpretation.' Robert was getting impatient, and determined to have the final word. ‘“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”'

I felt quite baffled.

‘It's
Hamlet
, Witchall. Y' know, Shakespeare? He's the fellow who came up with the name of our ship.'

I didn't. Shakespeare was another world too. Robert was losing me fast. He did annoy me when he made me feel stupid.

Luck was with us throughout that journey. The wind blew fair, and no pirates, privateers or enemy frigates crossed our path. We would have been the easiest prize in the Atlantic Ocean. Eventually, on the morning of 14th February 1801, Lizard Point, on the southern tip of Cornwall, came into view. Our home shore, and Valentine's Day too! This seemed like a good omen. As we crowded on to the larboard side of the deck to peer through the haze at the far-off coast, I could see the delight and relief on everyone's faces.

Our home port of Portsmouth was only a couple of days' sailing away, but Middlewych decided it would be safer to head for Plymouth, which was much nearer. Perhaps now we only had one more day at sea. I finally allowed myself to believe that I would soon be seeing my family and Rosie again. I'd never felt happier.

It didn't last. When I mentioned this to Robert, he gave me a wry smile. ‘I don't think the Navy will let you go, Sam.'

I knew he was going to say something that would crush my spirit. He usually called me Witchall, as I
called him Mr Neville. I thought of him as ‘Robert' and it seemed odd for me to have to address a boy no more than a year or two older than me in this formal way, but such were the traditions of the Royal Navy.

Robert continued: ‘If you're pressed, you have to remain on your ship until it pays off, or you're turned over to another ship. They may let you go when the war is over – although heaven knows when that may be.'

‘But don't I get shore leave?' I said, feeling my face grow hot with anger.

‘I'm amazed that you never discussed this with your messmates,' he replied.

‘I never thought to ask about it.'

Robert sighed. ‘Men aren't usually allowed to leave their ship, never mind go home and be expected to come back. The Navy is afraid they'll just disappear. As soon as we get back to Portsmouth we'll all be transferred to other Navy ships while the
Miranda
is given a refit.'

I felt a numb disappointment for the rest of the morning. The elements, too, conspired to match my mood. The sky darkened and rain began to fall in sheets. Soon after we passed Lizard Point, it became obvious that we were heading into the teeth of a storm.

When the wind picked up, sails were ripped from the yards as we struggled to furl them. With only sixty of us left, and all weary from the voyage, the ship seemed too
big for us to handle. Left completely at the mercy of wind and tide, the
Miranda
began to drift perilously close to the rocky shore.

All of the crew had more to do than any one man could be expected to achieve. We raced from side to side, drenched by the storm and exhausted by our failing efforts. The
Miranda
's four heavy anchors were dropped in a bid to halt our fatal drift. The rolling and pitching of the ship put an enormous strain on the anchor cables. As late afternoon faded to dusk these cables groaned as if under torture. Soon after dark there was an horrendous splintering of wood and cable as first one anchor, and then the others, parted company with the ship.

In a final frantic effort to regain control of our ship, Middlewych ordered the guns and stores thrown into the sea. The task of casting loose these two-ton guns, and letting them smash through the side of the ship as it heaved to and fro, was exhausting and dangerous, and two men were crushed. Theirs was a gruesome death, and Dr Claybourne had only brandy to ease their final moments.

Lighter stores followed the guns. The ship's spare sails, spars, ropes – anything we could bring up from the rapidly flooding hold – were hurled overboard.

During the night, in howling wind and sheets of rain, the ship shuddered and lurched, throwing us all to the
deck. We had been driven aground a hundred yards from the shore. Soon after, the rudder tore off with a sickening splinter. Yardarms crashed to the deck, then our recently repaired foremast toppled into the sea. I was grateful it had lasted that long. Just as scurvy attacks the body's frail points, opening up old wounds healed long before, so the sea did its worst to our ship. The
Miranda
began to break up, as tons of water tormented her weakened hull. Carpenters' repairs burst open against the pressure of the waves. Water cascaded into the interior, and the ship's pumps could no longer hold the rising torrent. Soon the hold was submerged, and stinking black water oozed, sloshed, then poured up the stairwells to the mess deck, filling it to a waterline that rose and fell with the tide. At dusk on 15th February, Middlewych called for all hands to abandon ship.