Powder Monkey (25 page)

Robert chipped in, wary but resigned. ‘I shall report you swept away to sea during the shipwreck. Mind that you change your name though, Mr Warandel. I wish you good luck.'

As Silas rose from his seat I rushed forward to hug him. I felt a great rush of affection for this weather-beaten sea dog. We were all survivors and now he was going to take back the life he'd had snatched away from him.

‘You're a good lad, Sam,' he said as he hugged me back, then he was gone.

After Silas left, Richard went to the bar to fetch the three of us another round of ale. The drink was much stronger than the watered-down beer we were given on the
Miranda
. I began to feel quite woozy, and stared into the fire. While Richard and Robert talked, I thought of my family and Rosie, and wondered when I would ever see them again.

A sharp rapping made me look away from the fire, and up to the tavern window. Maybe Bouncer was out there – unaccustomed to solid earth and vegetation – making his way towards lights, human conversation and the smell of roasting meat. Perhaps, any minute, he would leap up to the sill, and begin scratching at the window.

* * *

The next morning I rose early. The sensation of being alone in a room was foreign to me. Although I had slept solidly, it was an odd feeling to be in a bed that did not roll with the swell of the sea. Downstairs I found Richard and Robert sitting around a table in the bar, eating eggs and bacon.

A plate arrived for me, along with a mug of tea. A piping hot egg with a runny yolk. Crispy rind on salty bacon. A slice of fresh bread with fresh butter. After months of rancid butter on hard biscuit, lukewarm slop and brackish water, it tasted so marvellous that I doubted that King George himself were eating a better breakfast.

Robert spoke first. ‘We didn't really expect to see you this morning.'

Then Richard. ‘So, Sam, are you heading for the hills? Is it the outlaw life for you?'

He made it sound like a great adventure.

Robert said, ‘You could still get away, if you go this morning. But news of a shipwreck travels quickly. Wait until this afternoon, and you're asking for trouble.'

I was touched that he was urging me to go. I was still undecided.

Then Richard spoke up. ‘After breakfast, let's walk down to the coast, and see if we can spot what's left of the
Miranda
. Come on, Sam. Come and bid a final farewell to your ship.'

The idea appealed to me. ‘Yes, I'll do that. And maybe we can look for Ben's sea chest along the shoreline?'

Our generous landlord provided us with three warm coats, and we ventured out into a stark February morning. We wandered a half mile along the coastal path before the
Miranda
came into view. From where we stood on a cliff top, which sloped down to a drab pebble beach, we could see the pitiful state the ship was in. The masts and bowsprit were gone, and the wreck of the ship lay floundering in the low tide, with only the bow still well clear of the water.

Robert put a hand around my shoulder and spoke. ‘Sam, you and Mr Warandel were right to drag me away. I shall always be grateful to you . . .'

I felt embarrassed by this unaccustomed show of affection. I could not think of anything appropriate to say.

‘Well, Mr Neville – I'm sure we'd have attempted to rescue anyone we saw on the deck.'

‘Even Lewis Tuck?' said Richard.

We all laughed.

‘No, not him. Do either of you know whether he survived the battle?' I asked.

Richard spoke up. ‘I saw him impaled with a boarding pike, just as the Spanish swept on to our deck. He was right there on the rail – balanced on the edge of the ship. As he fell into the sea, a shark popped its head out of the
water and made off with him tight between its jaws.'

I was astounded. What a fate!

‘No?' I gasped.

‘No, Sam. I'm afraid not. Tuck was taken off to the
Gerona
.'

I didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

We walked on. Soon we came to a stretch of beach where debris from the shipwreck had been brought in by the tide. Here was the tangled mess of the mizzen-mast, there was the bowsprit. Bits and pieces of the ship lay scattered all around. A few bodies too lay bobbing in the surf at the water's edge.

We made our way down the cliff and wandered among the wreckage. Amid this destruction, I began to feel guilty wishing my enemy Lewis Tuck dead. Whenever we came to a body we would drag it out of the water by the arms and turn it over away from the water line. We recognised them all of course, apart from a couple of the Spanish prisoners, but none were men I knew well.

‘No sign of Ben's chest here, Sam,' said Richard. ‘D'you want to look over at the next cove? There's bound to be some more debris there.'

I wasn't so sure. I did not want to waste precious time in Pentherick if I was going to vanish into the countryside and hope the naval authorities took me for dead. I hesitated.

‘Let's get back, then,' said Richard. ‘Come on, Sam. If you're going, you better go soon before a squad of marines turns up in the village looking for those Spanish sailors.'

I thought of Bouncer, trapped in that tea chest, his pathetic mewing lost in the wind of an empty beach. The tide was out sufficiently far for it to be possible to reach the next cove without returning up the cliffs.

‘I'll just have a look over here,' I shouted, and ran quickly round the jagged rocks at the edge of the shoreline and on to the next beach.

It was a forlorn place, a great expanse of grey sand, grey sea and grey sky, deserted save for a few remnants washed ashore from the ship, and a scattering of bodies on the shoreline. I hurriedly began to search among the objects on the beach. But several I thought that might be boxes turned out to be rocks.

After a while, Richard appeared at the edge of the cove, and attracted my attention by whistling. His voice drifted across the empty beach, half-drowned by the crashing of the waves.

‘Here, come on, Sam. We're going back to the Royal Oak.'

I waved and yelled, ‘I'll catch you up.'

Fighting back my fear that I was running out of time, I began to search more desperately. Perhaps I should try further up the coast? But then the low sun poked out
from the clouds and a watery light spread over the sand. At that moment my eye alighted on a sharp, dark shape in the middle distance that I had hitherto thought to be a rock. In the sunlight I could see its texture more clearly. It was a small wooden chest. I ran closer. It had been tipped on one edge and was half buried in the wet sand. There on its side in fading black ink were the words ‘Benjamin Lovett'. I pulled it out and placed it upright. An agitated mewl came from within. I flipped back the latch and there was Bouncer, shivering in three or four inches of water, drenched and miserable, but still alive. He sprang out, ran three or four times round in a circle, shook his fur, then padded back to me. He looked up with what I took to be some indignation. ‘Meoowwww?' he complained. I picked him up and nestled him inside my coat.

Inside the chest, Ben's letters and the silhouette of his wife were a soggy, waterlogged mess. But his model boat was still intact. I picked it up and ran back to the neighbouring beach.

‘Hey! Come and look at this!' I shouted to Richard and Robert – now receding figures in the distance. My voice carried in the wind, and they stopped and turned round.

I ran towards them, gripping Bouncer tightly in my coat. When I reached my friends he poked his head out of my coat and gave another meow. Robert grinned.

‘Well done, Sam. Perseverance wins the day.'

Then I held up Ben's boat. ‘This was for his son,' I said.

Robert took it from me. ‘Let me pay to have it delivered to him,' he said firmly. ‘Perhaps you could write a letter for the lad and Mr Lovett's wife, to go with the parcel?'

Before we turned back from the beach I took a long final look at the wreck of the
Miranda
. I thought especially of my Sea Daddy Ben, lying on the ocean floor five miles off the coast of Spain. I couldn't bear to think of him at the bottom of the sea, his bones picked clean by scavenging sea creatures. Instead I tried to picture him there with a tankard of fine ale, a garland of seaweed and a brace of bonny mermaids for company.

By now it was mid-morning. I had still not decided what to do. Should I stay or should I go?

‘We're heading for Plymouth,' said Robert. ‘From there, they'll probably send us back to Portsmouth and a new ship.'

If I was going to escape, I had to go now. The prospect of returning to the comforts of my home and family, wooing Rosie, and escaping from the tyranny of the Navy all filled my imagination like a wondrous vision. But even if I did get away, what then? First of all, I had to get myself home. I was wearing clothes kindly lent to me by the Royal Oak landlord, and I couldn't bring
myself to steal them. And I had a rich brown skin that marked me out at once as a sailor away from the sea. That would fade soon enough, but then what? I would live the rest of my life as a fugitive and an impostor. If I returned home, news would surely get back to the authorities. But it was not just the threat of capture and a certain flogging that held me back. The loss of my ship grieved me and I knew now that the sea was in my bones. Aboard the
Miranda
, I had found friends and comrades for whom I felt a fierce loyalty. Two of them were with me now.

Richard put his hand on my shoulder. ‘What's it to be, Sam?'

‘I'm staying with you,' I said quietly.

I'm especially grateful to my agent Charlie Viney who inspired this book by encouraging me to have a go at writing fiction. Children's books consultant Alison Stanley gave me useful help during the book's early stages, and Dilys Dowswell offered invaluable advice on all my first drafts.

At Bloomsbury Ele Fountain patiently helped shape the narrative and hone the style while Georgia Murray ensured the nuts and bolts of the story were tightened securely. Maritime expert Nicholas Blake gave generous advice on the historic and technical aspects of the book. I was not able to make all his recommended changes, for which I apologise both to him and anyone else more steeped than me in the salty subject of Nelson's Navy. Phillip Beresford and Katherine Grimes were responsible for the elegant look of the book, and Ian Butterworth created the evocative cover. Peter Bailey's fine line drawings decorate the inside pages.

Thank you to Kate Lee, Caroline Yates and Leslie Harris for their loan of valuable reference material, and also the staff of the National Maritime Museum Library, Greenwich, and Wolverhampton and Birmingham Public and Reference Libraries for their help during the researching of this book. A bibliography detailing some of the sources used can be found
here
.

I would also like to thank Anna Claybourne, Alex Costello, Fergus Fleming, Lucy Lethbridge, William and Debbie Lucas, Heather Nolan and Christine Whitley for their advice and encouragement, and, most especially, my wife and daughter, Jenny and Josie, for their help and support in the writing of this book.

The poem in 
Chapter 12
is ‘The Price of Experience' by William Blake. Although it was first published in
The Writings of William Blake
(eds Edwin J. Ellis and William Butler Yeats, 1893) it was written in 1797, so it's not impossible to imagine that someone who knew Blake personally, a character similar to Tom Shepherd, in fact, would have seen it.

Parts of the conversations in 
Chapter 7
and
Chapter 10
were inspired by passages in
The British Tar in Fact and Fiction
by Commander Charles N. Robertson (Harper and Brothers, London, 1911). These capture the language of the era so wonderfully I did not want to change them beyond recognition.

Although I was determined to base the characters and their circumstances firmly in historic reality,
Powder Monkey
is first and foremost a novel rather than a history book. For any reader wanting to find out more about the real history here, I can recommend any of the following:

Jack Aubrey Commands: An Historical Companion to the Naval World of Patrick O'Brian
by Brian Lavery (Conway Maritime Press, London, 2003)

The Seafarers: Fighting Sail
by A.B.C. Whipple and the editors of Time-Life Books (Caxton Publishing Group, London, 2004)

Hornblower's Navy: Life at Sea in the Age of Nelson
by Steve Pope (Orion Books, London, 1998)

Life in Nelson's Navy
by Dudley Pope (Chatham Publishing, London, 1981)

These are all accessible, highly readable books, which should be available in most public libraries. The first three are also full of fascinating and colourful illustrations – some from the era, others artwork recreations.

If you want to dig a little deeper you could try: