His Majesty's Ship (11 page)

      
“Victual's good in
Vigilant
.” Jenkins informed him, generously spraying Matthew with shreds of beef as he spoke.” Some ships you'd be better off scrimin' the meat than' eatin' it.” He paused to belch. “I 'member
Cambridge
, my first ship. She's guard at Plymouth Dock now, but it were a terrible hulk for victuals when I knew 'er. Used to breed rats in cable tier, then fight the 'olders for 'em, just to keep body an' soul t'gether.”

      
Matthew swallowed his current mouthful dryly and paused for some moments before taking another bite.

      
O'Conner, an ordinary seaman of middle years, had noticed Crehan but so far had not spoken with him beyond the normal courtesies. He had kept an eye on the stranger however, and during dinner managed a place next to him.

      
“You're new then, are you?” asked O'Conner, through his food.

      
“To this ship, I am yes.” The broad accent was unmistakable, but O'Conner decided to sound out the man a little further.

      
“Volunteer?”

      
“For the King? No, I was persuaded.” Well over half the crew could have answered in the same way, but O'Conner had the clue he was looking for, and he continued in Gaelic, using a far softer voice.

      
“Are you straight?”

      
Crehan stopped eating for no more than a second, his eyes flashed across to O'Conner, who was looking nonchalant, as if he had just been passing the time of day. To speak in Gaelic was illegal on board a King's ship, and the subject made the crime more iniquitous still.

      
“I am.” The reply was hard to hear amongst the background noise of men eating.

      
“How straight?” Again there was no sign between the men that they were saying anything untoward.

      
“As straight as a rush.” Crehan was eating heartily now, although a faint tinge of red could be noticed in his complexion. The mess table was full, but in a ship of war a lack of privacy is almost expected, and the two continued, confidant that no one would overhear their language in the din that sounded all about them.

      
“Go on then,” O'Conner urged.

      
“In truth, in trust, in unity and liberty.”

      
“What have you in your hand?” O'Conner could see what he had in his hand, but that was not the question.

      
“A green bough.”

      
“Where did it first grow?”

      
“In America,” Crehan muttered, adding a belch for good measure.

      
“And where did it bud?”

      
“France.”

      
“Where are you going to plant it?” Crehan turned and looked O'Conner in the face.

      
“Where are
we
going to plant it?”

      
O'Conner nodded seriously, and the two men spoke together in no more than a whisper.

      
“In the crown of Great Britain.”

      
Now both were smiling, as they had a right to, for they had each found a brother.

      
“Are there any more on board?” Crehan, who had been a member for many years, reverted to English.

      
“Aye, some, I've yet to check out all the new men.”

      
“Now somehow that doesn't surprise me, when you can ignore a man in your own mess!”

      
O'Conner grinned despite himself. “There's been a purge of late; even to be Irish is seen as a crime in some ships.”

      
“An' do you always sound men out over dinner?” There was a hint of seriousness in Crehan's voice now.

      
“Where is private? 'sides, if the man can't take a risk, he's no use to us.”

      
No more was said, the conversation switched quickly to that of shipboard life, with no mention of Trees of Liberty, Wolfe Tone, Napper Tandy, of any other the other subjects the two latent revolutionaries would have much preferred to discuss.

*****

      
At just before four bells in the afternoon watch Shepherd stepped from his cabin and walked along the quarterdeck. Dyson was already waiting by the binnacle. It was the time finally agreed with the commodore for the convoy to sail, and he could see bustle on some of the merchant ships as their crews prepared.

      
“
Taymar
and
Badger
have signalled their readiness, sir,” Dyson said, when the captain joined him. “The flagship's flying a Peter; her sails are bent, and she's taking up the strain on her cable.”

      
“Very good,” he put his glass to his eye and inspected the small fleet. Sure enough the ships appeared ready, there seemed little reason why they should not take maximum advantage of the tide. Furthermore the wind, blowing light from the shore, was fair. Shepherd wondered if his doubts about the voyage had been misplaced, certainly things were going well at the start.

      
“Commodore is signalling, sir” King had already taken up his duties as signal lieutenant. He fumbled through the book, while Mintey, an oldster midshipman, prompted him in a stage whisper. “C-Convoy will proceed, sir,” King said, although it was clear that he had not found the right page.

      
“Very good, Mr King.” Shepherd meant the words. The fact that the signal midshipman, until very recently the same rank, and actually senior to King, had assisted him was a sign that his promotion had been accepted by the other young gentlemen. He turned to Dyson.

      
“I think we can begin, Mr Dyson. Would you be so kind as to make sail?” The last two words, although phrased as a question, were enough to initiate a thousand orders.

      
“All hands make sail!” Dyson touched his hat and repeated the command, stirring up a cacophony of whistles and shouts. Topmen from the starboard watch ran to the weather ratlines and scampered up, followed by their midshipmen, who would stay at the tops to encourage them. The marine sentries standing guard at channels and entry ports, unfixed their bayonets as the men went aloft. The guard snapped to attention, before clumping from the posts they had manned for the last seven weeks, and taking up position at the braces. Below other marines were gathering at the main capstan where they would provide the motive power to raise the anchor.

      
“We are to take station to windward of the convoy, Mr Dyson, so allow them to foreach on us.”

      
“Aye, sir. Topsails and forecourse on my command, Mr Johnston,” Dyson called to the boatswain, as the men took their place along the yards, and the afterguard went to the braces.

      
Below Matthew had been herded with the other ship's boys, and now stood on the lower gundeck, holding a piece of light line uncertainly.

      
“Nipper work's wet'n foul,” the boy next to him, who looked about thirteen, informed him. “Best wear your number three's next time.”

      
The entire conversation meant nothing to Matthew, although he understood from the boy's expression that he intended to be helpful. A heavy cable was in the process of being released from the bitts, a massive wooden frame polished by years of use. Five sailors pulled the cable straight, and ran it alongside the lighter line that ran to the capstan. Matthew felt he had to ask a question, and automatically went through the necessary stages of gathering his words, breathing deep, and closing his eyes, before addressing the lad.

      
“I've not done this before.” he said, opening his eyes again, to gauge the effect.

      
“No?” the boy did not seem surprised. “Nuthin' to it, no harder than herdin' cats.” Though younger, he was years ahead of Matthew. “You got to bind the anchor cable to the messenger, that's the line goin' round the capstan.” He pointed to where marines were forming up at the far end of the deck. “Messenger's a loop, see? We lash the cable to it with these nippers.” He held up his length of line. “Then you follows your nipper along as the Guffies wind the capstan. When you gets to the end, you unwraps it, and run back to the beginning again.”

      
Matthew nodded. It seemed simple enough, although he wasn't at all sure if he had the coordination. Then it occurred to him that he didn't know what knot to use when tying the anchor cable to the messenger. He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by a bellowing from one of the boatswain's mates.

      
“Look lively there! Form a line, crown buoy's up, let's get this cable in an' dried!”

      
The boys spread themselves along the line of the messenger, and began to strap their nippers, binding the two cables together. Matthew tried to watch what knot they were using, but they all seemed to just wrap the line about. To be safe he tied a reef, in the way Jake had shown him.

      
Another squeal from the boatswain's mate's pipes and the marines, looking unusually scruffy in their working clothes, began to turn the capstan. There was a loud clapping sound that increased with speed and before long the cable and messenger were moving along the deck at a brisk walking pace.

      
All too soon it was Matthew's turn to untie his nipper. The others had come away as if they were only wrapped about, and as he fumbled with his knot he wondered how they could manage it so quickly.

      
The hitch had turned itself into a granny, and seemed impossible to undo. He began to panic, it was past the place where he should have loosened his line, and soon the messenger would be up to the drum of the capstan.

      
He strained at the knot, as the marching marines came closer and closer. If he didn't free it soon, he would be among them. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he struggled again with the knot.

      
“Avast there—avast!” the roar from one of the boatswain's mates came from close behind and made his feet almost leave the deck. The capstan came to a halt, and the line stopped, just as Matthew was about to collide with the outermost marine.

      
“Now then, what's this?” Clarke stepped forward and examined Matthew's knot. “Fair bit of knitting you have there, youngster!”

      
The line of boys laughed, but the marines stayed silent.

      
The boatswain's mate brought out a knife and cut through the knot. “Don't tie it, wrap it!” he said. He took Matthew by his ear and dragged him back to where the last nipper was about to be unleashed. Pulling the ear down, he stopped with Matthew's nose about an inch from the messenger.

      
“You see?” he could see perfectly. The line was wrapped round, three turns and a half hitch. There were no knots.

      
Clarke let go of his ear, and blew on his pipe. Immediately the line began to move again, and Matthew ran back to the end of the queue of waiting boys.

      
He knew his face was red, and was ready for the teasing that he guessed would be inevitable. Instead the boy in front of him merely grinned and once the line took up speed they were all too busy to think more of the incident.

      
In no time they were working on line that had spent the last seven weeks on the bottom of the anchorage directly beneath the heads, and Matthew began to understand what the first lad had been talking about. He was wet through and covered with green slime, but then he was not alone, and as he hurried back along the deck he noticed that they were all grinning. It was like a weird relay race, where everyone was on the same side, and each getting steadily wetter. Then they were lifting the anchor itself; the clank from the capstan pawls slowed, and the nippers needed four or five turns to hold. The massive cable seemed to groan as it was dragged along the deck lifting the seventy hundredweight of anchor from the dark bottom many fathoms below. Before long the capstan stopped, and the boys stood back from their work, panting but excited.

      
“Starbolins dry and stow, larbolins, cat n' fish!” yelled the boatswain's mate, as the marines removed the capstan bars, and began replacing them as deck supports. Matthew knew that he was larboard watch, but the ludicrous instruction was beyond him.

      
“Come on!” said the first lad and Matthew followed as he ran for the companionway.

      
On the deck above another bank of marines had been turning the upper level of the capstan, and were now formed up in three lines. The boys ran up to the main deck, and on to the forecastle, where the dripping anchor was hanging at the bows.

      
“Anchor's stowed at the catshead,” the boy informed him, pointing to a heavy wooden beam that jutted out over the larboard bow. “Fish tackle raises the flukes to the side, an' we strap the crown.” he explained.

      
Matthew opened his mouth to ask more, then closed it again. He watched as the others went about securing the anchor, finally helping when the line was passed about the heavy ring at the end.