His Majesty's Ship (4 page)

      
“You should've spoken to y'r man,” his companion told him. “Said you'd been mistaken, that way you might've got away with the first lot.”

      
Matthew wanted to tell him that it was not that easy, that he had volunteered, and the idea of backing out now was abhorrent to him. Whether it was the shock of his surroundings, the dreadful night in the hold, or just plain nerves, he did not know, but again he found the words hard to find.

      
“You can do like me an' try it on with the rating board; they might take pity on you. Sometimes they're not so up to date with t'law, but it'll be a long shot.”

      
“I'll stay,” Matthew said, finally recovering the gift of speech. The man looked at him with a trace of concern on his soiled face.

      
“That's up to you,” he said. “But it'll be a mistake you're making.”

*****

      
“Lambs to the slaughter!” laughed Jenkins, as he watched the launch approach
Vigilant
. He and his mate were serving the starboard main backstay, and had an excellent view of the boat and its cargo. “Most of 'em look like they went to bed a prince and woke a pauper!”

      
The other man paused, mallet in hand. “Meybe you're right, and all,” he grinned. Both men had been pressed several times, and drew great enjoyment from watching others share their fate.

      
“That's Samuel Wilson,” Jenkins continued, in a quieter voice. “He was with me in the old
Amazon
.”

      
“Wonder what he'll call hisself now?” his mate, who was currently known as Simpson pondered. Simpson had used three names previously, on account of the three times he'd jumped ship.

      
“Na, not Samuel. He'd be fair and square.” Jenkins shook his head, before continuing, “You'll not find a man like Samuel running.”

      
Simpson considered this, aware that there might have been an insult hidden in what Jenkins had said. But men such as him lived precarious lives, and he decided to let it pass. He wrapped the paper around the backstay, while Jenkins covered it with another turn of lighter line that fitted neatly into the grooves of the shroud.

      
“Tain't no more'n fourteen of 'em,” Simpson grumbled, while Jenkins worked the line in with the serving mallet. “Hardly enough to fill two messes. An' most'll be lubbers, used to livin' in style!”

      
“Meybe there'll be a few warm 'uns amongst 'em?” Jenkins said reflectively.

      
“Some'll have bounty.” The two men stopped work, as the same idea occurred.

      
“Crown and Anchor?”

      
Simpson grinned, twirling the end of his red pigtail in the air meditatively, and nodded.

      
Betting was illegal in ships of the Royal Navy, although an innocent game of Crown and Anchor could always be spiced with an unofficial wager on the side. Jenkins and Simpson were past masters of the art, especially when the raw recruits might know nothing of the inflated value of money on board ship, and have little idea of the game.

      
“Couple of rounds’ll soon sort the men from the muggers!” Jenkins laughed.

      
“And you'll be joining the muggers if you're not so very careful!” The approach of Johnston, the boatswain, had gone unnoticed by both men, so intent had they been in their planning.

      
“I want this stay wormed, parcelled and served by six bells,” the boatswain shouted, inches from their faces. “Come on, larboard party's almost reached the 'ounds!”

      
Jenkins and Simpson fell into work with a will. Neither particularly minded the boatswain bawling them out, in fact of all the petty officers he was one of the most respected. The rattan cane he carried was used more as a symbol of office than a scourge.

      
“'e gone?” asked Simpson after a while.

      
Jenkins nodded, and both stopped work. “Aye, for present,” he looked across the deck where two men were working on the larboard forestay.

      
“Them's not at the hounds,” he said, in a tone completely free of malice. “Them's hardly three ahead o' us!”

*****

      
The rating committee consisted of the captain, first lieutenant and sailing master, together with the boatswain, gunner and other heads of department who would appoint the new men to their posts. They sat behind a long table set out on the upper gundeck, with a marine sentry to each side. Dyson, sitting on the captain's right, picked up the rough list sent by the impressment officer when the men were delivered.

      
“No Billy Pitt's men here, sir,” he commented quietly. Shepherd nodded. The recent quota act brought in by Pitt's Tory government had proved a mixed blessing to the Navy. Certainly the chronic shortage of men had been eased, but the introduction of criminals, vagrants and other undesirables was starting to prove a strain on the officers responsible for training them. He placed the list back on the table his face, as always, void of expression. There were other reasons why Dyson was wary of quota men, reasons that he had not discussed with another officer, reasons that he almost dare not contemplate.

      
The quota had already collected its fair share of intellectual criminals; the kind that would have normally avoided the press by claiming the status of gentleman. It only needed a few of these crooked bookkeepers or lawyers' clerks to talk to the men; point out how bad their shipmates' lot really was. With a level of pay, and conditions that had hardly changed since Cromwell, the men were ripe for rebellion. In Dyson's opinion it was only time that kept them from revolting
en masse
. When that dreadful day came it could mean the end of everything, for an outright mutiny would lay England open to invasion, and all because a parsimonious government preferred to force men to serve, rather than entice them with better wages and more reasonable conditions.

      
There were a total of fourteen names on the list; hardly enough to make up for the men who had run in the last few weeks, but it was all they would get. The captain nodded at Dyson, who was to preside over the board.

      
“All right, sergeant, let's have them up.”

      
The men were led into the officers' presence, and stood, bedraggled and in the main part bitter, glaring back at their betters.

      
“At the call of your name you will take one pace forward and give your age and experience,” the sergeant chanted.

      
Dyson looked at the first name on the list.

      
“Richard Kelly.”

      
Kelly stepped forward. “Thirty years old. I'm a tailor, sir, an' I ain't been to sea afore.”

      
“Where do you work, Kelly?” Dyson's voice was quiet and studied.

      
“I've me own business. In Common Lane, Southsea.”

      
“Do you own the property?” A freeholder would be exempt from service, although it would be strange if the impressment officers had not spotted his name on the role.

      
“That I do. I owns it, an' I pays taxes.”

      
It was a bad start, especially as the others would be encouraged to argue if they saw the first man set free.

      
“Beggin' your pardon, sir.” The marine sergeant stepped forward and turned to the prisoner. Placing one hand on the man's jacket, he gave a sharp pull. If Kelly really was a tailor he was a poor judge of cloth, as the sleeve fell away in the marine's hand.

      
“Tattoos, sir.” said the sergeant, pointing to Kelly's arm.

      
He was right, all could plainly see the colourful designs that no normal shopkeeper would dream of sporting.

      
“Those are sailors' tattoos, Kelly,” Dyson said, simply. If it is true that you own your own business, you will have a record we can check. If not, you may well be a deserter, and as such, liable to the penalty for desertion.” Dyson let the words sink deep, noticing how the man raised his head slightly and swallowed.

      
“As it is you can count yourself lucky that we are due to sail shortly.” Better a healthy, able hand than one weakened by the cat. “Make sure you give me no reason to look into your past for as long as you are in this ship. Now, what skills have you?”

      
“Captain of the foretop, sir.” Kelly said, quietly. “In a previous vessel.”

      
“Do you wish to volunteer?”

      
There was a brief pause. “I do, sir.”

      
“Very well,” he looked at Shepherd for confirmation, before continuing. “You'll be rated as a topman, and I will be keeping my eye on you. Read him in, Mr Morrison.”

      
The purser had the ship's muster book open, and pressed his finger at the space for Kelly to make his mark. He would be given a number which he would keep for as long as he served aboard the ship. He would also be allocated a mess, which he could elect to change if he wished. Kelly scribbled on the spot, making himself eligible for any punishment his officers cared to set for him.

      
“Kieran Crehan.” Dyson called the next man, and the Irishman with the head wound stepped forward.

      
“American citizen, sir.” He said in a broad brogue.

      
Dyson looked at him coldly, as a murmur of laughter spread through the men and some of the officers.

      
“You are an American?” he said, with just a hint of incredulity.

      
“That I am, sir.” There was no humour in Crehan's voice as he continued. “Born in Derry, but captured when serving under Admiral Hood, sir. I took the country as me own after the war ended.”

      
It was a reasonable enough explanation, but Dyson had to continue.

      
“What are you doing in England?”

      
“Second mate of
Katharine Frances
, a merchant brig, due out at the end of the week. I came ashore on ship's business. I has papers and a protection and I'd like to have words with the American consul, if you'd be agreeable, sir.”

      
Crehan delved into his jacket pocket and placed something small on the table. Dyson reached out and took it. It was paper, rather than parchment, although the bold heading and emblazoned arms of the Republic appeared impressive.

      
Dyson looked up. “This does not make you an American, why you can purchase these for under five pounds in any pot house, as well you know.”

      
“It has my description there, sir.”

      
“Height under five feet ten, and twenty-four years of age,” Dyson read. “There must be more than eighty men on board this ship who could answer to that.” More to the point, if they gave Crehan a discharge, a far more accurate description would be needed, and that document would become a very real and valuable protection in itself.

      
“You hail from Ireland: you are Irish.” The small muttering that had started amongst the recruits and onlookers ceased as Dyson spoke again. “This country has protected you for most of your life, and is currently at war. What gives you the right to ignore your responsibilities and bargain a separate peace with our enemy?”

      
“I have fought for Great Britain, sir. An' now I've a mind to stand with the Americans. An' I would like to send that message to the consul, sir.”

      
Dyson knew it was important to keep asking questions, while deciding in his own mind what course of action to take. “Why did you not show your papers to the impressment officer?” It was an important point. The regulating captain would have soon spotted a forged protection. For a split second Crehan hesitated, and his eyes lost a little of their intensity.

      
“Knocked me cold, they did, sir. Was out all the time. They might even have called me name, but I wouldn't have known,” he swallowed. “Only came round when they dropped us in the boat to come here.”

      
“Really?” It was the first piece of Crehan's story that rang false. The press were known for their rough tactics, but they were also liable for a charge of murder if any man wrongly arrested subsequently died. The treatment Crehan described did not sound likely, although he had a head wound that appeared fresh. Dyson was on the point of standing him down when Crehan continued.

      
“You can ask any of the men, sir. They know what happened, they'll speak for me.”

      
Dyson looked along the line and naturally picked out Matthew as the youngest.

      
“You there,” he pointed, noticing the way the boy's face blanched two shades of white. “Is what this man says correct?”