His Majesty's Ship (5 page)

      
Matthew opened his mouth to speak but, as often happened, the words would not come. This time it was not just his stammer; he simply did not know what to say.

      
“The child has a stammer, sir.” said Crehan, there was a hint of worry in his voice that was not lost on Dyson. “Ask another man. They'll be tellin' you.”

      
But the first lieutenant's eyes stayed fixed on Matthew. “What is your name?” he asked, quietly.

      
“Matthew Jameson, sir.” It was barely a whisper.

      
“I see that you are down here as a volunteer, Jameson.” Dyson continued, almost kindly.

      
“Yes, sir.” It was no louder.

      
“There is a good future for any volunteer in this ship. A very good future.” His eyes sought out the young man's and locked on. Then, in a tone that was almost hypnotic, he continued. “Now, is what Crehan states the truth?”

      
Again he opened his mouth, but no more.

      
“He's nought but a boy what cannot speak, so he is.” This time the panic was evident in Crehan's voice. “Ask any man, sir. They'll tell you!”

      
“I'm asking Jameson,” Dyson continued. “Does this man speak the truth?”

      
Matthew looked along the line of officers. Men wearing different uniforms, most of which meant nothing to him. Everyone was silent, even the normal noises of the ship seemed to have been suspended as they waited for him to speak. Crehan, in front of him, did not look round, but he knew he would be listening as hard as anyone. He opened his mouth.

      
“Come on, Jameson,” Dyson's voice was soft, and encouraging, and his expression held their eyes together. “Come on, Jameson. Tell me. Tell me the truth.”

      
“No, sir,” said Matthew finally. “No. He's lying.”

CHAPTER THREE

      
HMS
Vigilant
was a third rate line-of-battle ship, the first two grades being reserved for more powerful three-deckers. She was also one of the smallest of her rate, officially carrying only sixty-four guns, rather than the seventy-four more commonly found in ships-of-the-line.

      
Built at the Adams Yard on Bucklers Hard, she was of the Ardent class, sharing the same lines as
Nassau, Agamemnon
and
Indefatigable.
Over forty acres of forest had been cleared to provide the two thousand oak trees needed for her frame; trees that had first seen life during the reign of James II. Her ironwork alone weighed more than one hundred tons, while thirty tons of copper bolts and thirty thousand treenails were used in her construction.

      
She was ordered in 1779 when the first American War was depleting Britain's ships, and launched in 1783 at a cost of forty thousand pounds, not counting her armament or copper sheathing. For several years she had been laid up in ordinary before finally being refitted in November 1792 and commissioned early in the following April.

      
Her optimum complement was six hundred officers, men and marines and she displaced just under fourteen hundred tons. From the height of her main masthead an horizon over thirty miles wide could be swept, and her lower deck battery, although lighter than that of a seventy-four, was made up with the latest Blomefield pattern gun that weighed nearly fifty hundredweight each; guns that could send their twenty-four pound shot over two thousand yards, and still penetrate the hull of another warship.

      
When fully provisioned
Vigilant
could stay at sea for more than three months at a time; longer if fresh water was available. She was the culmination of several hundred years of design and experience, and enclosed in the 160 feet of her hull was everything necessary to conduct a war at sea.

      
On that morning in early May she rode easily at anchor. With the wedding garland only recently lowered, the crew had been detailed to scour the ship free of all memories of the women. Men swept the decks clear of sand and brick dust, before scrubbing them with liberal amounts of vinegar and water. Lower, in the bilges, sulphurous fires were lit in cast iron braziers, the acrid fumes filling the damp ship, and causing most of the crew to choke and retch in a manner considered highly beneficial to their health. Ports were opened on the lower gundeck, and fresh air and light allowed into places where both were relative strangers. The boatswain and the sailmaker supervised the laying out of the sails, having each taken in rotation from their lockers, and hung from the lower yards to air in the spring sunshine.

      
While at anchor the purser had been provisioning the ship under “Peter Warren”, or petty warrant victuals, sending to the shore for fresh meat and vegetables, so as to conserve his precious store of preserved food. Now he pored over his lists, making certain he had just enough of everything to keep the ship at sea, and not an ounce more. Pursers paid a personal bond of up to twelve hundred pounds to assure the value of the goods they requisitioned. It was up to each to see that this was done as economically as possible, as any money outstanding would go straight into their pocket. They could benefit from their position in other ways; by seeing that meat was issued at fourteen ounces to the pound (officially to allow for wastage, of which there was notoriously little), and make a handsome commission from the halfpenny per man, per day, they were allowed for turnery ware. The purser also ran the only shop permitted on board, and gained from the sale of clothing and equipment, as well as small luxuries such as tobacco and raisins. Because of his somewhat capitalistic approach most members of the crew, officers as well as men, treated the purser with caution, suspecting him of the most devilish schemes to rob them of their due, and in the main they were right.

      
The purser was now in front of Matthew who was the last to be rated, and read in.

      
“Listing you as a boy, are they?” the older man said.

      
Matthew nodded.

      
“Speak up!” The marine sergeant was almost finished with the new recruits and had other matters to concern him. “You'll get nothing in this ship for staying quiet!”

      
“Yes, sir.” his stammer must have been noticed by the rating board, although no comment had been made about it.

      
“Make your mark there, laddie,” Morrison continued, indicating a space below a column of smudges, symbols and the occasional signature. “You have the number seven hundred an' sixty-nine, Think ye can be remembering that, do ye?”

      
Matthew nodded, before hurriedly stammering out a confirmation.

      
“Who will ta'e the lad?” The purser looked to his steward, who consulted the watch bill.

      
“Fletcher's mess is light two men, but they already got a boy. What about Flint, he's taken Crehan?”

      
“Aye, Flint will do, send the lad down.”

      
Matthew felt himself pushed away towards the large staircase that led below. The Irishman was directly in front, and as they trooped down into the depths of the ship, he turned to the boy.

      
“Sharing the same mess, so we are,” even in the half light the man's expression was unmistakeably filled with menace. “Now isn't that a wonderful piece o'luck?”
 

*****

      
“Mess subscription's a guinea a week, paid one month in advance.” Carling, the captain of marines, had a neutral face that seldom bore more than the most rudimentary of expressions. It was blank now as he addressed Rogers, although he had already made his mind up about the new officer.

      
“Sounds fair,” said Rogers, reaching into his purse and handing over four gold coins. “What, pray, do we get for our consideration?”

      
“The mess subscribes to additional wine and cheese, plus fresh vegetables and meat when we can get them. We have nine laying hens, a goat, a sheep and two pigs, one about to produce. We also take a copy of the
Naval Gazette
, in addition to a newssheet or paper every day we are in an English harbour.”

      
Rogers nodded, his face equally bland. “No cow?”

      
“No cow.” Carling did not explain that the majority of the officers found it hard to find the guinea a week which was more than half their earnings.

      
“I may wish to purchase a cow,” Rogers said evenly. “Never could stomach the taste of goat's milk.”

      
“That's up to you.” Carling remained impassive, although he was conscious that Rogers had nettled him in some subtle way.

      
“You could procure a cow for me?” The lieutenant continued. “I assume that is within your duties?”

      
Unreasonable anger welled up inside the marine officer. There was an intangible implication in Rogers' tone that triggered feelings of resentment and fury, and it was with effort that he was able to continue the conversation without loosing his temper or striking the man.

      
“I administer the wardroom accounts. If you wish for a cow you should speak to the purser.” His tone was final; he wanted nothing more to do with the man.

      
“I need additional furniture for my cabin.”

      
The screened off area where Rogers had spent the previous night was certainly bare. Apart from a cot, and a twenty-four pounder, there was nothing.

      
“You can arrange that with the carpenter, until then make use of the wardroom store, and share with anyone willing.” He closed the accounts book with a snap, and stood up. Whether Rogers intended it or not, he had a damned unpleasant manner about him, and Carling had no intention of being considered as one of the willing.
 

*****

      
Flint was a young fair haired man with clear, dark blue eyes, and a light but powerful physique. He stood up from the table where the men of his mess had clearly just finished eating, and took a step towards Matthew and Crehan. The other men, seated at forms to either side of the mess table, studied the newcomers critically. A heavy gun behind each form, rigged with the muzzle above the closed port, made a division between each mess, and gave the group a degree of privacy. Flint introduced himself and shook hands with the two new members of the mess. His hand was as hard as any Matthew had shaken, although the grip was gentle, and without threat.

      
“Good to have you, lad.” it was an easy smile, but genuine, and for the first time Matthew began to feel welcome. Flint turned and introduced the other members of the mess. Matthew caught no names. Crehan stood next to him, apparently more interested in his fingernails.

      
“We're detailed for loading work on the afternoon watch. Have you two eaten?”

      
They had not. The sergeant of marines had passed them on to the gunroom, where they had spent the rest of the forenoon watch, apparently forgotten until the surgeon appeared to give each of them a rudimentary prod. Throughout that time Matthew had done all he could to stay away from Crehan, although whenever he glanced in the Irishman's direction, he found himself under supervision.

      
“No w-we...”

      
“The lad's a bit light in t'head,” Crehan burst in. “He has a problem wit' speakin”. Myself I've had nut'ing to eat all day.”

      
Flint looked directly at Crehan, considering him for more than a moment, before turning to the men behind him.

      
“Any of you somethin' over for a messmate?” The others looked slightly shifty, but a couple of pieces of hard cheese and a lump of boiled fresh meat miraculously appeared and were handed over. Flint gave the two newcomers a piece of cheese each. Then, taking out his clasp knife, he placed the meat on the mess table and cut it into two chunks. He gave the slightly larger portion to Matthew, who took it almost reluctantly.

      
“Growing lad,” he turned to Crehan. “Whereas this one could do with losin' a little!” Crehan accepted his meat in ill humour, amid laughter from the other men.

      
“Come on, then, let's get you kitted out.” Matthew, who had bitten hard into the meat, wasn't certain if Flint meant him, especially as Crehan made no attempt to follow. The feeling of helplessness was starting to return when a man with a vivid red pigtail caught his eye and nodded his head in the direction that Flint had taken.

      
He rushed after him, swallowing the meat in one lump while nearly knocking into someone dressed in blue with a stiff hat under one arm, and a pile of papers under the other. The man swore at him; Matthew hurried on, hoping he had not caused too great a breach of discipline. Flint was about to descend a staircase to a lower deck, when he finally caught up.