His Majesty's Ship (8 page)

      
“Sir?” King was still thinking about the promotion, but sensed that a reaction was called for.

      
The captain's smile grew more thoughtful. “I have the power to promote and disrate; certainly as far as acting ranks are concerned.”

      
King was not sure what was coming next, and for a moment placed his excitement on hold.

      
“Let me just say that many men have been passed as commissioned officers who do not deserve the privilege. By giving you an acting rank I am protecting the service as much as anything else. Should you prove to be a competent officer,” he paused for a warmer smile. “As I think you will, I shall have no hesitation in putting you forward for promotion at the next round.”

      
“Thank you, sir.”

      
“But if you in any way displease me, if I detect any of the practices that I personally find deplorable in a King's officer, I will not only send you back to the midshipman’s' berth, but also see to it that you never get so much as a glimpse of a promotion board for as long as you remain in this ship.”

      
King swallowed again, he understood exactly what the captain meant in fact, viewing the matter dispassionately, he agreed with his sentiments wholeheartedly. A simple “Yes, sir” voiced all he could on the subject.

      
“I have one more thing to add,” King was ready. “There are many points that impress boards, but none more so than book work.” It was King's turn to smile now, and he did so. The captain had often had cause to comment on his weekly journals.
 

      
“Obviously as acting lieutenant you will be the junior, and I don't think I need spell out the important duties attached to that post?”

      
Indeed he did not. King would be in charge of the ship's signals. It would mean learning the code book, and all the intricate ways the Navy used to send messages. A daunting task, especially for one who found reading arduous. Still, it was promotion; there were only four commissioned ranks in the Royal Navy, and he was well on the way to the first.

      
Shepherd dismissed King, and watched as he turned and walked from his cabin. The expression on the young man's face had been obvious, even in the half light. He thought back on the conversation; what he had said was completely true, Shepherd was impressed by King, and honestly expected him to progress. With a modicum of luck the next board would see him a lieutenant. He could even envisage a time, not so very far away, when King made commander, or even post captain. What he did not know, indeed, what he would never have guessed, was that at that moment and for many more to come, King would have gladly died for his captain.
 

*****

      
At anchor the normal watch system was slightly modified, and by nightfall most of the hands were in their hammocks. Matthew felt at rest for the first time since he had met up with the warrant officer the day before. The thought naturally followed that just four days ago he was at home, and he quickly found something else to set his mind on. His hammock moved slightly as a man climbed in or out of his own, sending a jolt through the entire line. He himself had ventured out a few minutes before, struggling with his newly acquired skill for a much needed visit forward and returning to his own berth, miraculously without losing his way. The deck had appeared strange with all hammocks down, the closest he had come was when he had been caving as a child, and chanced upon a line of bats at rest. He remembered the time, and the smell of the tainted, airless cave. The stench on the deck was not dissimilar, except the cave had been cold and wet. The deck was warm with the combined heat of many hundred bodies, although there was still a rich dampness in the air. His berth was on the lower gundeck, close to the other members of his mess, and the guns they would serve. There was little ventilation, but at least the ports would be opened occasionally, better than being below on the orlop, which must be truly stifling.

      
A few snores started, and somebody coughed. Then came the unmistakeable rumbling of a groan. He froze. The noise gathered in intensity, until he realised he was listening to not one, but many hushed voices in unison. Slowly a semblance of form appeared and the moaning grew into a song, sung deep and low. He recognised the tune as
“Admiral Hosier's Ghost”
, one of the many that Jake had taught the kids of Leatherhead. But that had been a spirited, majestic affair; this was more like a dirge. It grew louder still, until he knew that men on either side of him were singing; there could not be a sleeping soul on the deck. Jake had regaled them with stories of jolly parties, hornpipes and music, and the comradeship of fellow sailors. Never had he mentioned the monotonous roar of penned up men; men separated from their loved ones for heaven knew how long, men tied to a service that spoke highly of adventure and wealth, while it callously killed, maimed and maddened.

      
From his cabin on the orlop the master at arms heard the singing and decided a prowl was in order. Setting his hat straight on his bullet head, Critchley worked his way to the lower gundeck as the song continued. He sniffed; there was a slight whiff of “sailor's joy”, the illicit spirit that was his constant enemy. Men had died from the lunacy it induced, or had been invalided out, blind and stupid. He knew from the amount in the air that there was not enough about to cause real damage, however; and with the wives only just departed and the ship due to sail on the morrow, he could hardly blame them for seeking some comfort in drink.

      
The singing carried on, seemingly without break or repetition. He could order it to stop, indeed he would have to if an officer heard, or thought fit to complain. Critchley passed on, the song gently eating into his subconscious, bringing back times when he had been younger. Times when he too had been a normal hand, and frightened. Times that he only remembered in circumstances such as this, so ingrained in his job had he become.

      
As a younger man he had married, indeed had sired a child and might be a husband and father still, for all he knew. The last time he had seen his family was some thirty years back. Since then the service had taken him as its own; given him food and shelter and his life a meaning. He was proud of his position, and proud of the life he led, although he would only admit both to himself. And he was glad to be at sea, rather than scratching out a living for children who didn't care and a wife who did, but only for other men.

      
He had no illusions on the last point; Critchley had heard too many stories of sailors' wives to have any respect for women. His own wife had been starting to show signs, which was probably one of the reasons he allowed himself to be sucked back into the Navy. Then there was the behaviour of the men the last few weeks; strong men, who he'd seen flogged without muttering a word, crying like babies because some woman or other had gone off with another man; a man who on his own was probably worth all the females in Christendom (if there were any, which Critchley firmly doubted).

      
The bell rang three times, and from every sentry post came the call “All’s well.” Critchley completed his circuit. “All's well.” As senior hand, his cabin was a large as any warrant officer's, and he held the respect of every man on board. After a year or two he could expect to move from this to a proper line-of-battle ship, maybe a first rate, where the decks would always be white, and all the brassware shone like gold. And when it had to end (as Critchley was starting to see, would be the case one day), there should be an honourable retirement with, if not exactly riches, at least a comfortable time ashore, and he might even be in line for a berth at Greenwich if it all got too much.

      
“All's well.” He considered the matter for a moment as he blew out the purser's dip that was another privilege of his rank, and soberly decided that they were probably right.

CHAPTER FIVE

      
Matthew awoke to the shrill sounds of a whistle, followed by a hearty roar. “Whe-e-ugh all hands on deck ho-o-y; do you hear the news there below?” His eyes opened wide as his body slowly came to life. “Come jump up every man, every one, every mother's son of you!”

      
The voice was getting nearer, but so far Matthew was certain no one else had moved. His head ached, and he had the odd taste in his mouth he had experienced the morning before.

      
“All right, you've had your lie in!” Another voice this time, closer and with more force. Matthew felt the man next to him stir, and waited while he clambered down to the deck. “Out or down, out or down!” A whack cut into Matthew's hammock at about the small of his back, the blow was cushioned by the mattress, but the shock was still sufficient to start him out and on to the deck below. He stood for a moment, a faint wave of dizziness sweeping over him. All about men were climbing from their hammocks, coughing and yawning. A man in a dark uniform with a stiff hat was passing quickly amongst them, a length of knotted rope in his hand.

      
“Out or down, out or down, I say!” he swung the rope's end to and fro indiscriminately, hitting men in their hammocks or as they staggered to their feet. By now only one hammock was still occupied, and the man with the rope approached it with a look close to relish on his face.

      
“A sharp knife, a clear conscience, and out or down is the word!” he whipped out his own knife and slashed through the clews at the head of the hammock. The man inside dropped to the deck like a stone, landing painfully on his head and shoulders with an impressive thud. Matthew watched in horror as the body rolled over, and then realised it was Jenkins, the one who had laughed so much at his own efforts the night before. It was his turn to be laughed at now, something which the other members of his mess took full advantage of, as Jenkins rose gingerly to his feet, one hand rubbing his skull.

      
“Come on, lad, we're for the quarterdeck first thing.” Flint pushed him gently towards the companionway and Matthew obediently began to walk, feeling vaguely guilty about leaving his hammock still hanging with all the others.

      
On deck it was dark, although the cold fresh sea air was welcome. Flint led his mess forward to where a pile of large flat stones had been left.

      
“You right, lad?” Flint enquired, as he collected a stone for himself and one for Matthew.

      
“Yes, I...” The pain in his head was suddenly quite acute. It had been the same yesterday, and he wondered if he was sickening from something.

      
Flint glanced at him. “Tell me.”

      
“My head hurts,” Matthew stammered, feeling foolish as Flint's look of concern changed to a grin.

      
“Bad case of fat head, by all likes. It's nowt to worry over.”

      
“Aye, It'll go with the fresh air,” Jenkins, who was more than entitled to a headache, assured him. “'s what comes of sleeping with two full watches below. Told you, 'taint half so bad at proper sea quarters.”

      
The men had formed up into a line, facing the cabins that marked the stern end of the quarterdeck. One of them sprinkled handfuls of white sand onto the deck, and another followed him, splashing sea water. Flint began by pressing his stone into the sand, and rubbing it backwards and forwards along the deck strakes in an odd polishing motion.

      
“We're gonna smooth the decks.” Flint muttered. “So as we don't catch no splinters when we gets about.”

      
Matthew had heard of this daily ritual from Jake, although the old man had said nothing about starting off in the middle of the night. The sand was fine but sharp, and Matthew found his stone hard to shift at first. With a little more effort it began to move, and soon he was stretching forward and back with the rest of them.

      
“These 'ere are holystones,” Flint informed him. “Past twenty years the Navy's been takin' 'em from an old church on Wight.”

      
“Aye, an' bloody great bibles, they are too.” Jenkins added.

      
“All right, lads, turn about.” Flint stood up and inspected their work. Though wet, the scrubbed area of deck appeared white and smooth in the half light. The men turned so that their backs were to the cabins, before kneeling down and beginning again. This time they were resting on the area they had just scrubbed, and the deck was moist and gritty with sand. Matthew felt the damp though his trouser knees, although that was soon forgotten as his belly and back muscles began to object to the punishment.

      
“Get's better, after a while.” Flint muttered. “Do this for a couple of weeks, and ya won't know yerself.”

      
“That's if somtin’ else don't kill yer firs,” Crehan added some way down the line.

      
Matthew determinedly turned his mind from the Irishman's threat, although at that moment endless mornings of this particular exercise seemed a bleak enough future.

      
“It's just talk, lad.” The man on his immediate left was also Irish, although he spoke softly and without Crehan's unpleasant nasal twang. “An' as for the stoning, you'll not be seeing a proper sailorman with a belly now, would you?”