Infernal Revolutions (13 page)

This magical moment finally occurred when we slipped into a region of blissfully fine weather about four hundred miles south-west of Greenland. I awoke early one morning not with my usual sickness, but with a strange sensation of calmness and wellbeing. Finding my way with remarkable aplomb past my sleeping, swinging comrades (who I normally enfiladed vomit over), I rose up the companionways as light as a bubble, until I entered the square of pure cobalt sky that had been my destination. At first staggering a little beneath the shock of the fresh, cold air, I eventually made my way to the forecastle and settled myself in a snug position alongside a
smasher
, or carronade. There, unnoticed or disregarded by the skeleton crew, I breakfasted on a couple of biscuits and – like Isaac Tetley – simply watched the sea as it rose and fell in slow twenty-foot swells. Now undulating meadows instead of the usual Alpine peaks, it was still frightening enough if you thought about its depth and immensity and mutability, but on this particular morning I was in awe of its majesty, and taken more with its inspirational aspects. ‘Twas a Wonderland, or perhaps a Wondersea, and I fell into a reverie that the rise and fall of the sea was the pulse of God; indeed, so pleasing was this conceit that I indulged myself in it, until I slipped into a religious euphoria no parson or Bible could induce. Quite taken out of myself, I was apparently on the verge of tossing myself overboard when Dick found me and punched my senses back into me. The euphoria, ‘twas later opined by the ship's surgeon, was a sort of non-tropical calenture, brought about by lack of anything pleasurable combined with an excess of anxiety and misery. I never went alone on deck again, or talked to Parson Blood about religion.

Thankfully, the other days were less sublime, being largely spent helping the sailors with their daily tasks. Before breakfast, and depending on the weather, we were usually set to work scrubbing the decks with holystones until our knees were raw, while after breakfast we
worked up junk
, ie. picked shreds off old pieces of tar-covered rope to make oakum, a filthy convict's job that blackened our hands and completely ruined our nails. After dinner at midday we had drill and musket practice, then after supper at five we sat around cleaning and polishing our equipment until our bedtime yawns and yarns. Other duties, foisted upon us at any time just to keep us busy, included the splicing together of parted ropes, the washing of hammocks and bedding, and the hated job of hoisting up barrels of water from the hold, which caused many a man to join Thomas Pomeroy in the Hernia Club. Also, after the calenture scare, ‘twas considered good for my personal recovery to be assigned even more menial tasks, such as emptying the officers' slop buckets. Naturally, the sight of me struggling to the empty gunports laden with appetizing buckets of human dross did nothing to promote my Leader Of Men image, but I endured it – even when the Atlantic wind blew the stuff straight back into my face – by persuading myself that I was playing the Dark Horse, a role prominent in the early lives of all aspiring Heroes.

Not all ordure came my way, however, for the six heads or
seats of ease
at the front of the bows catered for most of the crew's needs. Exposed to the elements, but protected from the bigger waves by safety nets, we would sit and deposit our waste straight into the dizzying sea below. The only trouble was, queues built up, owing to the constipation that was an effect of our oversalted diet. This in turn meant that fights broke out, which in turn meant that when I did go, I tried to do so at the same time as Isaac Tetley, that Samson of the High Seas. Seated next to each other as we mutually strained, we engaged naturally in pleasant conversation, much to the frustration of the waiting toughs. By this means I got to know him very well over the remaining weeks of our voyage, so that I found out, for example, about his family (mother and sister in Westward Ho!, father dead); what his ambitions were (to retire to a remote castle in Scotland, and to live there drinking whisky until his liver burst); what his fears were (catching yellow fever in the tropics, worms); and what he thought of Americans (fine people – open, generous and tough). ‘Twas all most civil and informative, and I felt honoured to have met such a man; there was no doubt that he would end up immortalized in my
Night Thoughts
, albeit undercover of some pretentious Italianate name.

The only problem with having Isaac as a friend was that it put me in an awkward position
vis-à-vis
the Tumbling Monkey Sweepstake. This was a betting pool that had been created by the troops on the day we left Portsmouth Dockyard, on which sailor would be the first to fall to his death from the rigging. I had drawn Isaac without knowing who he was, but now that I did I felt increasingly uncomfortable and ashamed, not to mention fearful of the consequences if he found out about the sweep's existence. Only the thought that gambling was an illegal activity at sea – and therefore not openly talked about – kept me from asking for my stake back.

Needless to say, the sweepstake had been organized by Dick, who had launched into a frenzy of betting activity the moment he stepped on board ship, eager to explore a new world of gambling possibilities. There were bets going on the Death of Captain Dobermann, the Number of Crew Who Would Die of Fever on the Voyage, the Number of Maggots in Biscuits, the Time it Took in Days to Reach New York, and many other subjects. Whilst waiting for these bets to mature, Dick wiled away his spare time at more quickly realized gamings, such as backgammon, crown and anchor, and that
bête noire
of mine, brag. Personally I found all but one of them tedious, and would only join in when evasion was impossible. The exception was the game of Hartley's Paw, which did actually appeal to me. Only playable on fine days when Hartley was supinely asleep on the quarterdeck, this involved the placing of bets on which of his four paws would next spasm and shoot skywards. All the more enjoyable for its infrequency, the game would provide hours of tension and fun, for if Hartley awoke and saw us all gathered around him, he would simply shake himself and settle down in a new spot a few yards away. Only after several rude awakenings would he suspect something was amiss, and then he would growl at us, make his way back to his master's cabin, and scratch on the door for admittance.

And sometimes he would have a long wait, for Pete, after the disaster of the first day, was very much the man about the poop deck as the voyage progressed. Many was the time I peeped over the crusty rim of my slopbucket to see him up there on stage, waving a telescope about as though he knew what he was doing, or chatting familiarly with his superior officers. For some reason all seemed to have forgiven him for his moment of weakness, and I was glad of it for Pete's sake. Not wanting to jeopardize his rehabilitation, I tried to keep my distance from him as much as possible. I was also wary of intimacy in case I let slip some
faux pas
which would result in a promotion-seeking whipping after all. So, on the occasions I was secretly summoned to his cabin to partake of tea and swop Burnley Axelrod anecdotes, I was at such pains to be correct in my behaviour that I was constantly upbraided for being
unnecessarily stiffish
. Still, I stuck to my punctilio, and vowed to keep fraternization to the bare minimum until we were off the ship; then, being away from those who had witnessed his humiliation, I would revert to more relaxed relations with the powdered wonder, and see what could be done in the mutual backscratching department.

Amongst those already relaxed with him, if not actually scratching his back, was Anne Pomeroy. Being a woman, she was spared the indignity of the heads and the buckets and allowed the use of Pete's private jakes, a privilege she took advantage of at all hours. Indeed, had Pete not expressed genuine disgust at this arrangement, I might have begun to believe the incredible rumour that he was in fact swiving her.

‘No, of course ‘tis not true,' he confided to me on one occasion. ‘The very thought of it turns my stomach. But I'll tell you this, Harry…' He leaned in close to whisper to me, ‘…my fellow officers think that it is true, and my reputation has shot up accordingly. Much as I try to disabuse them of the notion, they simply will not believe me; they wilfully misinterpret my protestations of innocence as gentlemanly modesty. As a consequence I am lionized amongst them, and already I have been invited to several parties in New York. In short, I have become a pocket Don Juan, and find myself consulted in all matters of sexual mores. Why, even Captain Dobermann wants to know my secret.'

‘You do not think they are simply making fun of you?'

‘I do not think so, Harry. But even if they are, what does it matter when so many doors are being opened for me? Why, at this rate, even Burnley Axelrod will be hearing of me.' The hallowed name brought a new light into Pete's eyes, and I was plied with more tea. ‘Now, Harry, tell me again, what
exactly
did Burnley say about the brevity of life?'

Puritanical at heart, despite my best endeavours, I was worried about Pete's initiation into the corrupt adult world. I did not like to think he was being made a fool of, and I did not like his hero-worship of Burnley Axelrod, knowing only too well the dangers of it; but what could one do? Warning him would only make him hate me, and I could not antagonize someone who had the power to have me stroked. Equally I was not happy about the defilement of Anne's reputation. From dour wife to Jezebel was a long drop, and it struck me as ironic that in the act of protecting her modesty, she had lost it. Once again, however, worrying was otiose, for after an initial period of embarrassment when the slander became known even amongst the ranks, neither Anne nor her husband seemed unduly perturbed. On the contrary, they appeared to revel in the notoriety, and went around with the smug glow of celebrities. Anne adapted to her role of hardened Jezebel, and continued her use of Pete's lavatory, while Thomas beamed pride at the stories of his wife's infidelity, for it proved that she was desirable after all, and to a young officer to boot. This was good to watch, and it made me envy the solidarity of a marriage that could withstand outside attacks in such a manner. Even Young Pomeroy added his twig to the wattle by hiding in his mother's petticoats, and sticking his tongue out at smirkers.

So, malicious rumours benefiting everyone, the ship of fools sailed on. Aside from the main protagonists, others on the periphery of my mental world passed the time in surprisingly innocent pursuits. Ned Lester and Roger Masson, those archetypal louts, would on calm days indulge in a spot of fishing, taking it in turns to hold each others' legs while one reached a line and baited hook down into the ocean below. The result was often a succulent meal of cod, splendidly cooked by Anne, who, after the allegations about her love life, would garnish it saucily with a squeeze of lemon. Then there was Little Bob, who could be found when off-duty in the company of a young midshipman he had befriended, helping him to study for his exams. Claude Jepson would be off talking to the animals, while Billy Corden, the fifer, would help Anne with the washing, which, in the absence of rainwater, had to be done in buckets of collected urine, giving him a social status little higher than mine. Others in our company with whom I had become friends of a sort, such as Simon Scattergood, Gilbert Gray, and Laurence Taylor, charmingly sang catches together, until told to ‘cease or drown' by the ever-malignant Sergeant Mycock.

Whatever their several hobbies, all came together at meal times, and we would eat on a table lowered between guns specially for the occasion. Normally ‘twas an exercise in stoicism as we nibbled gingerly the putrid pork, the slimy peas, and the leathery cheese; but occasionally, partaking of fresh fish and sitting there in the breeze of an open gun hatch, we really felt ourselves to be very fortunate fellows. As the ship creaked and the shanties played, we would gaze out at the other ships in our convoy, and muse pleasantly on the drama of warfare. All things considered, this was better than being stuck up a chimney, or starving to death on Grub Street, and for a moment I understood Mr Axelrod's passion for the military life. ‘Twas dangerous, and mostly unpleasant, but when the clouds did break, they broke to reveal a brighter life than the unadventurous or unimpressed could know about; and this secret knowledge, surely, would benefit me when serious work restarted on my
Night Thoughts
.

Finally, after about seven weeks at sea, a vaguely familiar smell began to permeate even our nostrils. At first we could not quite place what it was, then Claude Jepson came up with the answer:
pine
. Enquiries of ratings who had made this voyage before revealed that this was the smell of the gigantic forests of America, and its appearance meant that landfall was only about forty leagues away. Awestruck, humbled, I had an unaccountable urge to burst into tears. Instead, I made my way to the forecastle at the first opportunity, and there – while men below strained at the heads – I strained my eyes for sight of land. Nothing could be seen, but there was a most brilliant red sunset in the offing, as though all the colonies were aflame. All aflame myself, I breathed in deeply of the scented air rushing in my face, and thanked God that I was alive. I was still in raptures ten minutes later, when Dick Lickley came to retrieve me.

‘New York in two days, mate, so I'm told. That means Ned Lester will be winner of the Atlantic Crossing Sweepstake. Lucky bastard.'

‘We're all lucky, Dick,' I said, lower lip trembling, the poet in me lanced and bleeding. ‘We're all winners, to be witnessing this.'

‘There, there,' said Dick, putting his arm around my shoulders and escorting me back to the gundeck for my own safety. ‘Not far to go now. Then ‘tis a good bladdering in a New York tavern for you, my boy. That will cure you of your madness, or nothing will.'

Nothing then would. And I was thankful, because my so-called madness had enabled me to glimpse Life As It Should Be Lived. Shaking, a nervous wreck, I blubbed openly for hours, until a pail of seawater was dashed with great vigour into my face.