The King's Marauder (16 page)

Some days were just too boisterous to call the hands to Quarters and cast off the bowsings and lashings, as the winds piped up and veered or backed, and the seas got up, and the decks were soaked with rain. At least it was warm rain. On those days,
Sapphire
’s crew was exercised on muskets and pistols, on cutlasses, boarding axes, and pikes. The ship’s Marines, much better shots, would fire a volley to create a rough point of aim in the sea close alongside, and the sailors would shoot at it before the myriad of shot-splashes would subside.

Discipline was another matter. There were some violations that had to be met with the “cat”. When holding Mast—almost every other day, it seemed—Lewrie tried to deal with the petty stuff by awarding the defaulters with deprivations; no tobacco for a week, no rum for a week, or putting men on only bread and water. Most sailors depended on those little things to make their lives the slightest bit tolerable, and being denied their grog or “chaws” usually raised groans of real pain from the condemned. Fighting, insubordination, showing dis-respect to petty officers and Mids, though,
had
to be punished to drive the point home and make the hands fearful of violating the stern discipline necessary aboard a King’s Ship.

He would start with the awarding of one dozen lashes, with the defaulter bound to an upright hatch cover, shirtless, with a wide leather sash round his middle to protect the man from errant strokes that might hit the kidneys or the buttocks. The Ship’s Surgeon, Snelling, would examine the man to determine if he was fit to suffer punishment. The crew would be assembled to bear witness and take heed from their shipmate’s pain. The Marines would form up to one side in the waist in full-dress kit and under arms. The Sailmaker would have fashioned a red baize draw-string bag, in which a fresh-made cat-o’-nine-tails was hidden. Lewrie would read the crime committed, cite the applicable section of the Articles of War, then ordain the punishment, and tell the Bosun and his Mates to “let the cat out of the bag” to administer that required dozen.

As the days went by, though, Lewrie could note that the names of the hands who’d been lashed did not appear again, except for the hardened few, who would commit the same petty crimes and suffer the ritual once more, with two dozen lashes for a second appearance.

*   *   *

“Thief! Thief! Git ’im!”

Lewrie was reclined in his collapsible deck chair on the poop, reading a novel and regally above it all, when that tumult began. He put the book aside and descended to the quarterdeck.

“What’s acting, Mister Harcourt?” he asked the watch officer.

“No idea, sir,” Harcourt said in his usual laconic, stand-offish manner. “I expect we shall see, shortly.”

Too bad
officers
can’t be flogged,
Lewrie fumed to himself;
I’m gettin’ tired o’ him. He’s skirtin’ damn’ close to the line o’ mute insubordination!

“Aha, sir,” Harcourt said, jutting his chin to the main hatchway as Baggett, the Master At Arms, and his Ship’s Corporals, Packer and Wray, came up from the upper gun deck to the weather deck, wrestling a burly, struggling hand with them. Just behind, a horde of men boiled onto the deck, threatening to beat the man.

“Thief, sir!” Baggett exclaimed as he spotted Lewrie at the front edge of the quarterdeck. “Landsman Clegg!”

Lewrie went down a ladderway to the waist to confront the man.

“Who did he steal from, and what did he steal?” he asked.

“From me, sir … Deavers,” the newest hand in Lewrie’s boat crew spoke up, red in the face with anger. “He took my snuff box!”

“Saw him do it, sir!” Crawley, the demoted Cox’n, accused.

“Saw him
with
it, sor!” Patrick Furfy chimed in.

“Let me see it,” Lewrie demanded, and Baggett fetched it out from a coat pocket. Lewrie was surprised to see a rather fine silver snuff box, ornately engraved, and with a wreathed plain oval on the top which bore the ornate initials JED. “Yours, Deavers?”

“My mother bought it for my father, James Edward Deavers, there on the top, sir,” Deavers explained, still fuming and looking daggers at Clegg. “He was a corn merchant, at Staines, ’til he went smash. It’s all I have of my parents.”

“It’s his for sure, sor,” Liam Desmond spoke up. “He messes with us, sor, and he’s showed us it, once, Deavers did.”

“Furfy, you say you saw Clegg with the snuff box?” Lewrie asked.

“Clegg, sor, he come aft near our mess, an’ knocked Deavers’s sea-bag off th’ peg,” Furfy began to relate.

“Saw him fumble it, and reach inside, sir,” Crawley interrupted.

“Only when spoken to, Crawley,” Baggett warned.

“No, no, it’s allowed, this once, Baggett,” Lewrie said.

“Aye, sir!” Baggett replied. “All piss and gaitors” stiff.

“You saw him take it,” Lewrie demanded of Crawley.

“He hung the sea-bag back up, like it was an accident, sir, but I saw a glint of metal in his hand when he did,” Crawley told him.

“And you then saw him with it, Furfy?” Lewrie pressed.

“Crawley gimme a jerk o’ th’ head, sor, sorta cutty-eyed, so I went forrud t’follow him, an’ I seen th’ snuff box a’bulgin’ in Clegg’s pocket. I cry out, ‘Hoy, what’s ’at ye got in yer pocket ’at ye took from Deavers’s sea-bag’, an’ then cried ‘thief’, sor,” Furfy stated. “’At woke up some o’ t’other lads up forrud, an’ we all took hold o’ him ’til th’ Master At Arms could take him, sor.”

A theft belowdecks was easily done, with half the crew on deek and on watch, and the other half catching up on their sleep. It was Clegg’s mis-fortune that the slop trousers issued by the Purser
had
no pockets, unlike officers’, and were sewn on to customise them at a later date during a “Make And Mend” day; they were usually flat to the original cloth, leaving little room inside in which to cram much. Even the small, rectangular bulk of a snuff box would stand out like a 12-pounder roundshot.

“And, what d’ye have t’say for yourself, Clegg?” Lewrie turned to the suspect.

“I staggered an’ knocked
somebody’s
sea-bag down, sir,” Clegg tried to explain, with a pleasant expression, somewhere between confident and wheedling. “But, I hung it back up an’ went on forrud, an’ nary a thing did I take from it, sir!”

“Then how did Deavers’s snuff box turn up in your trouser pocket?” Lewrie sternly asked.

“Never
woz
in me pocket, sir!” Clegg declared. “First I know, they’s all shoutin’ ‘thief’, jumpin’ me an’ pinnin’ me down, feelin’ me all over, an’
plantin’
it on me! Y’ask me, sir, I say that
Furfy
took it, thort better of it, an’ blamed
me
for it!”

“Crawley, where were you and Furfy when you saw the theft?” Lewrie asked.

“I was sittin’ at my mess table, sir, ’bout three messes forward o’ Deavers’s, larboard side,” Crawley told him, “and Furfy was just comin’ down the main ladderway, aft, nowhere near his own mess.”

“Yer lyin’, Crawley, you an’ t’other Capum’s pet, th’ both o’ ya,” Clegg snapped. “I never done it!”

“Seems pretty-much open and shut, to me,” Lewrie decided with a slow nod. “Clegg, I could hold a formal Mast later today, and we could repeat the testimonies, but … after hearing the evidence and the charge against you, I pronounce you guilty of violating Article the Thirtieth, of Robbery.”

God, I can recite by heart by now!
Lewrie marvelled.

“‘All Robbery committed by any person in the Fleet shall be punished with Death, or otherwise, as a Court-Martial, upon Consideration of Circumstances, shall find meet,’” he recited.

Lewrie stressed “Death”, which made Clegg’s brutal face turn white.

“Since we can’t form a proper Court with only two Post-Captains, I
can’t
hang you, Clegg,” Lewrie told him. “I
could
give you an hundred lashes, but as I noted in the Punishment Book when first I came aboard, you’ve had more than your fair share, already. You are a Quota Man. From gaol, released upon your oath to serve your King. Am I right?”

“Aye, sir,” Clegg said, much subdued, and fearful of what was coming.

“Mister Terrell?” Lewrie called over his shoulder for the Bosun, sure that the ado would have drawn that worthy nearby.

“Aye, sir?” Terrell piped up in a gruff voice, with a touch of “hopeful” that his strong arm would soon be needed to administer the cat; perhaps the punishment would involve all his Mates, too, with each delivering a dozen by rotation.

“Pipe ‘All Hands On Deck’ to witness punishment,” Lewrie bade. “Mister Hillhouse?”

“Aye, sir?” the eldest Midshipman answered up.

“Fetch yourself a cutlass!” Lewrie barked.

“Aye aye, sir!”

Lewrie returned to the forward break of the quarterdeck, clapped his hands in the small of his back, and put his stern face on as the off-watch hands came up from below. Marine First Lieutenant John Keane turned up, as did Westcott and the Third Officer, Edward Elmes.

“Mister Keane, I’d admire did you have your drummer take place atop the main hatch cover,” Lewrie requested. “We are about to punish a defaulter for theft. Mister Westcott? Form the off-watch men in a gantlet, about four planks apart, facing in, right round the waist, and up atop the forecastle if you have to, to give everyone a clear shot, and room t’swing a fist.”

“Aye, sir, directly,” Westcott said, sounding eager.

“All hands, off hats and hark the Captain!” Lt. Harcourt called out. “Off hats and face aft!”

In an equally loud voice, Lewrie explained the crime, the brief court, and his sentence of guilty. Then, “Sapphires! Landsman Clegg is a thief, caught red-handed. There is nothing more repugnant to a ship’s company than a thief. Some of you have served other ships before, and know what it is to be shipmates. Some of you new to the Navy and this ship have learned what it is to count on your shipmates, in good times, in storms and perils. But, a thief is only thinking of himself, not his mates, nor his ship. So, instead of Landsman Clegg being triced up to get five dozen lashes, I am going to leave it to you. We will form a gantlet, and he will walk through it, with a cutlass at his chest to make sure he goes slow. You may only use your fists, no loggerheads, rope-ends, or belaying pins. Are you ready, Mister Hillhouse?”

“Ready, sir!” Midshipman Hillhouse reported with a gladsome growl of anticipation.

I suspected he’d really relish it!
Lewrie thought.

“Twice around!” Lewrie shouted. “Begin!”

Sailors never had much in the way of possessions beyond issued necessities, and usually had no money with which to purchase better things. The simplest items, a pair of good shoe buckles, a fancier clasp knife and sheath, a locket with a picture of a parent or loved one, a ring from someone dear to them, was even dearer to them than solid coin. They
would
not tolerate a thief.

The drummer began a long roll, and the Master At Arms shoved Clegg forward, while Midshipman Hillhouse paced backwards at a very slow walk, with the point of his cutlass an inch or so from Clegg’s chest. Up the starboard side their felon went, pummelled and smashed from both sides of the gantlet with hard fists, and shouted curses, cringing and stumbling. There was a brief respite when Clegg was forced up the starboard ladderway to the forecastle, but as soon as his feet were on that deck, the beating began again, cross the deck, down the larboard ladderway, and down the larboard side to the break of the quarterdeck, and round once more. By the time Clegg fell to the deck face-down, he was a bloody, bruised bulk of raw meat.

“See to him, Mister Snelling,” Lewrie called to the Surgeon, who had stood to one corner, appalled, throughout the punishment. “Dismiss the off-watch hands, Mister Harcourt.”

“Aye, sir,” the Second Officer replied, sounding more natural, almost whimsical, for once.

Lewrie went back to the poop deck and fetched his book, then came back down and went into his cabins.

“Cool tea, Pettus,” he ordered, going to sprawl on the starboard-side settee to continue reading.

“Aye, sir, right away,” Pettus said. “Ehm … that was quite a lesson, if I may say so, sir.”

“You may, and I hope it was,” Lewrie agreed, propping a foot on the brass tray-table.

“By the time Clegg’s back to full duties,” Pettus went on, “I’d expect he’ll be saying ‘pretty please’ and ‘thank you’ before he dares reach for the mustard pot in his mess.”

“If they’ll have him, at all, Pettus,” Lewrie said, grinning briefly, and quite satisfied with his decision.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The convoy attained the 15th Longitude a few days later, then hauled their wind to steer Due South, with the transports managing to perform a passable semblance of Alter Course In Succession, by then. The prevalent Westerlies in the Bay of Biscay came upon them on their starboard beams, shifting only a point or so from day to day, blowing in varying strength. A beam reach was an easy point of sail, which HMS
Sapphire
seemed to enjoy, with her decks canted over only a few degrees, gently rolling to the scend of the sea.

It was time for more live-fire exercises, this time with a target. The gun crews were able to run in, load, run out, and discharge their guns right smartly, by then, with even the hands on the lower gun deck managing to get off three rounds every two minutes with the massively heavy 24-pounders.

Two cables of tow-line were spliced together, and an empty water cask was sacrificed, and painted white. Crawley, the former captain’s Cox’n, chose his men, and manned the pinnace under sail, going out a full cable’s distance from the ship’s larboard beam, the full 240 yards, to stream the target cask astern.

“Fingers crossed, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie hopefully said.

“And one’s tongue on the proper side of one’s mouth, too, sir,” Westcott said with a laugh.

“Haven’t heard o’ that’un,” Lewrie confessed.

“Oh, I hear it’s all the go at Woolwich, these days, sir,” Westcott japed, referring to the Royal Arsenal and artillery school.

“Carry on, then, Mister Westcott, and remind ’em t’aim
damned
careful,” Lewrie ordered.