Where The Flag Floats (4 page)

It was Sunday. I knew it was Sunday because I could hear the men singing a hymn called “Abide with me” and had reason to remember this later. I had not been taken to the service and I wondered if they had forgotten about me. I also needed to pee – badly.

Two bells after the singing stopped, the door was unlocked and a seaman I had not seen before stood in the doorway.

“The cook’s boy has gone and cut off his fingers and is in the sick berth. You’re to take his place.”

I uncurled from my spot on the floor. “Please, sir, I need to pee.”

The man laughed so loudly that the lantern he was holding shook.

“Me – a sir? Well, I never. Come on, boy. On yer feet and off to the heads.”

“The heads?” I said as I levered myself to my feet.

“In the bow, front of the boat, and just make sure you aim downwind.”

Once more the salty breeze greeted me as I stood on the deck. The men were all involved in tasks but some watched as I walked past, or more accurately staggered past, my legs still not accustomed to the roll of the ship. I copied the wide-legged stance of the seaman in front of me but I was easily knocked off my feet when the ship lurched.

The seaman led me to the very front of the ship, along the small deck where the marine had stood guard and onto the wooden pole that stuck out in front of the ship. Then I understood why the seaman had warned me to aim downwind as I hooked my arm around a rope on the leeward side and tried not to look at the rushing water beneath me as I emptied my bladder.

“Right, lad, this way to the galley amidships.”

I didn’t know what he meant by amidships but followed him towards the middle of the ship and down a hatchway, then forward to a cabin filled with a large coal range and another crewman.

“Here’s yer helping hand, George,” the seaman said as he pushed me inside.

“You can start on the tatties,” the cook said, indicating a pile of potatoes in a wooden bucket. “You put them in the pot when you’re done.” There was a big black pot on the stove. It was stifling hot in the galley even though a cool wind blew through the open hatch above us.

I braced myself against the fiddles of the worktop, took up the small knife the cook handed to me and began to peel.

It wasn’t easy work, not after the first dozen or so. My hands cramped, my back stiffened and I became dizzy while my stomach churned. I couldn’t rest for every time I tried to do so, the cook lifted whatever implement he had in his hand and threatened me with it. After that there were pots to wash, jugs to fill, buckets to carry, and slops to be fed to the pigs. At midday, I carried the food to the mess tables where the sailors waited. By this time, I realised I was no longer feeling sick but extremely hungry.

“They’ve put the landlubber to work,” one of the men called as I walked in.

“Leave him be, Henry.” It was the boy who had held me upright the previous day.

“Was a time we dropped stowaways over the side,” said another.

“Well, that was all right in your day, Pat, but we’re more civilised than that now.” It was the boy who spoke again.

“Civilised, John?” said Pat. “You try telling that to Private Gardner.” The man glared at me.

“Some would say he got what he deserved,” one man growled. “This is a naval ship and one commanded by the commodore of the Australian states. It’s right that it should be defended as such.”

I left quickly and returned with a pail of food for the mess tables on the other side of the ship. At one of the tables I was relieved to see Fred.

“They didn’t bring you back yesterday,” I said.

“Yes, no use keeping me confined when we’re out at sea. I’ve got nowhere to go, unless I want to drown. Anyway, I’ve given my word I won’t jump overboard.”

“I thought …”

“Thought what?”

“That they’d punished you too.”

“No, lad, not until I reach my own ship – the
Harrier
.”

I heard a roar from the direction of the galley and decided I would be better being there than chatting to the men. As I left I heard Fred return to talking to his messmates and wished that I could be like him, accustomed to the ship and enjoying the camaraderie of the marines.

A sharp blow to the ear as I entered the galley reminded me I was an intruder on this ship, and an unwelcome one at that.

3 February

I was roused early the next morning before the sun was up. With the cook’s boy in the sick berth, I had taken his hammock above the mess tables forward of the mast. The hammocks lay parallel to the sides of the ship and therefore swung back and forth as the waves buffeted the ship, so close together that the sleeping men bumped against each other. It had been difficult to sleep in this swinging, bumping bed and the sounds of the men moving around the ship at night kept me awake until late. The sounding of the ships bell had disturbed me too, so when I fell out of the hammock onto the wooden deck, I was bleary-eyed and disorientated.

“Come on, lad, you’ve been idling enough,” said Joe as he prodded me with his toe. I learnt that those who were not on the watches, like the ship’s cook, were called “the idlers” because they got to sleep through the night whereas the seamen, on rotating watches, did not get more than four hours sleep at a time. “It’s the start of the morning watch and time you got into the galley.”

The cook had told me that my first job in the morning was to stoke up the fire and feed it with wood to get it going again after it had been dampened down overnight. I set to work and had the fire going before he came in.

“Right, lad,” he said as he came in. “First thing is to brew coffee for the commodore.”

I boiled the water for the coffee and then carried the dixie to the commodore’s cabin. This was my chance, I thought, to get the watch back but, while the cabin door was open, the sentry stood outside and he blocked my way as I walked forward.

“Where are you going?” the sentry asked.

“To take the commodore his coffee.”

“Take it to the steward.”

A man appeared by my side, dressed in a uniform. He took the dixie from me, carrying it to a cabin to my right where there was a sideboard and a tray with a coffee jug and cups. He poured the coffee from the dixie into the jug and then handed me back the empty pail. As I left, I glanced over my shoulder into the open cabin and could see the desk in which my watch was kept. I knew I could not get past the sentry. Disappointed, I made my way back to the galley.

After breakfast I had to clean out the pots and start again for the main meal at midday. I saw Fred when I delivered the midday meal. The men were divided into two watches, a starboard watch and a larboard watch and they alternated on deck. Fred was in the larboard watch.

“The food’s good on this ship,” Fred said as I placed the mess pail on the table.

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, it’s fresh, not like on a long voyage when all you get is salt meat and hard tack. It’s because we’re on a short hop to New Zealand, you see, and don’t have the inconveniences of a long voyage. Are you getting your fill?”

I nodded. While I still had to get used to the taste of the ship’s food, there was plenty of it and I could have as much as I liked. My appetite had returned and I took advantage of the free fodder.

“Good, maybe you’ll start to put some flesh on those bones of yours.”

But I had other concerns besides eating. “Fred,” I whispered to him. “I need to get into the captain’s cabin to get the watch back.”

Fred looked at me, startled. “You’ll not get into the commodore’s cabin, not unless you’re ordered. It’s mutiny otherwise and for that you’ll be flogged … or hanged.”

The cook’s shout pulled me away from the table and I returned to the galley, despondent. It would not be easy to get into the commodore’s cabin and I could not rely on Fred’s help.

The evening meal was served a mere four hours later but was a lighter one and did not require as much preparation as the midday meal. Even so, it was well after seven o’clock before I put away the last scoured pot, fed the slops to the pigs in the sty and dried my cracked and bleeding hands. Wearily, I climbed the gangway to the deck and the cool evening air. It was halfway through the second dog watch and the starboard watch was at leisure. Some had gathered towards the bow and I hesitantly made my way towards them.

“Here’s the lubber,” said Pat.

“Leave him be, mate, can’t you see he’s fair worn out?” It was the boy again. “Come here, lad, let’s see your hands.”

“Those are landlubber’s hands, John,” said Pat. “Not yet toughened up.”

“Goose fat will see those hands right; I’ve got some in my kit. Wait here.”

John disappeared down the hatch and returned a few minutes later with a pot that he opened and held out to me. I took some and worked the greasy substance into my hands. It stung at first and then soothed the cracks in the skin at the knuckles and tips.

I sat down on the deck and leant back against a gun. The sun was just setting but there was enough light to see the masts and rigging above me. John, having returned the pot back down below, sat down next to me and said, “You have a funny way of joining the British Navy.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

John laughed. “That’s what we all say.”

I watched as Fred climbed the ropes in a lattice framework at the side of one of the masts and swung onto the platform at the top. His movements were fast and precise, yet I could not imagine myself going that high while the ship rolled and swayed beneath me.

“I hope they don’t send me up the mast,” I said.

“No, not a little one like you; besides, you’ll never get up the shrouds.”

“The shrouds?” I repeated, thinking of the sheet in which they wrapped the dead. My mother’s shroud had been her blanket.

“Yes, the netting at the side of the masts,” Pat said. “And them’s sheets,” he said, pointing at ropes close by that ran through pulleys.

“That’s a rope,” I said.

John laughed again. “The only thing called a rope on a ship is one that’s not attached to something.”

“What about them?” I asked, indicating the many lines of rope that spread from each mast to the deck.

“That’s the standing rigging, the fore and aft lines are called stays, because they make the masts stay in place.”

“He don’t know much about boats, do he, John?” one of the men shouted out.

“Take no notice, Sam,” said John. “Here, I’ll give you a quick lesson, just so’s you know where everything is and don’t end up being where you shouldn’t.”

He pointed to the front of the ship.

“That’s the bow and the stick that pokes out from it is called the bowsprit. The mast at the front is called the foremast. The one in the middle is the mainmast and the one at the stern is the mizzenmast. This is the forecastle and it’s the domain of the seamen, and officers don’t come here unless they have to. The side we’re sitting on is the starboard side, or right side to you landlubbers, and the other is the larboard, or left.”

John pointed towards the back of the boat.

“Now the quarterdeck at the stern there is the domain of the officers, see, and you don’t want to go back there unless you’ve been ordered to. No further than the wheel.” I glanced down the deck towards where a man was at the helm, his hands firmly on the spokes of the wheel.

“Why are there two wheels?” I asked.

“You need two or even three helmsmen on the wheel in rough weather. A following sea can soon turn a rudder and then you’ll be broadside to the wave. Two men on each wheel should keep the rudder in place, although I’ve been in seas that have thrown men from the wheel, even the strongest.”

“Who is the officer behind the helmsmen?”

“That’s the quartermaster. He makes sure the ship is taking the right course and he takes his orders from the lieutenant on duty. Your mate Fred used to be a quartermaster on the
Harrier
.”

I wondered why Fred had deserted if he had such an important position. Now he was just another crewman.

“What’s that bridge called over the deck?” I asked, pointing to the metal framework that ran from one side to the other.

John smiled and said, “Funny enough, that
is
called the bridge and that’s where the senior officers go. Now
you
don’t go up there at all – don’t even try because the commodore will have you flogged for it.”

“He ain’t afraid of doing that,” I said.

“No, he keeps a tight ship and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

“I think I already have.”

John nodded. “Aye, I don’t think a stowaway was on his manifest.”

4 February 1863

When I delivered the coffee to the commodore’s cabin the following morning, the steward was not there, and neither was the sentry. The door of the commodore’s cabin was closed but when I tried the handle, it opened inwards so, looking over my shoulder, I left the dixie in the steward’s cabin and crept into the commodore’s. There was no one in the cabin so I closed the door softly and crept forward. I could not believe this would be so easy.

I stood still for a moment, listening, but I could hear no voices. I made my way around the desk and slowly opened the drawer. The watch lay there on top of some papers and I reached for it.

Just then the main cabin door opened and the commodore walked in, closely followed by the sentry.

“What are you doing?” the commodore demanded while the sentry moved forward to grab my arms and drag me away from the desk.

“I … I … want my watch.”

“Do you not realise that being in here without my knowledge or permission is a mutinous offence?”

Tears sprung up in my eyes. “I only want my father’s watch. I must take it to my aunt.”

“The watch is still to be proven to belong to you and I have yet to believe any of your stories.”

“But …” I started to say but the commodore slapped my face and cut off my words.

“You may only answer when I command you.” The watch dangled from his fingers, so tantalizingly close. “I thought this was just a trinket, of little value, but I obviously thought wrong and it should be locked away from thieves such as yourself.”

He produced a key from his pocket, opened a locker with it, put the watch inside and locked it.

“That should keep it away from your light fingers. I will not have ill-disciplined stowaways on my ship. You must learn your place, boy.” He looked at the marine holding me. “Take him on deck, Private Heard, and form a punishment party.”

I thought of the red blood that had seeped from Private Gardner’s wounds and struggled against the sentry as he pulled me towards the door, through it and past the steward who stood in the companionway with a look of surprise on his face.

Word must have spread quickly, for, as soon as I was topsides, the men on watch had assembled and lined up on the deck. Fred was amongst them and I stared at him, silently appealing to him but he lowered his eyes and would not look at me. John, too, kept his head averted and I knew then that I had no friends in the crew.

I hardly listened as the charge was made, the words snatched away by the wind, and no one stepped forward to speak up for me. I was pronounced guilty. They did not bother with the grating but ripped off the remains of my tattered shirt and laid me over one of the guns like I was embracing it with my hands tied underneath so I could not move.

“A dozen lashes,” the commodore announced and I stiffened. Private Gardner had also received twelve lashes and I remembered how his back had bled. I was still little more than skin and bone; how was I to survive?

I looked over my shoulder as the bosun drew out the lash.

“It’s the pussy for you,” he hissed into my ear. “Not the cat.”

The lash had only five strands and no knots in it, and yet I knew that this would sting and, at the end of twelve lashes, would draw blood.

The drum started to beat while I tensed for the first blow. I heard it before I felt it – a swish through the air a second before the leather thongs sliced across my back. It did not sting at first but, as he lifted the lashes away and the air blew across the welts, the skin smarted.

“One,” the bosun counted.

I could not believe that I would have another eleven to endure. After another five, tears had welled in my eyes and my back felt like it was on fire. I gasped as a bucket of salt water was thrown over my back.

“Change,” a voice ordered.

I wondered what that meant and risked a peek over my shoulder. The bosun had changed sides and was now on my right. As I watched he handed over the lash to another man: Private Gardner, who smiled as he took the handle in his left hand. I had not realised that the marine was left-handed and I groaned and looked away, determined not to see the look of satisfaction in the man’s eyes.

The private made sure that I felt every single one of the remaining six lashes.