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Chapter 4

The Miranda Goes to Sea

The Miranda stayed in Portsmouth for six more days. Having not put my feet on dry land for weeks, I longed to walk out of the ship on to the harbour, and then just keep walking, past the sentries, past the dockyard, past the confines of the town and all the way back home. But the more I became familiar with the ship and her routines, the more I understood I had no more chance of escaping than walking on the moon. I had not completely given up though. I reasoned that the best opportunity to escape would come when the ship sailed away from harbour – especially if I was asked to let down the sails.

We put to sea one early September morning. As I’d hoped, I was ordered up the rigging to set the mizzen topgallant. Ben stood next to me on the foot rope, ready to let fall the canvas. There at the top of the mast I was filled with a gnawing anxiety – both for what I hoped to do, and for what would happen if I did not succeed. I looked over to the town of Gosport on the far side of the harbour. A good, strong swimmer should be able to make that shore, if the current didn’t defeat him. I had never swum such a distance before, but I felt it worth the risk. Then I looked down the mast. The deck seemed an almighty distance, the water even further. Could I survive a jump into the water?

The alternative – staying on the Miranda – made the risk worthwhile. I had to choose my moment carefully. A leap powerful enough to clear the rail and then I’d strike out for that far shore.

All around, in sharp autumn sunshine, were Navy ships. The city stretched out, chimneys smoking, spires pointing, streets bustling. In the distance, the trees in the woods outside the city were taking on a golden hue.

My thoughts were interrupted by Lieutenant Middlewych, shouting through his speaking trumpet. ‘Trace out, let fall!’ Down dropped the sails and the ship began at once to move away from the quay. This was it. My final chance to escape.

The bosun’s whistle blew, the signal for those in the rigging to return to the deck. Instead, I began to edge out along the starboard yard, intending to get to the tip, where I would have the best chance of jumping clear. Ben knew at once what I was doing, and grabbed my arm.

‘Sam,’ he hissed, ‘don’t be stupid. They’ll shoot you in the water.’

I pulled away, determined to go. But Ben would not let me. His grip tightened and he looked me in the eye and said calmly, ‘If they have to send a boat out to get you, you’ll be lucky if you only get flogged. Desertion is a hanging offence. Don’t do it, Sam. You’re throwing away your life.’

Then a bosun’s mate shouted up from the deck. ‘You men in the mizzen topgallant. Down at once!’

My determination to go ebbed away. What had I got myself into? We scuttled down, I with my heart in my mouth wondering what punishment I would face with my mad plan to escape.

Lieutenant Middlewych was waiting. ‘Lovett, what on earth was going on up there?’

Ben was supremely confident. ‘Lad lost his nerve, sir. He’s not very good in the rigging.’

Middlewych was unimpressed. ‘He looked good enough to me on that merchantman the other day.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to being so high up. I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘Make sure it doesn’t, lad,’ he said.

Out of earshot of the Lieutenant, Ben was livid. ‘Never, EVER, pull that trick on me again. If Middlewych had chosen not to believe me, we’d have both been flogged.’

Throughout the morning we sailed against the wind. It was past eleven o’clock before we were away from the city, heading down to the Solent. It took another day before we left the coast behind at Portland Bill. Mandeville called his crew together and informed us that we were to patrol the Bay of Biscay and Spanish coast, then stop off at Gibraltar to resupply. Our quarry would be any French or Spanish ship that crossed our path.

I took a long look at the distant cliffs, and wondered if this would be the last I’d see of England. In the other direction, where we were heading, lay a vast expanse of open sea. One side, safety. The other, danger. What would I give now, to trade this life for the humble chores of my uncle’s shop?

Away from harbour, the Miranda’s daily routine changed considerably. Depending on the watch we took, on some nights we had only four hours’ sleep. There were breaks in the afternoon or evening, when it was possible to catnap, but the ship was hardly filled with cosy sofas and armchairs. I was tormented by this constant lack of sleep, especially on the long dreary night watches either side of four a.m. While other sailors dreamed of fine food or women, I longed for a fresh warm bed, and the freedom to stay in it until the weariness had left my bones.

In some ways life aboard the Miranda was similar to that in the Franklyn, with its daily round of cleaning, mending and tending. But learning to live with so many people in such a small space was no pleasure at all. At night we bedded down in the mess deck, shoulder to shoulder in our hammocks. Despite the constant rumble of snoring, belching, farting, sleep-talking and nightmare groaning that surrounded me, I managed to sleep well enough. I was so exhausted at the end of each day I could have slept through the Great Fire of London. But I never got used to the waking up. At the sound of the bosun’s shrill whistle we would be roused from a deep sleep and have to spring to our feet, lest our hammocks be cut down or our heads assaulted by a knotted rope.

After a night in such a crowded space, my head would ache and I had a foul, coppery taste in my mouth – as if I had slept with a penny under my tongue. I suppose this was due to lack of air.

As soon as we were up, we rolled our hammocks and placed them in netting at the side of the ship. The wooden beam below was marked by numbers apportioned to us, so we knew exactly where to place our hammock. I was 195. Having the hammocks packed like this was supposed to offer protection against musket balls and splinters. Then we relieved our bladders in the piss dales or at the heads in the bow of the ship. There were only two seats for all the two hundred and fifty ratings on board, so first thing in the morning men would lean up against the bow netting at the side of the ship where the wind blew away from them, and piss into the waves. If the sea was high and the wind blew hard the cold would cut like a knife. It was a brutal start to the day – especially after the warmth and fug of the mess deck – but it cleared your head of sleep.

I was outraged to discover that Captain Mandeville had two private closets to himself, on either side of his Great Cabin, to use as he chose, whichever way the wind was blowing against the ship. Even the officers on the frigate did not have their own closets, but at least they had cabins, chamber pots and servants. We ordinary sailors had none. At first I was embarrassed to sit on the head in the company of a small but impatient queue of other sailors in various states of desperation. Attached to the head was a long rope with a feathered end which dangled in the sea. When a man had finished moving his bowels, he would haul the rope up to clean himself. I tried not to think about everyone else using that same rope.

* * *

Once awake we hurried to the mess tables for breakfast. It was most often oatmeal porridge, which the men called ‘burgoo’ – but it was warm and filling, and set me up for the day ahead. We washed it down with ‘Scotch Coffee’, a piping hot drink made from burned biscuit crumbs and sugar. It took some getting used to, but kept the chill from my bones.

Always we would clean. I soon discovered why the Miranda looked so spotless. I wore my fingers raw scouring the deck with sand and a large sandstone block. The men called these ‘holy stones’ because they were the same size as a church Bible. Most days we practised our sail drill, but everyday we drilled on the guns. For the first few days at sea this was without shot and cartridge – just going through the motions. But on the first Friday away from Portsmouth, Ben told me we were to fire the guns for real. I tried to hide my fear, but my hands would not stop shaking.

The drummer boy began to beat ‘To quarters’ – our signal to go at once to our battle positions – and I ran as fast as I could to the after magazine. Inside were one of the gunner’s mates and his assistant, who had stacks of paper cartridge bags filled with gunpowder in readiness for us. As I had been instructed I shouted ‘Powder’ and a hand passed the cartridge out to me. I grabbed it, put it in the cartridge box as fast as I could and jammed down the lid. Then I sprinted upstairs to my gun.

All in place around our gun, we stood ready to fire the first broadside. After the first shot from our gun we would have to reload and fire again as soon as we could. Utter silence settled on the ship as we awaited the command of one of the ship’s lieutenants, Lieutenant Spencer.

‘Larboard guns, fire!’ yelled Spencer.

The noise was awe-inspiring. A thunderous roar made the ship shake from topgallant to keel. The gun in front of me recoiled on its ropes, lurching back like a wild animal trying to free itself from its shackles. My ears rang for several minutes afterwards. I understood that it was customary for gun crews to wear no shoes, as bare feet were supposed to offer better grip against the wooden deck. But seeing first hand how these heavy weapons sprang to life, I would have thought stout metal-capped boots would be more in order.

All ten guns fired on our larboard side, followed immediately after by nine on our starboard. Only one, opposite us, did not go off. Perhaps the powder was damp? I heard Lieutenant Spencer cursing, and the gun crew exerting themselves to shift the gun away from the gun port to extract the shot.

After that first broadside, we worked in a frenzy to reload and fire again as soon as possible. ‘Extra grog for the crew who fires first, and extra scrubbing of the deck for the crew who fires last,’ shouted Spencer.

Tom swiftly cleaned out the gun with a sponge on a pole, to make sure there were no glowing fragments from the previous cartridge. Then the new gunpowder cartridge was snatched from my hand and rammed down the barrel of the gun with the other end of the pole, swiftly followed by the cannonball – we called it the shot – then a wad of old canvas to keep it in place.

The others, led by James who carried a hand spike for the purpose, heaved the gun carriage back into position, so that the gun poked out of the gun port. It was back-breaking work.

Ben poked a wire down the touch hole by the flintlock to pierce the cartridge. Then he carefully sprinkled more powder down the touch hole from a horn he carried on his belt, and pulled back the mechanism of the flintlock. He shouted out ‘Make ready’, warning us all to stand away, then fired the gun by pulling a cord to trigger the flintlock. The sparks lit the powder in the touch hole, and KERRRANG, the beast spat flame and smoke and lurched again on its harness.

Our team had worked hard to reload and fire first, but we were narrowly beaten by a gun crew over on the starboard side. Ben looked rattled by this failure, although he chose not to say anything to us all.

In those first few days at sea I built up a fierce resentment for the relentless drilling and cleaning. Life on the Franklyn had been much easier. I made the mistake of complaining to Ben. He huffed impatiently.

‘This is all about staying alive, lad. First of all, when you’re scrubbing and polishing just think about the two hundred and fifty men we’ve got on this ship. Can you imagine the stink and pestilence if we let the dirt build up? And as for drilling . . . when we come to fight, you’ll be grateful for the hours you spent making sure you knew exactly what you’re doing.’

Everything stopped for dinner – our main meal of the day. We would sit down just after the noon sighting, when the officer on duty took the daily navigational readings, to spend an hour and a half eating and talking.

Quickly I realised we had the same thing for every day of the week. Monday was cheese. Tuesday was beef. Wednesday was pease and cheese. I would have enjoyed some of it had I not cracked a back tooth on a bone aboard the Franklyn, and now it was nagging away every time I chewed on it.

All of our food was washed down with a pint of grog – a little rum in water. It wasn’t enough to get a man drunk, just a bit happier. And it took away the horrible taste of the water, which would be all but undrinkable after we had been at sea for a month or more. The first time I took the grog it made me feel dizzy, but I soon got used to it, and even began to look forward to my daily dose.

In the afternoon we would drill and clean again. Supper was at five o’clock. It was usually just ship’s biscuits, which tasted like dry stale bread, and were usually crawling with maggots. And more grog.

‘If we’re lucky we might get some tea at some point, or cocoa,’ said Ben.

I shrugged indifferently.

‘Shrug if y’ like, lad,’ he chided. ‘You’ll be grateful for a change. And when it comes round it’ll taste like nectar after what we usually drink.’

When we were not working there was little else to do but sit, drink and talk. Although drunkenness was punishable by flogging, most of the time the officers would pretend not to notice a man who was unsteady on his feet, or whose speech was slurred.

As the day wound down we would gather together in little clusters. The older seamen told tales, and we sat and listened. Some of these yarns became like favourite bedtime stories, and I was happy to hear them over and over. Some ten years previously, one of our crew, Tom Nisbit, had sailed with Captain Bligh on his Bounty expedition to take breadfruit plants from the Pacific to the West Indies. Nisbit was one of the eighteen men who stayed loyal to their captain when the crew mutinied. He told us excitedly how they had been cast adrift in the ship’s launch, and that Bligh had sailed his remaining crew for fifty days through uncharted waters to reach the trading port of Kupang on Timor Island. Tom was obviously haunted by his ordeal. His mood lightened when he spoke fondly of his famously irascible captain.

‘Without that man I’d be lying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, or had me bones picked clean by savages.’ Having experienced starvation and near fatal thirst firsthand, Tom got annoyed when anyone moaned about their food. ‘We ate raw seabird on that little boat – beak, feet and all. After that, a ship’s biscuit looks like a king’s feast!’

When we weren’t talking, those of us who could, read or wrote. I was grateful to my father for teaching me these skills. Word soon went round the ship that I could write, and I was often asked by sailors who could not to help them with a letter. This was a good way of staying on the right side of some of the more frightening members of the crew. These letters were sometimes very personal – a plea to an estranged wife, or words of comfort to a sister or brother who had lost a child.

I learned quickly not to take too great a pride in my skill. I thought I was being generous with my time and talents, yet some of the crew started to resent me for it. As I wrote, older boys would walk past and flick my ear. When this happened the man who I was writing a letter for would sometimes leap up and thump my assailant hard on the arm, but sometimes he would just laugh and wink at them. They never got a letter from me again.

One evening, as I peered closer to the page to write in the dim lamplight of the mess deck, a pasty-faced boy leaned over and spat down the back of my neck. His name was Michael Trellis, and he was a powder monkey for one of the starboard gun crews. Enraged, I leaped up and thumped him hard. In an instant, a bosun’s mate stepped over and hit me on the back with his rope.

‘If I catch you fighting again, Witchall, you’re looking at a flogging.’ Then he cuffed the other boy around the head. ‘You watch your step too, Trellis, y’ snotty urchin.’

The boy gave me an evil smirk. ‘I’d have pulverised you if he’d not been around. Better not let me catch you alone in the hold.’

Silas had been sitting along from me, and saw it all. As Trellis walked past he tripped him up, and the boy fell hard on his face. Silas lifted him roughly to his feet.

‘Sorry, lad, what an unfortunate accident,’ he said with unmistakable menace. ‘You are in the wars today.’ It was enough to let Trellis know I had friends who would look after me, but I wondered if there was more of this to come.

A week into the voyage, as we sat around the mess table at dinnertime, Edmund Ackersley was telling us of strange noises he once heard coming from the depths of the ocean.

‘Frightful sounds they was, like a whole army o’ lost souls, wailin’ in torment. We reckoned them were a warnin’ to mend our sinful ways. And, by ’eck, it were! Within a week we ’ad two men fall from the riggin’, and another killed by a loose gun.’

Just then, a boy sitting further down the table from us began to laugh. I did not know him, but he was a friend of Tom Nisbit. ‘Did these warnings sound like this, by any chance?’ said the boy in an accent I did not recognise. And he bellowed a deep, keening moan.

‘You heard them too!’ said Ackersley.

‘Them’s not lost souls,’ said the boy, in cocky imitation of Ackersley’s Lancashire grammar. ‘Them’s whales. I’ve seen them breaching off Newfoundland. They make that noise when they’re looking for a mate.’

Ackersley didn’t take to being corrected. Quick as a flash, he brought the knife he was using to cut his meat down on the boy’s sleeve, pinning his arm to the table. Then he put his face right next to his. ‘Them’s lost souls, Sonny Jim. Whales be buggered.’

The boy was quite cool-headed about it. ‘Whatever you say, chum. Lost souls it is.’

After we’d eaten I walked up to the forecastle with him. I discovered he was an American who was also in the afterguard larboard watch.

‘Good day to you, Sam Witchall,’ he said with a smile, and shook my hand. ‘My name is Richard Buckley.’

I was surprised to find an American boy on a British man-o’-war.

‘So, what’s an American doing on the Miranda?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I’m not the only one,’ he said. ‘There’s three or four of us. Haven’t you met Binns and Woodruff? They’re on the forecastle in the starboard watch.’

I hadn’t.

‘Me, I’m learning my trade,’ he said. ‘Been aboard the Miranda for a year now. I’d like to go back to Boston one day, and an officer post in a merchantman. May even try for a commission in the United States Navy. And what of you, Sam?’ he asked me. ‘What made you take to the sea?’

‘I want to do something with my life,’ I told him. ‘There’s not much to look forward to in the village I come from. My father wanted me to be a schoolteacher and help out in my uncle’s shop.’

‘That can’t be bad, surely?’ said Richard. ‘Not so that you’d rather be here than there?’

‘No, but there’s got to be more to life than Wroxham. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?’ He hadn’t. ‘We had one moment of excitement every month, when me and my father and brother took our horse and cart to Norwich – it’s the big city in those parts.’ As I spoke, it already felt like a lifetime ago. ‘We went to buy the fancier provisions for my father’s shop – tea, coffee and spices mainly. Clip-clop for hours on end, down the rickety road to Norwich. My mother never came with us. She hasn’t left the parish in her whole life.’

‘So what’s so great about Norwich?’ asked Richard.

‘I love Norwich,’ I gushed. ‘It’s so different. It bustles and buzzes and there are shops selling everything you could ever want. It stinks, though – rotten vegetables, dung, coal fires – but you can’t have everything just right, can you?’

‘Sounds just like Boston, ’cept that’s a seaboard port,’ said Richard, and looked a little misty-eyed. ‘I used to beg my mom to take me down to the harbour, just so I could gaze at all the tall ships packed together along the quayside, and wonder what it would be like to sail off over the horizon . . .’

I thought wistfully of Norwich. Whenever I went there I realised I could not be a country boy for ever.

‘Hey, you’re not listening!’ Richard laughed.

‘I’m a bit like you,’ I said. ‘My mother always said I was too inquisitive for my own good.’

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s too much to see in the world!’ Then he looked out to sea and grew reflective. ‘I took quite a gamble coming on this ship. Your navy’s supposed to be the best in the world, and my grandpa persuaded my dad that a few years’ service on a British man-o’-war would set me up for the rest of my life. He might be right, but the trick is to stay alive. Mandeville’s an ambitious son of a bitch – who knows what trouble he’ll lead us into. Meanwhile, I just behave like a model seaman, especially with the ship’s officers. It’s all a game, isn’t it? I’m damned if I’m letting those stuck-ups get to flog me. So I smile politely, do as I’m asked, and keep my nose clean.’

Despite his bad start with Edmund Ackersley, Richard often joined Ben and our crew to sit and chat on a Sunday afternoon. I was fascinated by Richard’s accent, and the words he used. He said ‘clever’ when he meant ‘good’, ‘mad’ when he meant ‘angry’ and ‘closet’ when he meant ‘cupboard’. But we understood each other well enough. He called the marines ‘lobsterbacks’, and employed words in a way that made me smile. ‘Is there anyone else aboard the ship,’ he’d say, ‘who comes from your neck of the woods?’

Two weeks into the voyage the pain of my broken tooth became a constant distraction. I could put off a visit to Dr Claybourne no longer. I was reluctant to see him as I was deeply suspicious of medical men. When I was eight I had a sickness which left me weak and dizzy. A doctor friend of the Reverend Chatham came to see me and took me for a walk to the village pond. When I was least expecting it, he pushed me into the water. I dragged myself out, covered in mud and vegetation, and ran home. He followed me back, told my mother to make me drink a small bottle of gin, and then to rest. I forced the gin down, and my head spun so much when I laid it on my pillow that I was violently sick. The shock, explained the doctor, would do me good. After that I had a high fever for a day, but was up and about by the end of the week. I’m sure I got better despite his attentions.

Claybourne was actually more pleasant than our first meeting had suggested. He was gruff, but not without an amiable air. His Scottish accent was so broad I had difficulty understanding him.

He held his surgery every morning on the orlop deck, which was beneath the waterline at the bow of the ship. That day there were just three of us waiting to see him, and I noticed he was sitting with a weary-looking young man who was obviously learning his trade. Claybourne talked to him throughout, barely paying attention to the patients before him. In front of me was one of the main-topmen, whom I gathered was suffering from a hernia.

Claybourne had him lower his trousers, and began gingerly to feel around his groin. ‘Yes, there’s quite a wee lump there, my man.’

Then he turned to his apprentice. ‘Ye offen get the topmen coming wi’ hernias from their liftin’ the sails,’ he explained. ‘At port it’s broken heeds and the pox. At sea, hernias and scurvy. Later on, ye’ll ge’ a fair few of them comin’ down here with loose teeth and sores from the scurvy. I give ’em more lemon juice t’ top up their ration, and tha’ usually does the trick. But if ye gave ’em more of the juice before they got the scurvy, then – well, they wouldnae ge’ it! But the Captain won’t be swayed. It’s too great an expense, he says, t’ ge’ in more lemons than we’re already issued with. Only a few of the crew seem to ge’ it, he says. So why treat the lot of them? I says, “it’s an easier thing to keep a crew healthy, than it is for me to cure ’em”, but it falls on deaf ears.’

He produced a sturdy wool and canvas undergarment from among his bags and boxes and spoke to the top-man. ‘Ye’ll wear this, my man. It’s called a truss, and it’ll help support your little problem. I can recommend the smoking of tobacco to take off the tension and provide a laxative. An’ if that doesnae work, ye’ll have to come back an’ have ye intestines filled with tepid water. That seldom fails tae produce a beneficial effect.’

The fellow scurried away with a tug of the forelock. I wondered if Claybourne had told him the last bit to discourage him from coming again.

Next up was a forecastleman complaining of vomiting and diarrhoea. He was sent on his way with a dose of blue vitriol which Claybourne quickly fished out of his medicine chest. No sooner had the patient hurried up the ladder than Claybourne turned to his assistant and said, ‘That’ll kill or cure him soon enough.’

Then it was me. ‘Sit yerself down, laddie.’ I opened my mouth, and Claybourne poked around with a grubby finger and a thin needle implement that gleamed silver in the lantern light. ‘Well, that’s nae guntae ge’ any better,’ he said with great authority. Then he turned to his assistant. ‘Mr McDowell, what shall we do next?’

The young man had obviously been studying hard. ‘Standard extraction, sir, with Clef Anglais. Then perhaps the goat’s foot elevator, if the tooth cracks and leaves the root in the gum.’

Although I knew the tooth was going to have to come out, I winced at their thoughtless ruminations.

‘Aye,’ said Claybourne. ‘Let’s get to work. You can be mother.’

With that the doctor handed me a bottle of brandy. ‘Take a good slug, laddie. As much as ye can keep down.’ I guzzled the fiery liquid and it sat burning in my stomach. I was not used to strong liquor, and felt I was going to be sick. But that passed, and was followed by a pleasant floating sensation. Then, all at once, Claybourne was standing behind me, holding my head steady in a tight lock with his left arm. ‘Open wide,’ he crooned, and clamped my lower jaw open with his right hand.

McDowell quickly placed a wooden-handled implement in my mouth and started to rock it to and fro. With every motion I felt an agonising wrench in my jaw, and began to make little yelping noises. Then there was an excruciating jolt – almost like a flash of lightning – so sharp I could almost taste it, as the tooth broke away.

‘Steady now,’ said Claybourne. ‘Here, have another mouthful o’ this.’ I gulped down more of the brandy. McDowell began to poke around with a pincer-like instrument.

Both men assumed their previous positions. The pain was so intense I wondered if being flogged could be any worse. Amid my agonised cries, McDowell pulled something out, and my mouth filled with blood. ‘Spit in this,’ said Claybourne matter of factly, holding a small enamelled iron bowl. McDowell held up his fearsome implement before me. Between its jaws was a small sliver of tooth root with a glob of flesh still attached to it.

‘Got the rascal,’ he said with no small delight. ‘Just two more to go.’ The next minute was probably the most painful in my life, as he gouged away at my bruised and bleeding gum. But out the roots came, and I was put to sit in the corner of the deck with the bowl.

‘Spit away, lad,’ said Claybourne. ‘When that stops bleeding y’ can spend a few hours in sick bay.’

McDowell helped me walk back to the ship’s sick bay, a small berth walled in with panels of strong canvas. He had another ship’s boy fetch my hammock, and there I stayed for the rest of the morning in the company of two other seamen. One slept and the other spent his time coughing or spitting into a white enamel mug. Ben and Richard both paid me a brief visit, but I felt too ill to talk to them. My jaw ached terribly, my head pounded from the brandy, and I had no appetite for dinner. Then in the early afternoon, I heard a shout I had been dreading since the voyage began.

‘Sail ho!’