A month into the voyage, I was coming up the companionway from the gun deck to the upper deck when a novel thought entered my head. I liked it up here. To go from the enclosed, stifling world of the mess deck and out into the salty sea air and sunshine was one of life’s pleasures. It also dawned on me that I was no longer in a state of constant anxiety. True, at any moment the Miranda could be called to quarters, and I could never be certain when I woke that I would live to see the evening, but I had at least begun to master the duties required of me and adjust to the ship’s exhausting routine.
When off duty I could walk freely on the forward part of the upper deck, along the waist with its ship’s boats, spare masts and yards lain over the opening above the gun deck, but I quickly learned that the quarterdeck was forbidden territory to ordinary seamen who had no business being there.
Whenever I made my way to the upper deck I would marvel at the agility of the topmen – those of us in the ship’s crew who worked up in the sails. They seemed to revel in the danger of their work – running along the narrow lengths of the yardarms, and dropping down to the thin foot rope beneath the yard, which was all that lay between them and the dizzying drop to the deck. They would swing from one mast to another on the stays, and slide down to the deck on the halyards. They seemed as confident in the rigging as a squirrel running through the branches of a horse chestnut. Topmen had something of the flair of circus acrobats – we called their antics ‘skylarking’. I once heard Lieutenant Middlewych remark with some pride to a midshipman that he was sure people would pay money to watch our topmen perform.
Occasionally, I would be called upon to set or furl a sail. It was here that I first met a mizzentopman called Joseph Neil. Almost exactly my age, Joseph was from Yorkshire and walked with a cocky swagger. I’d grown increasingly unsure of myself up among the rigging. Joseph noticed this when I first went up with him, and chided me.
‘Come on, y’ big jellyfish,’ he sneered, then winked to take the sting from his taunt. Seeing I was shaky, he drew level with me and said, ‘One hand for the Navy. One hand for yourself. That’s how to make sure y’ don’t fall off.’
Like me he had joined a merchant ship. He sailed out of Scarborough but had been pressed into the Navy. As I got to know him better, I helped him write home. Sometimes when we talked he would drop his cocksure front, and I started to like him.
‘Course it’s terrifying up there,’ he admitted to me once. ‘Especially in a storm, with a gale pushing and pulling you to and fro, and all you’ve got between you and your maker is a wet slippery rope to hold on to. Last year I had to go up to the main topgallant through a freezing fog. Ice on the rigging! My hands just went numb. You always know when you go up that you’ll come down – but you never know whether it’ll be the hard or the easy way.’
Joseph picked up his swagger from the other men in his watch. They were an evil lot, who could shame the devil with their curses. I’d occasionally sit with Joseph and them on a Sunday afternoon, and they would often talk about what they would do when we ran into a French or Spanish ship. They seemed to revel in the violence they would inflict on Johnny Foreigner, and their humour often left me wondering when I was supposed to laugh.
They were equally merciless with their own kind, and spoke with scorn of any comrade who had fallen from the rigging. ‘Remember that pipsqueak the press gang picked up last year?’ said one of the lads. ‘Him from Dorset that fell off the fore topgallant.’ Another of them adopted an expression of sheer terror, and flailed his arms like a windmill in a gale, and they all began to laugh.
These were men who would joke about their own execution, and believe me, it was a racing certainty that some of them would end their life dangling from a yardarm. They seemed to have a pact between them that even on the gallows they would try to outdo each other in devil-may-care japery. ‘When Stephen and George were hanged together,’ said another of the topmen, ‘after that carry on with Lieutenant Fisher, they had a little bet about who would be the last to piss himself when they were swinging from the yardarm.’ At this point Joseph filled me in – explaining that men who are hung lose control of their bladders, usually at the point of death.
At first I thought them a crude and cruel bunch, but I knew enough to keep my feelings hidden. Living so close to death they turned their plight into an endless amusement – where even their own execution could be turned into some laddish stunt to outdo each other. Even their curses began to amuse me. One evening, I was up with one of Joseph’s watch in the mizzen topsail. ‘Stay tied, you buggering lopsided dog!’ he said, in disgust at a disintegrating rope he was using to furl the sail.
Although I was intrigued by these rough and ready men, I felt more comfortable with my own gun crew. They seemed a more easy-going bunch. As I got to know them, I discovered that all my messmates had a special keepsake or charm they hoped would bring them luck. They kept them hidden in their wooden trunks and canvas ditty-bags. There, alongside the sewing needles, spools of thread, buttons, letters and spare clothes, lay these small tokens of life away from our uncertain world. Sometimes after supper, one of them would bring out their keepsake and tell us the story that went with it.
Tom had a horn beaker with the face of an eagle carefully carved into the side. ‘Brought that back from New York. Red Indian, it is, though I don’t know which tribe.’
James had a small ivory locket with the words ‘Not lost but gone before’ inlaid around the edge. It had a hinged lid with a compartment containing a short strand of braided hair tied at each end with a sliver of red cotton. One evening, when he had drunk a little more than was wise, he got out the braid and laid it over the palm of his hand. ‘There’s three strands there. Me, me missus and our Kate.’ I looked hard and there they were. One fair like James, one dark and the other brown. ‘That’s all that’s left of her, that strand of brown hair. Carried away by scarlatina, she was. Eight years old . . . We both watched her breathe her last . . .’ That was all he said. We all felt the weight of his sadness.
After a while, Ben sought to change the mood by showing us what he kept with him. It was a small double-heart brooch, inlaid with garnets.
‘My missus gave us that on our wedding day. It was her grandma’s. She says it’ll keep me safe, and it’s worked so far.’
‘All these keepsakes – some of them are quite valuable, aren’t they?’ I said to Ben.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Most of them aren’t worth much, to be honest. But there’s a lot of faith invested in them. And for the man who has one . . . well, you couldn’t put a price on it.’
Richard and me were quietly amused by how superstitious these hardened seamen were. We were certainly careful to say nothing when the men talked about the Flying Dutchman – at least three had claimed to have seen it – or mermaids.
‘Right up to the ship they came,’ said Ben lasciviously.
‘I saw ’em bobbing up and down, in the wake of the stern. Real beauty, one of ’em. And not a stitch on her, save for a seaweed necklace.’
After these discussions Richard would take me to one side and mimic the older men’s wide-eyed superstition or lechery. ‘We’ve got to get out while we’re young, Sam,’ he’d say. I liked his cynicism for all things supernatural, although here he was almost alone among us ordinary seamen. Practically every man aboard could claim he had seen a ghost on the ship. When night fell aboard the Miranda, most of us feared the flickering shadows, and staircases that vanished into the dark pool of the hold. The ship was a man-o’-war, and a lot of terrible things had happened aboard her. Men had fallen from the rigging, been crushed by their cannon, flogged to death, and torn apart in battle. I sometimes wondered if there was any one spot on the ship that, at one time or another, had not been the scene of some hellish torment.
Although life at sea was made up of myriad everyday trials and dangers, I learned to appreciate its pleasures too, especially when we took our rest before bed or on a Sunday afternoon. Sometimes a man would sing or play a fiddle or whistle – a gentle lament or lullaby for the dimming day. Colm played a lovely melody called ‘Wexford Bay’. The tune moved me. Music at this time of day was always quiet. But on Sunday afternoons, which we had to ourselves if we were not taking the afternoon watch, it would be more raucous. Then, some of the men would dance and sing.
One of the most enthusiastic dancers was a fellow I had noticed on my first night on the Miranda, who had the crucifixion depicted on his back, among other tattoos. Most of these were Biblical quotations of an unforgiving nature – ‘Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe’ and ‘With the jaw of an ass have I slain a thousand men’. I discovered his name was Vincent Thomas and I always thought of him as ‘Vengeful Tattoos’. As I tried to decipher some of the smaller quotations as he spun around, he caught my eye and dragged me up to dance. ‘My, but you’ve got a pretty mouth,’ he whispered as he whirled me around. I took care not to look at him too closely after that.
As September turned to October we were blessed with a final spell of mild weather. Richard and I made the most of it by sitting up on the forecastle during our rest time between watches, although we were always careful what we said when officers and bosun’s mates were within earshot.
Sometimes Richard told me about his country. It was, he said, a land of broad rivers and endless meadows and woodland. He told me about the Red Indians of America, and the troubled relationship they had with the European settlers. The names of their tribes – Cherokee, Arapaho, Conestoga – spoke of an alien yet fascinating world.
‘So how long have your family been in America?’ said Tom Shepherd, who sometimes joined us.
‘Forty, fifty years. My ma and pa both came to Boston when they were babes in arms. My ma was born in Bristol, my pa in Liverpool. Grandpa Buckley still considers himself a loyal British citizen. He loved it when I enlisted for this game. “Get some Frenchmen for me boy!” That was the last thing he said when I left.’ Then Richard lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned close to me. ‘Can’t say I’ve got anything against the French, myself – especially as they helped us win our independence – no offence meant to you fellows. Grandpa still feels quite distressed about the revolution, and gets maudlin when he’s had a few slugs of whisky. But he’s done well for himself in Boston, and he’s too set in his ways to think about going back to England.’
Although Richard was careful not to show it openly, he had a particular dislike for the Miranda’s officers, especially the Captain and his lieutenants, and the way they regarded themselves as superior beings. ‘You hear them talking,’ he said to me when we were alone, ‘and the worse thing is, most of you English go along with it. You believe they are better than you!’
Sitting in the sun on the forecastle on one such an afternoon, we started chatting to Joseph Neil, a mizzenmast topman. Joseph liked to boast, and he was keen to talk about a girlfriend he had back home. He produced a lock of blonde plaited hair, tied in a blue ribbon, which he carried in the top pocket of his shirt. ‘Ower lass’, he called her. She was from Scarborough, he said, and the two had known each other since they could walk.
Richard seemed surprised that a boy so young should have a girlfriend. ‘Can’t say I’ve much time for girls,’ he said nonchalantly.
Joseph took his indifference as a cue for sympathy. ‘Never you mind, Richard,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of fish int’ sea.’
‘Who wants to court a fish?’ said Richard.
‘And ’ow about you, Sam. D’you have a girl at ’ome?’
I wasn’t going to be outdone. ‘She’s called Rosie. Last I saw of her was in the spring, but as soon as we get off this ship, I’m going straight up to Yarmouth to see her again.’
‘She’ll be an old maid by the time you get off this ship, Sam,’ teased Richard, ‘or married with five snotty-nosed brats.’ They both began to badger me for more details. Then Peter Lyons, one of the starboard forecastle men, came to sit with us. He had a face like thunder.
‘We’ve got a thief on board, lads,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Someone’s stealing. A painted egg cup here, an ivory box there. One of the fellas has even had a brass button stolen. It’s barely worth a penny, but it came from an old shipmate who saved his life . . . There’ll be hell to pay if we ever find the bastard who did this.’
‘How d’you know it’s just one man? What if it’s several people?’ said Richard.
Lyons was sure of himself. ‘I’ve been on three men-o’-war in my time, and no one steals from their fellow seamen. It’s not right and it’s not wise . . . It’s got to be one man. We’ll find him in the end, and then he’ll wish he’d never been born.’
It was a sour end to what had been a pleasant conversation. When we returned to our duties I wondered briefly who would be stupid enough to steal from his fellows.
News of the thief spread rapidly. In the mess that night the crew talked of little else. It was trinkets that were being stolen – mainly keepsakes from wives or sweethearts. From what we could make out, three of the victims at least were from the starboard watch, stationed in the forecastle. Among Ben’s gun crew those who had anything small of value took to carrying it around in a pocket or on a string around their neck.
That night, as I settled down in my hammock, I thought about the lie I had told my shipmates. Rosie was my friend, it was true, but she wasn’t what you’d call a girlfriend. I had last seen her in Great Yarmouth, the night before I joined the Franklyn. My father had taken me to stay with his old friend Benjamin Hooke, who lived on the edge of the town, close by the sea. Our family had known Benjamin’s family for years, and I had always liked his daughter Rosie. She and I were almost the same age and played happily together – one moment crimson pirates, the next mermaid and merman frolicking in the surf on the nearby beach.
I had not seen Rosie and the Hookes for a couple of years. That evening we had sat down to a splendid feast. Benjamin’s wife Anne cooked us a goose, and we children were even allowed a little wine. Throughout the meal Rosie caught my attention as she had never done before.
After we’d eaten, Benjamin had suggested a stroll by the shore to walk off our meal. The beach was just a short walk from the house, and the night was mild. A strong wind blew in from the sea, but it was warm and pleasant. High cloud covered the sky, and moonlight shone through in mottled patches.
Anne, Benjamin and my father had walked ahead, leaving Rosie and I to keep an eye on her two younger sisters, but after a while they ran to their parents, demanding to be carried. Rosie was keen to know what I was going to do, quick to laugh at my stories. After a while we stopped, and walked to the very edge of the sea. The warm wind came in strong along the shore, blowing her dress tight against her slender body. She stared up at the moon as it darted quickly between the scudding clouds. Now we had stopped talking and there was a comfortable silence between us, and I wondered if I dare kiss her. I had never kissed a girl before. In fact, until that evening, I had never even thought of kissing a girl before. Then my father had shouted over to us from a hundred yards ahead, ‘Come along, Sam,’ and the moment passed. But the next morning, as I had prepared to leave, Rosie asked me to write to her when I could, and let her know how I was finding my life at sea.
I had left the house feeling like I was walking on air. I wrote to her a couple of times from the Franklyn, but no post ever came back. On the Franklyn George assured me that letters often took months to catch up with a coastal merchantman. Now I supposed it would be even more difficult for post to catch a patrolling frigate.
I slowly lost my fear of the heavy guns. If I kept my wits about me I knew I should be able to keep myself from injury. But the prospect of hand-to-hand fighting still haunted me. I had no idea how to defend myself if anyone attacked me, so I was pleased when Ben told me I was to be trained in the use of hand-held weapons.
This took place in the afternoons after dinner, and I was usually accompanied by Richard. Our instructor was Sergeant Oates of the marines. He would line up the sailors like soldiers, and talk about these fearful instruments and their gruesome purpose in a clipped, matter-of-fact tone – almost as if we were being instructed in the finer points of carpentry.
Of the pike he’d say, ‘Thrust and withdraw. Short sharp prod. That’s all you need.’ Of the pistol, ‘Discharge at no less than ten yards for full effect. Once discharged it can be used as a club.’ Then he’d produce a cutlass. ‘Slash and jab, but mind your guard. Never raise your arm above the shoulder.’
The tomahawk seemed to fascinate him, maybe because it was a recent addition to the Royal Navy arsenal. ‘A useful weapon in a melee, especially when directed against the side of the head. If you have two such instruments, the spike opposite the blade is useful for hauling yourself up the side of an enemy ship.’
I marvelled at the idea that a sailor could row over to another vessel, then haul himself up the side just using two tomahawks to make a series of holds. Then, if he managed to get to the deck, have the strength to fight for his life.
When we had been instructed in the use of the weapons, we would be taught fencing steps to ensure our effectiveness with the cutlass. Richard and I called these movements ‘ballet lessons’. At first I could not take them seriously, but these steps had a deadly purpose. The more nimble the cutlass wielder, the more likely he was to survive in hand-to-hand combat. Many of the steps were designed to put as much distance as possible between the man with the cutlass and his opponent.
I made good progress, and Richard was a natural. After observing us in our drill, I heard Mandeville remark to Lieutenant Spencer, ‘Yes, put a B against both their names.’ I wondered what on earth he meant. Spencer returned soon after to explain.
‘Congratulations, boys,’ he said cheerily. ‘You’re now both designated boarders.’
My heart sank, and the creeping fear I had felt all through the first month aboard the ship returned. ‘B’ stood for boarder – men whose duty it was to swarm over to an enemy vessel during combat, when the captain called out, ‘Boarders away!’ I should have known that showing any skill in this deadly art was a mistake.
Silas confirmed my fears. ‘I’m staying well out of that, Sam. Having a B against your name brings you no special privileges or extra pay. But it’s more likely you’ll be killed when we go into action.’
Ben wasn’t having this. ‘Don’t you worry, lad. I’m a boarder too and I’ll look after you in a scrap. Being a boarder will get you noticed by the Captain or lieutenants. If you fight well and bravely, you may find yourself promoted.’
I felt inclined to agree with Silas. I knew I could be killed if we attacked another ship, but had convinced myself that if I was careful with my cartridge box, this was unlikely. It had never occurred to me that I might be sent over to another ship to fight in hand-to-hand combat.
From that moment onward I felt I was fated to die or suffer some hideous injury. Some nights I would lie in my hammock twitching my toes or wiggling my fingers. ‘Be grateful you have all your limbs, Sam,’ I’d say to myself. ‘One day, you might have to do without some of them.’ I’d wonder what it would be like to have a leg or an arm off, or watch the world with only one eye.
The day the Isabelle had come to get me still lingered in my dreams. I tried not to think about what it would feel like to be disembowelled with a cutlass, and then swiftly turfed over the side of the ship to drown and bleed to death in freezing water. I prayed that if I had to die, it would be a swift end – cut in two or beheaded by a cannonball, or dashed to death on the deck after a fall from the topgallant.
Despite these dark thoughts, the time I had lying in my hammock was still my favourite part of the ship’s day. Alone at last in this tide of humanity, I would close my eyes and wait for sleep to carry me away. Unless it had been a sunny day, this was the only time I felt warm. Cold and damp was as much a part of life aboard the Miranda as the daily scrubbing and drilling. As we lay in our hammocks, the master-at-arms and his corporals would creep by, extinguishing any stray light. Beneath the low rumble of a hundred and fifty sleeping men I could hear the sea wash against the side of the ship, the forlorn ring of the ship’s bell as it marked each passing half hour, and even the creaking of the rigging. Once a fortnight or so, during this middle evening time, two of the officers in the gunroom would play flute and cello duets. I never found out who it was who played or who wrote these melodies, but the music they made was like nothing I had heard in Wroxham – flowing lines that intertwined one over the other, twisting in long graceful curves, like two courting gulls riding the currents in a summer afternoon sky.
When I listened to this music I would yearn for home or wonder what Rosie was doing. I could imagine her walking along the beach where I had last seen her, the wind blowing her frock tight against her body. Perhaps she would turn her face to the sinking sun, and allow the pale evening light to caress the curve of her cheek. Maybe it would be raining, and her hair would be plastered down her face as she hurried home, her cotton dress soaked through to the soft skin beneath. Or maybe she was sitting by the fire at home, candle close to her chair, writing a letter to me. Sometimes, if the day had gone badly, I would wonder if she was out walking with another lad – someone bolder and better than me, who knew how to woo a girl. Perhaps she’d kiss him, and let him run his hands up and down her dress. I tried not to think of this. I needed to imagine that Rosie was thinking of me just as much as I often thought of her. Then a dreamless sleep would overtake me until the bosun’s whistle blew, and another day would come crashing down upon me.