In the weeks after the storm we patrolled the seas off northern Spain before heading south close to the coast of Portugal. The voyage settled down into a dull series of days, then weeks, when very little seemed to happen. No enemy ships were sighted, no remarkable weather blighted our passage, and the crew grew weary and sullen.
I learned to avoid Lewis Tuck as much as I could, and when this was impossible, I made every effort not to incur his wrath. Michael Trellis and his cronies would still issue their occasional taunts, but they knew I had friends who would protect me if their bullying edged into violence.
By mid-December we rounded the south-western tip of Spain and arrived at the Gulf of Cadiz. We were expected to reach Gibraltar a few days before Christmas. When ship’s gossip about our nearness to Gibraltar reached Silas at the mess table, his eyes lit up. He told us, in a mischievous whisper, that last time he had served with the Navy he had spent some time in the hospital in Gibraltar, on account of a broken leg incurred whilst loading provisions. Despite his injury it was, he said with a smirk, a most splendid stay. For the nurses that staffed the hospital were almost all ladies of easy virtue, who were more than willing to perform all manner of lascivious acts in exchange for a few shillings.
‘Every last one of ’em a dark-eyed beauty!’ he said. ‘Mind you, they all liked a drink too. A couple of them changed my dressing when they were three sheets to the wind. I had to drink a bottle of rum myself to deaden the pain.’
Seeing how the men around the table reacted to this titbit was a picture to behold. Some had eyes out on stalks, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Peter Winchelsea, one of the foretopmen sitting down the table from us, was blushing furiously.
‘Oh aye, Mr Winchelsea, have you stayed at Gibraltar Navy Hospital too?’ said Silas rather unkindly. Peter was well known as a pious man.
‘I have not, sir,’ snapped the foretopman, who was referred to as ‘The Reverend’ by his messmates. ‘I am perturbed by your indecent observations. If I should have the misfortune to ever find myself in that hospital, I shall pray to the Lord to give me strength to resist these unholy sirens.’
Silas would not be drawn into an argument. Instead, he lifted his mug of grog, and said, ‘A toast to unholy sirens. Long may they give us all manner of unmentionable diseases!’ Most of us thought this a fine end to the conversation. Toast duly drunk, we went back to our duties.
The whole incident tickled Richard considerably, and when we were alone together on the upper deck he performed a splendid mime of everyone’s reactions.
‘I was wondering how I could get myself into the hospital too,’ I confided. ‘D’you think you could arrange it? Nothing life-threatening, or permanently disfiguring, though.’
‘I’d go for a sprained ankle, myself,’ said Richard. ‘Or maybe a mild case of scurvy. Not enough to lose any teeth, but enough to make you go off-colour, and develop a few rashes.’
Ben told me about scurvy when I had been reluctant to eat a wormy apple. It seemed to eat a man away from the inside. Teeth fell out, gums bled constantly, sores and rashes covered the body, and any victim of the disease felt unutterably weary. It was preventable, for some reason, if a sailor ate fresh fruit and vegetables. And when these were not available, as I’d heard Dr Claybourne say, he should drink lemon juice. This was horrible, unless you mixed it with rum and water.
Richard and I hatched a plot to see if we could develop scurvy. But then we decided that these fabled ladies, especially ones we might be tempted to go astray with, wouldn’t find us attractive with half our teeth dropping out. Besides, deliberately making yourself unfit for duty was a floggable offence.
‘It’ll have to be a broken leg, then,’ said Richard.
‘Perhaps we ought to take a leaf out of the Reverend Winchelsea’s book after all,’ I sighed. The subject was laid to rest.
Gibraltar loomed out of the mist three days later. It was strange for me, at a time of the year so near Christmas, to be in a mild climate. The few days before we reached the port were splendid – clear skies and calm sea, with a gentle breeze. For this brief period I actually began to enjoy being aboard the Miranda. Whenever I did feel sorry for myself, I’d think of Midshipman Neville, who had curbed his temper a great deal since the early days of the voyage, but who still looked rather lost and lonely, whenever I set eyes on him.
After I’d been up the foremast with him, he’d ignored me the next few times I saw him. But a few weeks later, when the ship had been off the northern coast of Spain and he was taking a navigational sighting with a sextant at noon, he’d called me over and explained what he was doing. Over the next few weeks a friendship of sorts had seemed to develop between us. Ben, ear attuned as usual to ship’s gossip, told me his name was Robert and that Lieutenant Spencer was his mother’s brother. The Nevilles, as I had suspected from his dress, were a very wealthy family.
‘He’s not a bad lad to have on your side, is Mr Neville,’ said Ben.
Silas was less forgiving. ‘Sucking up to the officers, eh, Sam?’ he sneered, when he had seen us talking together. I could understand his resentment, although I still felt hurt by that remark. I liked Robert Neville despite of who he was, not because of it.
For most of the voyage, land had either been out of sight or some distant misty cliff almost indistinguishable from a cloudy horizon. It was too far away to imagine it as solid ground that did not sway beneath your feet, with trees and green grass, and friendly people. On the Franklyn I had never been away from land for more than a week, and this voyage had already lasted over three months.
As we grew nearer ‘the Rock’, as Gibraltar was known, I feasted my eyes on its contours and crags. The port had been built around a great rocky outcrop that thrust high into the air, and was visible a good twenty miles before we reached it. The rock was covered in lush green vegetation, and as we approched I could make out the government buildings around the port. Great fortifications snaked up the side of the rock, giving it a formidable air. Ben told me we had held on to this bit of Spain for nearly a hundred years. It was a useful place to have as a port.
On the morning we were due to arrive, Captain Mandeville summoned us all into the waist. ‘We shall be arriving at Gibraltar this afternoon, and staying for two days whilst the ship takes on provisions and engages in minor repairs. The port is well known for its changeable climate and lively southern winds, so we shall keep to our sea watches. I shall also require you to assemble at eleven o’clock tomorrow, to witness punishment. Finally, no one on board, not even myself, will be going ashore. Marines will be posted on every exit point, with orders to shoot any man who attempts to leave the ship. That is all.’
With that, the Captain turned tail and vanished below deck. The bosun bawled, ‘Ship’s company dismiss,’ and we hurried back to our duties. That dinner-time we wondered about who was to be punished and why. Knowing that something awful was to happen the next morning cast a gloomy mood over the crew, and rather spoiled the pleasure we felt arriving at Gibraltar.
Later that day we moored in the harbour, and began the task of unloading empty food and water barrels and hauling fresh supplies aboard. Every one of us was looking forward to fresh water, fresh vegetables, fresh anything, really – aside perhaps from the poor wretch who was to be punished. Maybe he was too sick with anxiety to contemplate eating at all? I could not help but think about him, as one of the bosun’s mates spent most of the afternoon sitting on deck fashioning a cat-o’-nine-tails in full view of us all, carefully knotting each of the nine strands before placing this wretched device in a red baize bag.
We spent the whole of the rest of the day reprovisioning – loading barrels of salted beef and pork, cheese and flour, bread, spirits and beer, biscuit, pease and tobacco. All of it was hauled aboard in the hot sunshine, and stowed away in the hold. There were even a couple of boxes of lemons. Dr Claybourne would be pleased to know that Mandeville wasn’t so mean with his crew’s health after all.
The next day fresh supplies of tar were taken on board, and heated up. We all set to work caulking the planking on the decks to make them watertight, with me being especially cautious not to spill any. A team of shipwrights from the port also came aboard to mend some leaks in the hold. By eleven that morning the smell of tar was overwhelming. Then the bosun’s pipes were sounded, and he called out, ‘All hands on deck to witness punishment.’
We all gathered around the mainmast, and the marines assembled in a bright red wall on the quarterdeck facing us, muskets held straight before them, bayonets attached. The ship’s officers, all dressed in full ceremonial uniform, joined them. In front of them, a grating had been set up in readiness for the man about to be flogged. Standing next to it was one of the bosun’s mates, clutching the red baize bag. It seemed shameful to be called upon to witness this cruel ritual on such a beautiful day.
When we were all assembled, two more marines appeared from below deck, dragging a man who was so terrified he could barely walk. I saw at once that it was Robert Hartley – one of Captain Mandeville’s servants – and my stomach turned over. He was a slight fellow, with a timid manner at the best of times, and I could not imagine him bearing up well to such hard physical punishment. I wondered what on earth he had done to merit such an ordeal.
All was ready. Then Captain Mandeville appeared on the quarterdeck, and fixed us with a stern eye. He carried a copy of the Articles of War and began to read from Article 2.
‘All flag officers, and all persons in or belonging to His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war, being guilty of profane oaths, cursings, execrations, drunkenness, uncleanness, or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God’s honour, and corruption of good manners, shall incur such punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve.’
A brief silence followed, while we all wondered what possible derogation of God’s honour and corruption of good manners mousy old Hartley could have been responsible for. Then Mandeville spoke again.
‘Steward’s mate Robert Hartley has been found guilty of stealing from the Captain’s wine supply. The sentence is thirty-six lashes. Seize him up.’
With that Hartley had the shirt ripped from his back, and was spreadeagled face forward to the grating, his wrists and ankles tied with canvas. Meanwhile we all looked at each other with amazement, and asked ourselves in what moment of lunacy a man like Hartley would consider stealing from his own captain. It was the stupidity of it. And being an officer’s servant was one of the easiest jobs on the ship. I wondered what Hartley would do if he survived. He was one of the most lubberly-looking men on the Miranda. I couldn’t imagine him hauling up a mainsail or manhandling a gun.
The marine drummer boy beat out a tattoo. The bosun’s mate took the cat from out of the bag.
An awful silence lay heavy over the ship, as the bosun’s mate removed his jacket and braced himself to begin the whipping. The rope whistled through the air and landed with a hefty thwack on Hartley’s narrow back. He let out a piercing scream, then again, and again . . . After twelve lashes Lewis Tuck came forward to take over the flogging. Another bosun’s mate replaced him after his dozen strokes.
When it was over, Hartley’s back looked as if it had been roasted in an oven. He was unconscious and had to be dragged below deck to the sick bay. It had been like watching a mouse being tormented by a pack of savage dogs.
At breakfast Ben told me Hartley had died during the night. ‘Some men can stand to be lashed a hundred times, even two hundred, if they’re the sort of brutes who’re used to harsh punishment,’ he muttered. ‘But some men can’t stand even a couple of dozen lashes . . .’
I felt sick at heart for the rest of the morning. My mood only lifted at dinner when Ben told us all that a consignment of mail had been delivered to the ship, and was soon to be distributed. Perhaps there would be news from home for me, and even a letter from Rosie?
My messmates all looked thrilled by this opportunity to receive post. All except Edmund Ackersley.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ he cautioned. ‘Handing out of post on a Navy ship is always an anxious moment. For some, it’s news of tragedy – wife or sister who’s died having a baby, or a parent popped their clogs . . .’
Tom and James both shouted him down. ‘Shut up, you dreary misery – y’ like a death at a birthday party!’
But Edmund was in full flow. ‘Worst of all is the death of a child. By ’eck, I’ve seen grown men collapse ont’ floor and bawl their hearts out when news o’ that reaches them.’
My excitement began to evaporate.
That afternoon we gathered around the bosun, whose job it was to hand out the post. Thanks to Edmund I just felt jittery – like we were drawing straws to decide who was to be flogged.
When the bosun called out my name I rushed to the front of the crowd and he handed over five letters. Two were from my father, and I read them quickly. He’d had a toothache, and had his tooth removed by a frail seventy-year-old called Mr Eade, who always pulled teeth in the village . . . and our two pigs had got drunk when a broken beer cask had been left outside our garden. They had snorted and slurped at the stream that leaked out, and had got so befuddled they could barely stand up . . .
The other three letters were from Rosie, which I kept until a private moment when I could read them at leisure. I was not disappointed. Two had been written to me whilst I served in the Franklyn, and had been sent on. The first, written soon after I had gone to sea, was quite polite and formal. The second, a reply to a letter from me just before I was pressed, was much warmer. The third, written a week or so after she received news of my pressing, was a delight. She had drenched the envelope in rose water, although by the time it arrived this had turned to a faint, sickly-sour tang. I read this one over and over, smiling at her jokes, and feeling breathless and excited by her flirtatiousness.
In one passage she wrote:
Papa took me to Norwich last week, and as we walked through the market I spotted a dark-haired boy in the distance who I was sure was you. Of course I ran over, wanting to throw my arms around you, and when I caught up and grabbed the arm of this lad, he turned round with a look of complete surprise on his face. I was so sad, and felt such a fool when I realised it wasn’t you.
When we got home that evening, I went for a long walk on my own down by the seashore. I wished that you were there with me, but my fairy godmother didn’t answer me. I’ve obviously not been quite as good a girl as I ought to be.
She signed off with a heartfelt plea for me to look after myself:
If any of those Frenchmen attack your ship, head for the hold, and stay there until it’s all over. Tell your captain I said it was all right to do it. Don’t be a hero. I’ve no use for a dead hero. Come back to me soon, Your dear friend Rosie xxxxxx
I folded up the letter and placed it in my shirt pocket next to my heart. This will be my keepsake and lucky charm, I thought. As long as I don’t lose it, it will keep me from danger and see me through until we return to England. I reread it so many times it became frayed around the creases, and soon I could recall every word when I lay in my hammock at night.
Although I was beginning to think that Captain Mandeville was not quite as much of an ogre as I had first thought, I still made every effort to keep as far away from him as my lowly position allowed. Haughty, aloof and with a face perpetually hovering on the brink of a sneer or a scowl, he was clearly a man who had no need to be loved by either his officers or men. I would guess his age was perhaps thirty, and his wiry, bushy hair was already beginning to recede around the temples. I suppose his thin, pointed nose would be judged by some to make him quite handsome, but for me, it just added to his air of disdain. He was the most intimidating man I had ever met. Ruthless determination seemed to seep out of him like static electricity.
So I was horrified when I was summoned to Lieutenant Middlewych and told that the Captain had decreed I was to wait on his table that day. ‘Captain’s a man down, Witchall, after that business with Hartley. All you have to do is bring food to the table, and take it away when you’re asked. Most of the time you have to stand very still, right at the back of the cabin, and pretend you’re part of the furniture.’
Seeing me looking so anxious, the Lieutenant gave a brisk smile. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be on the menu. Buckley will be helping out too. He’s done it before and he’ll tell you what to do.’
Richard, I discovered, had already been briefed. Mandeville was entertaining the Governor of Gibraltar Sir George Beverly, an admiral with a civil post, who still had an active interest and influence in naval affairs. Beverly was bringing his wife, and his three daughters. Also present would be the frigate’s three lieutenants. A pig from the ship’s manger had been slaughtered that morning, and the Captain’s cook was busy preparing it. Even as we spoke, the sweet smell of roasting pork wafted by. It was mouth-watering, and I’m sure it tormented the whole crew, whose daily nourishment was much the same as the pig’s.
Richard had a conspiratorial air about him, and he leaned close to tell me, ‘Gossip has it that Mandeville has a sweet spot for one of the Admiral’s daughters. Miss Beverly, I believe. She’s the eldest. We don’t know whether it’s a real sweet spot, or whether he thinks it’ll get him another promotion.
‘Look and learn, Sam. See how Mandeville tries to solicit the Admiral’s favour. But watch out. The people you’ll see tonight will regard you with the same indifference as they would a sparrow come to perch at their window.
‘Hey! One last thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t catch my eye, or I’ll start to giggle. If we both start they’ll tie us by the wrist to a barrel hoop, and have us flog each other on the backsides.’
The hours before the meal crawled, and Ben and Tom seemed most amused by the ordeal I was facing. I was summoned by the Captain’s steward just before one o’clock and he told me to change into fresh clothing and wash.
‘We have some fine young ladies coming aboard,’ he told me. ‘We’ve got to look presentable.’
I returned, as instructed, at half past two, and was directed into the Captain’s cabin. Like the officers’ gunroom, the Great Cabin was another world. The long mahogany table had been covered with a linen cloth and the tabletop gleamed with silver cutlery, candlesticks and cut-glass goblets.
The Admiral and his family arrived at the quayside just after three o’clock. Piped aboard by the bosun, who saluted with great dignity, they were ushered to the Captain’s cabin. Richard and I were standing smartly to attention at the back of the cabin, ready to be summoned when we were needed. The rest of the Captain’s guests were all wearing their most formal uniform – cleaned and polished to perfection. As they waited, Mandeville’s lieutenants seemed uneasy in his company, but had the social grace to pass the time making small talk about the weather. Mandeville seemed his supremely confident self, and I was amazed how a man could flog to death a servant one day and entertain with such assurance the next.
I was grateful to Richard for the talk we’d had earlier. What I heard that afternoon was quite extraordinary. In Norfolk those of a higher station, such as the Reverend Chatham, or the gentleman farmers with estates close to the village, had behaved with courtesy to their congregation or labourers. Although they took their own higher station for granted, they made it clear that they had responsibilities too. The people who dined with Captain Mandeville were cut from a different cloth.
The Admiral entered first – a great tall fellow, who seemed to stoop even in the high ceiling of the cabin. He was stout too – obviously fond of beef and Burgundy. He seemed to have a matter-of-fact air about him, which was to contrast quite noticeably with the haughty opinions of his wife and daughters. The Admiral’s wife, Lady Beverly, swept in immediately after, and all attention turned to her. She was a small, thin woman – undoubtedly pretty, but with a sour, impatient look on her face.
Then the three daughters came into the cabin. Each looked quite dazzling, in long, high-waist dresses, with silk shawls draped around their shoulders. Introduced by their father from eldest to youngest, as Miss Beverly, Miss Louisa and Miss Anne, they all curtsied and smiled primly at the lieutenants. Miss Beverly was tall, like her father, but was as slender as her mother. Louisa was shorter and quite buxom, Anne was a slip of a girl, around my own age.
Miss Beverly carried a small basket, out of which popped a tiny ginger and white cat, barely out of kitten-hood. This, she announced, was a gift from her family to the Captain.
‘His name is Bouncer, and he comes from a very fine line of ratters.’
Bouncer took one look at Mandeville and hissed, which made me like him immediately.
‘He’s a game little puss,’ said the Captain, but I could tell he and Bouncer were not going to be friends. ‘Back in his box with him,’ he said, ‘we’ll find him a berth later!’
I stood there, silent and still as a statue, watching with a detached fascination. It was Miss Beverly who captivated Mandeville and his lieutenants. And me too. She had a wonderful halo of curly brown hair, held with a red-silk ribbon that matched her dress. Her hair was cut to above her shoulder, all the better to show off her slender neck. Had her face been perhaps a little less broad, and her eyes a little larger, she would have been exquisite. But she was pretty, though, and graceful in her manner and movement. Her younger sister Louisa was the real beauty of the family – she had skin as smooth and white as alabaster, which set off her white muslin dress. Her pale grey eyes had long dark lashes, and her hair was black as the night sky. But Louisa seemed to lack Miss Beverly’s natural grace. She laughed too loudly, and ate with too great enthusiasm. Her mother gave her the occasional flinty-eyed glance of disapproval, and she would compose herself rather obviously. Still, the two young lieutenants either side of her seemed desperately eager to engage her in conversation. Anne was seated opposite her mother and had her back to me. I wondered if this was her first grown-up party.
Watching them, I realised how much I longed to talk to a girl, to spend some time in female company. I enjoyed the companionship I’d found at sea, but now I was part of a world where beautiful young women were alien visitors. Seeing the lieutenants fawning away, it occurred to me that they were enjoying the novelty as well. They too were uneasy with the gentle sex.
With the ring of a bell, the Captain’s steward announced the soup course. Richard and I sprang into action. Standing close to both Miss Beverly and Lady Beverly, I became aware of the perfume they wore. A flowery scent – rich and intoxicating, and miles away from the tar, stale sweat and sulphur that usually filled my nostrils on the Miranda. As I leaned over Miss Beverly to collect her empty plate, I noticed too the freckles and down on her bare, slender arms, and the soft swelling of her breast in the low neckline of her dress. Even though I had cleaned myself up, I felt like a homeless beggar, with three months of dirt and sweat seeped into my skin.
I noted, when I placed the soup dishes before the dinner guests, how only the Admiral made any acknowledgement of my presence, and that was just an amiable nod. To the other visitors I might as well have been invisible. It was exactly how Richard had predicted. And as evening fell, and the wine flowed, their table talk began to astound me.
Most of the conversation was about London ‘society’. When they said, ‘The whole of London is talking about it,’ they meant, of course, the very select few – and by implication, the people they knew.
Then Lady Beverly, I suspect in an attempt to rile either her husband or the Captain, said, ‘I hear that some of our captains are entertaining the notion that tea should be given to the lower deck’ – by that she meant ordinary seamen – ‘instead of their grog or Scotch Coffee.’
‘That is indeed the case, Lady Beverly,’ said Mandeville, with as much grace as I ever heard him talk to anyone. He certainly was out to impress tonight.
‘But,’ said Lady Beverly, ‘tea is well known for its refining properties. Surely, such a degree of refinement would be incompatible with the character and calling of our seamen?’
‘Quite so, ma’am,’ replied the Captain. ‘Which is why I rarely supply my crew with it. Refinement is not a virtue in the human material from which our Navy is formed. Our Jack Tars need to be as hard as granite. If they were made of less stern stuff, then the empire we command would not be ours for much longer.’
‘Refinement!’ The Admiral snorted. He clearly thought this conversation was ridiculous. ‘There’s no danger of refinement in the men of the lower deck. A greater set of rascals you’d never meet. Most are, in truth, the sweepings of our gaols. Most of them mix their words and oaths in near-equal proportion, unless they’ve the stern eye of a bosun’s mate overlooking them. If you see them on land, they commonly indulge in drunkenness and foul language, and render themselves easy prey to the harpies that wait in all our ports. And yet,’ here the Admiral really got into his stride, perhaps wishing to make amends for these observations for those of us present he was so roundly abusing, ‘our gallant sons of the waves have stood fast against the united powers of Europe. These bold fighting fellows are buffeted by the oceans day in and day out, they are baked alive in Antigua, or turned to icicles in Hudson Bay. Yet there’s rarely a ship where the captain would say there was not a man or officer among his crew he’d wish to change.’
‘Hurrah, hurrah,’ went the lieutenants – the toadies – and raised their glasses.
Then conversation turned to America where, Lady Beverly lamented, there was ‘a most disgusting equality’. She went on to condemn the Americans as traitors fit only to be hung, drawn and quartered. Here Miss Beverly piped up, complaining of ‘the barbarous use of English’.
‘I hear they call any wide street an avenue,’ she continued, ‘regardless of whether there are trees either side of it or not. Cousin Henry has recently returned from New England, and was pained by how rarely one hears a sentence correctly pronounced.’
I looked over at Richard, hoping to find a glint of amusement in his eye. But I saw only cold contempt. I’m glad I did. If he had been stifling a laugh, I too might have joined him.
But then, rather to my surprise, Captain Mandeville drew this conversation to an end by remarking that he had served with several Americans, and indeed several were even among his crew today, and that they were all fine men.
‘Despite our recent difficulties,’ he said, ‘America and Britain still have close ties and even warm feelings towards one another.’
Dislike him as I did, I admired him for having the courage to voice a clearly unpopular opinion, and for some small defence of my friend.
His words were well chosen. ‘Quite so, Mandeville, quite so,’ said the Admiral firmly. His wife shrugged in a non-committal way and Miss Beverly blushed a little, perhaps wondering if she had incurred her father’s displeasure.
Talk swiftly turned to lighter matters. When the party finished the Admiral and his girls were escorted away with much ceremony. I watched them go, and wondered when I would ever see any three girls as lovely as those.
After the guests had gone Richard and I helped the Captain’s other servants to clear away the table and prepare the cabin for the next day. Mandeville returned. He took us two boys to one side, and gave us each a shilling.
‘You did well, lads,’ he said. ‘You may yet have the honour of waiting on my guests again.’ Then he went over to the cat basket, which had been placed by the window. ‘Witchall, take responsibility for this. I can’t stand the wretched things myself. But look after it well. If Miss Beverly visits again, I’d like her to know that “Bounder” here is thriving.’
I was surprised that Mandeville had remembered my name, although he had already half forgotten the cat’s. I felt embarrassed by this sudden geniality, and hurriedly saluted and scurried away. Bouncer, no doubt taken from his mother only the day before, mewled pitifully in his basket. The cook came over and called me into the galley. A saucer of milk was produced, and then a few scraps of pork. The cook slipped a few slivers over to me too, with a quick wink, and I wolfed them down. I had not tasted meat as good as this since I left home.
I crept back to the mess deck and placed Bouncer and his basket under my hammock. But he kept up a lonely meowing and other men, sleeping nearby, began to complain. I plucked him out, and he snuggled up next to me – warm and purring. Having him there in my hammock brought me some contentment, and I fell asleep almost at once.
That night I dreamed of home. I was sitting by the fire. Outside, dusk was falling over snow-covered fields. Light from the fading sun bathed the scene in a pink glow, casting long shadows over the hedgerows. Pepper, our family cat, was sitting by the window sill, meowing to be let out. I felt safe and warm and snug, until the day began with the bosun’s cry of ‘OUT OR DOWN’.
When I woke, the cat was no longer there, although he had left a small damp patch on my bedding. I found him lurking around the galley. Word quickly got round the men that the Miranda had acquired a ship’s cat, and that I was entrusted with its care. The cat adjusted to life aboard the boat well enough. The cook would feed him scraps, and I dare say his diet was as good as ours. Every so often Bouncer would go missing, and I would spend an anxious half hour scouring the ship. Being responsible for the cat was a mixed blessing. If any harm should come to him, I was sure Captain Mandeville would hold me responsible. Some of the crew sensed my concern, and told me lurid tales about what happened to the ship’s previous cat.
‘Took him to the hold, to get rid of the rats, and nothing more was ’eard of him,’ said Edmund Ackersley. ‘’Cept they found a bit of his tail among the ballast.’
‘That Bouncer’s a fine-looking cat,’ said Tom Shepherd, ‘but I don’t like having them aboard. I was on a coastal trader a few years back, sailing out of London. There was a cat on that – MacTavish he was called. Big black hairy thing with green eyes. Belonged to the cook. Always scurrying round the galley, begging for scraps. One day, when we were docked at Whitby, a coal from the oven dropped out and landed right on his back.’
‘Poor old thing.’ I winced.
‘Cat shot into the air,’ Tom went on, ‘screeched like a mad thing, then shot off down into the hold with its back on fire. Went straight into a cargo of hemp, which went up like a tinder box. That we could have dealt with, only there were twenty-odd barrels of gunpowder right next to it. We all ran off that ship as fast as we could. It blew half the quayside to pieces. Funny thing is, the cat survived. He came out from under the hemp, still blazing, then blundered straight into the bilgewater in the keel. That put him out, and he ran up the stairs straight off the ship. The cook was distraught. He cared more about where the cat was than what had happened to the ship.’
Bouncer soon grew out of his little basket. The carpenter made him a larger one so he could nest among the sheep and goats in the pens in the upper deck. Sometimes he slept there, among his fellow creatures, and sometimes he snuggled up with me. In truth, he didn’t live up to his boisterous name, or his reputation as a ratter. Bouncer was a soft and friendly cat, and small for a Tom. Many of the crew doted on him, giving him an affection they could not lavish on their absent wives or children. Small he may have been, but he grew quite portly on all the scraps he was given.
Many of the more superstitious members of the crew were sure the cat could sense the restless spirits said to haunt the ship. Sometimes, especially at night, Bouncer would stop dead, and his tail would bristle and shoot up. He’d hiss and spit, then back away. Richard was convinced he’d seen a rat. I wasn’t so sure . . .
‘I like this cat,’ I said to Richard when Bouncer leaped up to sit on my lap. ‘But I don’t like having to be responsible for him. Mandeville would have my guts for garters if anything happened to him.’
‘No fear, Sam. I have a brilliant idea,’ said Richard. ‘We need an understudy in case he meets an untimely end. What we need is a lady cat, and a set of kittens. We can pick the one that’s most like his dad, and keep him hidden away. If Bouncer goes over the side, or gets eaten by the rats, we’ll just substitute the other one. I’ll bet the Captain, and his lady friend, if she ever comes back, won’t notice the difference.’
‘Richard,’ I said, ‘how on earth are we going to find a lady cat in the middle of the Gulf of Cadiz?’
‘He’ll have to make do with a catfish,’ said Richard. ‘Maybe Ben’s mermaids will have one as a pet.’