His Majesty's Ship (18 page)

      
Gregory, who had just taken the watch, bellowed the order, while boatswain’s mates appeared, and piped impudently against the screaming wind. The afterguard mainly consisted of marines and landsmen. They staggered to their positions at the braces, while Humble and Gregory organised the coordination of wheel and yards, so that
Vigilant
could shelter in relative safety and ride out the storm.

      
From his refuge by the larboard bulwalk, Flint heard the order and drew a deep sigh of relief. He had been on deck since before nightfall, his sodden clothes preventing him from going below for even half an hour's rest. Four times he had gone aloft, first to take in the forecourse, then to reef topsails each time the wind increased. Had they been on some mission that demanded maximum speed, whatever the weather, he might well have been called upon to set storm canvas; the worst of jobs, and one that had caused the death of many men in the past.

      
The hull reeled unexpectedly as she turned, before beginning a sickening roll while the braces came round and took the pressure off the masts and shrouds. Almost immediately
Vigilant
dipped, allowing the sea to wash over her deck, but her lack of resistance drew the force from the oncoming waves and she soon settled into a regular motion. She had ceased to fight, although it was not defeat, merely a temporary truce.

      
The bell rang twice; one o'clock in the morning. Flint was officially off duty for the next three hours, and it was almost worth going below, providing he had a set of dry clothes, and the energy to change into them. To “turn in wet and come up steaming” was the alternative, and the idea held little appeal. Instead he dropped down into the waist, and clambered under the shelter of the weather gangway. Beyond him he could make out the vague forms of Crehan and Simpson, both still manacled in the bilboes that would not be removed until their punishment was decided upon. They too would be wet and cold, but Flint, usually a compassionate man, spared them no thought; he was weary, horribly so, and needed sleep. He tugged his sodden jacket about his shoulders, and tucked his face into the lee of the bulwark. By pulling his cap down and resting his head upon his arm he could keep his head warm and his mouth clear of the deck, while the gangway, and his back would keep out all but the worst of the weather. The position could never be considered comfortable, but his needs were sufficed for the moment. Before long Flint had adjusted to the motion, as
Vigilant
wallowed in the heavy sea, and he too gave in, allowing sleep to wash over and carry him under.
 

*****

      
The midshipmen's berth was damp and stuffy. Pite hung his oilskins outside and ducked under the narrow entrance. His eyes were already accustomed to the gloom, and yet it still took several seconds to make out Hayes, Mintey and Roberts seated round the mess table.

      
He picked up a stool that had fallen over and joined them. The remains of supper lay on the table; Pite helped himself to biscuit and accepted a tumbler of wine from Hayes.

      
“What's it like up?” Roberts asked, his eyes round in the doubtful light from a single sconce. Pite remembered that this was Roberts' first proper blow, and decided not to tease the boy.

      
“Been through the worst, I reckon.” he said confidently. “See it quieter by dawn.”

      
Roberts nodded, although he still had a strained look on his face.

      
“What of the convoy?” Mintey this time; at thirty-seven he was old for a midshipman, and more experienced than many of the lieutenants.

      
“Convoy's on the Atlantic,” Pite answered. “Other than that I couldn't say.”

      
“Is the ship sound?” Roberts again.

      
Mintey snorted, “If twern't, Mr Roberts,” he banged on the spirketting that lined hull of the ship, barely feet away from each of them. “We'd all know 'bout it!”

      
The other two laughed, and even Roberts allowed a faint smile. It was not unheard of for a plank to spring in weather such as this, and when one could go, two might easily follow. The British Navy had lost more vessels to foundering than enemy action, and better set up ships than
Vigilant
had gone to the bottom in heavy weather.

      
“Is there any meat to go with this biscuit?” Pite asked as he cleaned a fork by stabbing it through a piece of the canvas that covered the table. Hayes shook his head.

      
“Nothin' cooked. One of the boatswain's mates reckons he's a rat's nest in the cable tier, but we'd never be 'lowed a fire.”

      
Pite put the fork down and stood up, his head bent to miss the low deckhead.

      
“Better turn in, then.” he said, and at that moment they all heard the crack.

      
It was loud and sharp, like a pistol shot. No one spoke; the noise of rushing water that followed said everything necessary.

      
“We've sprung!” Roberts shrieked hysterically, although the expression on the other men's faces was no less calm. The berth was cleared in seconds and outside, in the gloom of the orlop, it was obvious that more had heard the sound.

      
Morrison, the purser, staggered towards them in a long white coat. He singled out Hayes. “Get up there, laddie and warn the quarterdeck!”

      
Hayes was gone, and a few idlers, not wanting to be trapped below the waterline in a sinking ship, followed.

      
Pite caught sight of Smith, the carpenter, who came striding from the stern, a large lanthorn in his hands.

      
“Where was the sound?” he asked. The noise of the incoming water had almost died now, presumably due to the hole being underwater; it did not look well.

      
“Further forward,” Pite said, pointing towards the main hanging magazine.

      
Smith nodded. “You, there,” he said, indicating Roberts. “The main chain pump is in use already, take two of my mates and get the second manned and active.” The difference in rank, and lack of courtesy went unnoticed by all. If a plank had started there was no one on board more important than the carpenter.

      
“Forward, you say?” Smith was lightly built, although he had a loud voice and an air of confidence that made him appear larger.

      
“I think so.”

      
The carpenter considered this. “More likely to be right at the bows or stern, but we'd better take a look.” He turned to one of his mates. “Sound the well, and report to me. I'll be in the middle hold with Mr Pite.”

      
Pite swallowed, he would rather have been detailed for Roberts' duties, besides, he only thought he knew where the sound had come from.

      
They drew back the gratings on the middle hold and stared into the black void beneath. In the noise of the storm it was impossible to say exactly what was going on. Two men appeared with ladders which were lowered into the opening.

      
Smith looked hard at Pite. “If we're leakin', barrels may be afloat. Keep your eyes about you!”

      
Pite nodded, and accepted a lanthorn from one of the bystanders. There was no time to wait for a lieutenant: it had to be done now, and Pite resigned himself to the fact that it had fallen upon him to do it.

      
Together the two men clambered over the combings, and down the ladders into the hold. The light was bad; Pite raised his lanthorn and could just make out a line of barrels lying on their sides; the first bank of several rows. The sound of water had stopped, and as he walked he felt the shingle that covered the hold through the soles of his boots. He reached down reluctantly, and felt the stones to be wet. Wet, but not actually awash. So what had caused the sound?

      
“Seems solid enough here,” Smith shouted, from his side of the hold. “Belike we'd best look for'ad.”

      
Pite heard the carpenter's words, although he was strangely reluctant to leave. Now that he was in the hold he was even more certain that it held the source of the sound. He felt his way over to the far side, next to the hull, and shone his lanthorn on the shingle. Again, just the faintest tinge of moisture from the bilges; exactly what would be expected of a ship in a storm.

      
“Come on, lad!” Smith shouted. “We've to check number one!”

      
He was quite right, time was vital, but something about the look of the shingle caught Pite's eye. There seemed to be a lot more, quite a pile in fact and of a different size and colour. He bent down, collected a piece in his fingers, and held it up to the light. His tense expression relaxed as he knelt and picked up a complete handful.

      
“Mr Smith, over here!”

      
The carpenter came quickly, staring anxiously over his lanthorn. “What is it? What you got?”

      
Pite said nothing, instead he released his grip and allowed what has been covering the hold to fall from his fingers and rattle back onto the pile with a sound like falling rain.
 

*****

      
“You'll be wantin' to see the kid,” the surgeon told him.

      
Jake nodded. “If that's 'lowd, sir”

      
“Aye. Everyone else 'as, so one more won't make no difference.” He called to Skirrow, one of his loblolly boys, a wasted looking man with a squint. “Take him to see Jameson. Not long, mind, you got them draughts to grind.”

      
Skirrow led Jake to the side of the sick bay where a cot was secured to the deck.

      
“Ain't supposed to put head wounds in 'ammocks,” he explained blithely. “Mind, the thrashin' about he's had over last day an' night, I don' sees it makes no difference. You awake, Jameson?”

      
Matthew sat up carefully in the bunk and smiled.

      
“Hey, you stay lyin',” Skirrow cautioned him, and watched until Matthew lowered himself back into his bed. “I'll leave you to talk, but I'll know if you've been muckin' 'bout. He's in our care, y'know?”

      
Skirrow shuffled off and Jake settled himself down on the deck next to him.

      
“How's it with you, then?”

      
Matthew shrugged. “Not bad.”

      
“We all thought you was a gonna. Cutter's crew reckoned you were dead when they picked you up.”

      
“Right, I was lucky.”

      
“Lucky? I'll say!” Jake quickly moderated his voice to a level more suited to the visiting of the sick. “I've heard of men fallin' off the poop ladder and not survivin'! What'dja do, anyhow?”

      
“Couple of ribs are bruised an' I banged me head. Other than that, I'm sound.”

      
“I borrowed you an apple.” Jake said, returning to more important matters. “Surgeon doesn't know, otherwise he'd probably 'ave taken it off me.” Jake held out a rather withered specimen.

      
“Thanks, but I'm gettin' good food here.”

      
“Yeah?”

      
“Yeah; raisins, soft cheese, lobscouse, bit of chocolate last night. An' soup.”

      
“I'd 'eard you do all right in sickers. Didn't know it were that good. Mind if I hang on to the apple then?”

      
“No, you keep it.”

      
Jake returned the apple to his pocket and looked around, as if searching for things to talk about.

      
“When you back to duties?”

      
“Can't say. Surgeon wants to check out me head firs'. Says it can still give trouble, headaches an the like. I got to stay out of 'ammocks an' not go aloft for a while.”

      
“'Specially when Crehan's about, right?”

      
Both boy's laughed, then Jake grew more serious.

      
“They say he could end up goin' roun' the fleet.”

      
“How's that?”

      
“Punishment. Floggin' round the fleet. Man gets rowed from ship t' ship, an flogged at each one. They can give over an 'hundred lashes, some say nearer a thousand—that's if 'e don't 'ang!”

      
“Hang?”

      
“Right. Not the sort of thing they want; people pushin' others off tops.”

      
Matthew closed his eyes for a moment, and saw the look on the Irishman's face when he knew he was going to fall. “Wasn't really 'is fault. He didn't mean me to fall. He was jus' trying to frighten.”

      
“Makes no difference; man fools about aloft, he gets punished. It's not for you, it's for the res' of us, an' to put others off doin' the same.”