His Majesty's Ship (6 page)

      
“D'ya have any dunnage?” Flint asked him.

      
The word threw him for no more than a second; he guessed what Flint must be referring to. “Spare set of clothes an' a bedding roll.”

      
“You'll need more'n that, and we'd better get you hammocks and biscuits, 'fore they all go.”

      
“What about the other man?”

      
Flint snorted. “He's the type who looks after hisself.”

      
This deck was darker and lower than all the others, and there were no ports, scuttles or guns. Matthew guessed that they were on or below the waterline. Flint walked in an assured way, nodding a greeting here and there, while speeding along, his back slightly bent and head lowered, missing the beams above by a fraction of an inch. Matthew scampered along next to him, without the ease and economy of movement that Flint seemed to possess naturally.

      
He stopped by a panelled deal door and rapped lightly on the shutter.

      
“New hand to see the purser,” Flint told the elderly man who appeared at the entrance.

      
“Let them through!” came a deep Scottish voice from within, and the elderly man stepped back to allow the two inside.

      
Morrison, the purser who had signed Matthew in that morning, sat on a stool at a small desk. To his right was a pile of ledgers while another was laid open in front of him. About the room there were several unlabelled tubs, and as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Matthew noticed the light dusting of flour that seemed to cover every surface. The air was thick with the smell of burning tallow, raisins and rancid butter. Morrison viewed the pair with professional interest.

      
“Your new laddie, Flint?”

      
“Aye, Mr Morrison. I'd like to kit him out.”

      
“What will ye be wantin'?”

      
“Hammock, blanket, biscuits, soap, knife...”

      
“Steady, steady!” Morrison wagged his quill at Flint. “There's some he's 'titled to, and some he's not.”

      
Flint grinned. “I'll go through the normal with Jack Dusty, Mr Morrison.” Flint glanced back at the elderly man. “But we'd ‘preciate a few specials from y'rself, sir.”

      
Morrison smiled at Flint and got up from his stool. “You come wi' me, boys, an' I see what I ca' do.”

      
Before the watch was called Matthew had two hammocks, plus biscuits which he learnt were the hard mattresses that went inside. He also had a heavy blanket, a pillow, a brown pea jacket, two pairs of white duck trousers, two worsted caps, three shirts, and a knife. The last few items he had bought himself, using the bounty guinea and a promissory note, which Flint had helped him to write out. The purser said he would destroy the note when Matthew's earnings covered it, although Flint was strangely insistent that it should be returned instead.

      
“We'll dump that lot in a ditty bag.” They were now heading back to their mess deck, although Matthew was finding it hard to keep up, his arms overflowing with kit. “First dog watch I'll take you back to t'orlop and you can stow some in my chest.”

      
“Thank you,” Matthew was more grateful than he could say, and not just for the share of a sea chest.

      
Flint caught his eye as they climbed up the companionway. “I'm not saying it's gonna be easy,” he said. “An' I won't always help you—even if I'm able. You've found yr'self an enemy, and that kind's a nasty one, so I reckon you need a friend or two to make a balance.”

      
The mess table had been taken up, and the men stood about. For the first time Matthew noticed the line of canvas bags hanging from the ship's side. Flint went over and collected an empty one, and Matthew piled the clothing into it. There were no hammocks about; for a moment Matthew wondered what to do with his, then taking the initiative, he laid them in a neat pile under the bag.

      
A bell rang from above, and the ship was suddenly alive with piercing whistles and shouts. The bell continued to ring; measured strokes about half a second apart, until it had rung eight times. Even before it had finished Flint was gone, and heading the swarm of men that made for the companionway. The deck was filled with rushing bodies and excited cries; Matthew caught sight of two men he recognised from his mess, and stayed behind them as they reached the upper deck and daylight.
 

*****

      
The cockpit was also on the orlop deck, the lowest deck of the ship and, due to its lack of ventilation and proximity to the bilges, the smelliest. The berth was divided into two, and housed the midshipmen and master's mates as well as several other inferior warrant officers. At that moment the starboard berth was full. Some were eating or drinking, and a group of four played cards about a single shielded sconce. A few hammocks were filled with sleeping or resting bodies, and there was a general clatter of conversation that was a characteristic of the berth for most hours of the day.

      
Mr Midshipman King lay in his hammock although he had no plans for sleep. In his hand he held a copy of Hamilton Moore's
Practical Navigator
, an essential book for any man wanting to gain a commission. He mouthed the words silently to himself as he trudged down the page. King had always found reading a slow process, although he was usually able to gather the gist of a story by missing out the odd indecipherable word. But dry prose such as this gave him few clues, and he ended each paragraph with the air of one who had completed a particularly boring task knowing full well it would have to be repeated once more.

      
The purser's dip, his source of light that added yet more to the oppressive atmosphere, guttered slightly as Pite entered the berth. King glanced down at him. Pite had the second dogwatch that ran from six until eight. He'd only just gone on duty, and even though they were at anchor, his rightful place was on deck.

      
“Forget something?” King asked, pleased to be distracted from his book.

      
“Aye, forgot to tell the bosun how to spin a yarn.” At seventeen Pite was three years younger than King.

      
“Dressed, are you?” Pite rested his arms on King's hammock, making it tilt alarmingly. King was in shirt and second best britches, his blue jacket hung on the row of hooks on the deal wall of the berth.

      
“Pretty well, why d'ya ask?”

      
Pite shrugged. “Sumfin' about the captain wantin' to see you in his quarters.” King was out of his hammock in one easy motion and reaching for his coat as his feet hit the deck.

      
“This had better not be one of your japes, my lad!” His hat was dusty, desperately he tried to brush the nap, but like most of King's possessions it was cheap and refused to come clean. Wordlessly Pite handed over his own hat, a far better affair; one of three bought for him by his indulgent father. King looked his thanks, pulled his jacket into shape, and headed out of the berth.

      
Pite watched him go somewhat wistfully, before picking up King's battered hat, stuffing it under his own arm, and making a more leisurely progress back to the quarterdeck.
 

*****

      
According to Lieutenant Timothy, Cowper's poem about the loss of the
Royal George
, still popular twelve years after the incident, was nothing but tiresome doggerel. Though short and slightly plump, Timothy was every inch a professional officer, and dedicated to the sea. He knew his own mind, could not tolerate a fool, yet found no shame in taking his poetry in sweeter, softer measures. Not for him the rambling passages of Coleridge; cryptic and clever phrases only taxed his mind and hurt his head. But Marvell, Donne, Gray, these were men worth reading. Men of passion and intensity; tenderness, love and lust. Men he could relate to, however coarse his own character and world may have become.

      
The fall of the dogwatches meant that, after only two hours on duty, he now had eight in which to relax, although with the ship preparing for sea, no officer could look for recreation in the time when not working or asleep. Still, on most days Lieutenant Timothy read at least a few pages from one of his well thumbed volumes, successors to the anthology of verse that his mother had given to him when he had first joined the Navy.

      
His father had hoped he would follow his own trade of bookbinding, but the lure of the sea had been too strong. Besides, Timothy felt there would be more romance and excitement on foreign oceans than ever entered an airless workshop. To be a naval officer, and have access to poetry was all he had ever aspired to, and he was quite content. Today he found the fragrant words a welcome contrast to the work of heaving the ship back to her real purpose. After a tiring spell of duty supervising the loading, to relax in the comfort of well remembered lines and phrases was as welcome to him as any spirit or tobacco.

      
At that moment the wardroom was empty, save for the snoring of some anonymous officer in a screened off cabin, and Timothy was able to place his book down flat on the table, rest his head in his hands and read in comfort, lips moving in silent sympathy with another's thoughts. His fellow officers knew nothing of this strange habit, and never would, if Timothy had anything to do with it. He had undergone untold humiliations in the gunroom and the cockpit, where his contemporaries made merry play of the fact that mere words could stir emotions deep inside him; emotions that most of them would never know or understand. Now, despite reaching the status of a commissioned officer and mixing with those known as gentlemen, he had no intention of allowing anyone else to share his secret.

      
Absent-mindedly he reached for the bread bin, and selected a piece of soft tack, which he tapped on the worn table in time to the measure of the verse. That first book had been torn apart, and with it a piece of James Timothy was altered for ever. His outrage had opened a vein of anger; one that drove him to assert himself in a way he would probably never have managed alone. Though shorter, and certainly no stronger, he had fought the lout who had done the dreadful thing. Fought him and won, although nothing could remove the horror of his mother's last present being shredded about the warrant officers' round house like so much bumfodder. It was an image that stayed with him, and one he freely recalled whenever he felt he was turning soft and the need came for a more forceful personality to make an appearance.

      
“Reading, James?”

      
It was Tait, probably closest to him in temperament although several years younger. He walked into the wardroom, a friendly smile on his face and settled down on the chair opposite.

      
“Just off watch,” Timothy explained smiling cautiously back, and raising the book like a small barrier between them. “I like to relax a bit if I can.”

      
Tait nodded, he knew the feeling well, although he had never found any book particularly relaxing. Casually he leaned across and peered at the leather spine.

      
“
Dr. Seally's Geographical Dictionary
?” he muttered, surprised. “Hardly light reading. Planning on getting lost, are we?”

      
Timothy gave a neutral smile and continued to read; there were some advantages in being the son of a bookbinder.

CHAPTER FOUR

      
“It won't be half so crowded once we're clear of Spithead.” Jenkins was attaching the clews of Matthew's hammock to rings set in the beams of the deckhead. To the young man's eyes the knots he tied appeared rather too simple, but Jenkins had the air of a seaman, and he decided to trust him.

      
“See, at the moment larboard and starboard watch is all below, so's we has to share with 'em. You get fourteen inches to sling y'r hammock, take more'n that, an' yer on a charge, for stealing another man's space.” He pulled the line tight. “But we berths one and one, the two on either side o'you will mostlikes be on watch, so main times you get more room.” Now he had tied both ends, and the empty hammock swung perilously.

      
“Then yer takes yer biscuit, yer blanket and yer pillow, stuffs them inside, like so,” he pressed the straw filled mattress into place. “Gets yerself in, pull the blanket over, an' you'll sleep tight.”

      
Matthew paused. The other members of his mess were also preparing their hammocks, except now all had stopped and were silent, clearly intending to watch him. He had long ago learned that putting off the inevitable only aggravated matters, and with a half skip he leapt up and across the canvas, intending to straighten himself once secured.

      
Of all the damnedest jokes—the hammock slipped away and he found himself heading sideways for the deck. Desperately he pushed a knee and a hand out and felt the jolt as they hit. He rolled to one side, stunned, but aware of the laughter all about him. Tears welled up behind his eyes, although he guessed that to cry would only make the mocking that much worse. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself stiffly from the deck and drew a hand across his eyes, before looking at his messmates.