Powder Monkey (7 page)

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.