His Majesty's Ship (16 page)

      
Tait looked up. “No? Why is that?”

      
“Wouldn't be no point. The only time they'd need to be armed's on the West Coast. There's pirates about that'll take a ship with nothin' more an' a rowing boat, given the chance. But no master'll have a loaded pistol comin' up Channel.” Flint flashed his teeth in a smile. “Otherwise I wouldn't 'ave jumped 'im.”
 

*****

      
In the launch Rogers had collected twelve men, five from the second ship and seven from the third. It had been his intention to allow his junior to call on the last ship, but Tait had spent so long with the first that Rogers had been forced to put himself out. The consequence was that he now felt he had been taken advantage of. In addition he would doubtless be late for wardroom dinner, and was almost soaked to the skin from the rain; all capital offences in Rogers' eyes. He sat in the sternsheets brewing curses, so that the noise of a shot ringing out across the water made him physically jump. This was compounded by the chorus of laughter that rose from Tait's boat, mirrored by grins from his own crew, and Rogers began to boil. Tait, it was clear, was making a fool of him. Leaving his senior to do the work, while he gambolled like a child, then holding him to ridicule in front of his own men. A lesson might be in order; something to show Tait just what kind of man he was dealing with. He glared at the hands as they rowed him back to
Vigilant
, while his mind selected a suitable way of evening the score, and asserting his proper position. Tait would be sorry, he would make absolutely certain of that.

CHAPTER NINE

      
Whatever ideas Dyson might have had about keeping the men busy were in total accord with the heavens. On the fourth day of the voyage, when
Vigilant
and her convoy were about to leave the Channel and enter the Atlantic proper, the weather started to deteriorate. Mr Humble noticed the first signs as the pressure reading on his glass began to fall. He came out on deck and sniffed the air.

      
“Somethin' in the wind, master?” Lieutenant Timothy had the watch and was as concerned about the weather as Humble.

      
The master shook his head. “Gonna blow a storm 'fore long,” he said. Both men looked up to the sky. It was late into the first dog watch and the light was going fast, but still the mackerel clouds were unmistakable.

      
“Stratocumulus,” Timothy said, enjoying the word. The various names for cloud formations had been part of his preparation, although for him they held a more poetic ring. The master nodded, conscious that of late he had been inclined to forget one or two of the new fangled terms. He guessed that old age was to blame, and consoled himself with the knowledge that he was a born sailor and would always be able to recognise a dangerous sky.

      
“Be on us afore dawn,” he grumbled.

      
There was another matter to take into consideration;
Vigilant
was sailing with a draft of fresh men: about one in fifteen were new to the ship, and a good proportion of those, landsmen. Ships had left Portsmouth with far worse crews, although at least two weeks at sea would normally be needed to polish up the old hands, and break in the new. A storm this early was a serious matter, and would certainly put a strain on the capable.

      
“I'll mention it to the captain,” Humble muttered. Timothy nodded; the captain would have to know. He would also have to worry about the convoy. Timothy had no idea how well the merchants were crewed, but their station keeping had been appalling since Spithead. They might survive a squall without separating, but a full blown gale would be a different proposition. Something caught his eye, and he switched back to a more immediate problem without effort.

      
“You there; stand still!” Two youngsters were gambolling on the foretop. Hearing Timothy's voice they froze like the guilty children they were. “Behave that way an' you'll be the first to leave this ship!” Skylarking may be approved of on still, quiet evenings, but not when a storm was brewing.

      
The youngsters sank from sight, as the master went below and Timothy began to pace the weather side of the quarterdeck. At a turn he paused and took time to stare out at the sea. The water was iron grey, with just a hint of opacity at the borders of each wave. It moved with an inner power that was quite beyond him, and yet the fact of its presence thrilled Timothy in an inexpressible way.
 

      
“Watch your luff,” he growled, and the helmsmen allowed the ship to fall off a little. His eyes returned to the sea, and the magical spectacle that was being played out before him. Occasionally the wind scraped a line of crystal white that contrasted with the grey and died almost as soon as it had been created. The heave of the deck made him a part of it all, and he felt humble in the presence of such force and majesty. Yes, the captain would have a lot to think about, and as far as Lieutenant Timothy was concerned, he was welcome.
 

*****

      
“That man would spot a bedbug on a royal!” Jake grumbled. The foretop was usually a safe place to jolly; almost out of sight of the quarterdeck, especially when the main course was set. That was one reason for choosing it when taking Matthew on his first trip aloft.

      
“You'd better get movin',” Pamplin, a senior topmen, told them.

      
“Aye,” said Copley, Pamplin’s particular friend. Both men were off duty, and had chosen the foretop as a quiet place to be together. “That beamy 'un's a shark. If e's got 'is eye on you, it'll be the worse for the res' of us.”

      
Jake turned to Matthew. “Come on, Matt, take you to the crosstrees?”

      
Matthew grinned and nodded. He seemed quite at home aloft, with none of the stupid giddiness that some had when their feet left the deck. The boys made for the shrouds.

      
“'member why we takes the weather side?” Jake began.

      
“I know,” Matthew stammered. “That way the weight goes down an' the wind blows you against the shrouds, not off them.”

      
Jake grinned, “'S right. An' if
I
go, mind you shout, m-m-man overboard!”

      
They began to climb. The shrouds were narrower and closer together now, and the wind, which was gaining strength with every foot, certainly held them hard against the lines. Matthew and Jake ascended quickly, their bodies knocking together as the shrouds converged. The soles of Matthew's feet hurt from the unaccustomed harshness of the ratlines, but he was enjoying himself, and determined not to let Jake pass him without a fight. In fact he pulled slightly ahead, and was the first to reach the futtock shrouds, and the precarious safety of the crosstrees. He looked down at Jake complacently as he touched the smooth wooden frame.

      
“I see, a visitor, is it?”

      
The voice cut deep into Matthew's soul, and all thoughts of the game were dismissed. He looked up cautiously. It was Crehan.

      
“So come on up, let me show you about.” Crehan, stationed as lookout at the foretopgallant masthead, had heard the boys climbing, and was ready to meet them on the topmast crosstrees. He held his hand out to Matthew, who paused uncertainly. Surely there was little Crehan could do to him here? Whatever resentment the man held, it could not extend to wishing him dead. Unaware, Jake nudged him good naturedly from below, as he warily extended his hand to the man.

      
“That's the spirit,” his grip was hard and painful; as soon as he had Matthew's arm in his hand, he seemed to take over, pulling the boy up and away from the safety of the shrouds.

      
“Let's get you nice an' safe, shall we?” He was supporting Matthew's entire weight now, and for the first time the boy felt conscious of the height, and of the deck circling steadily beneath them.

      
“Jus' plant y'r here.” He laughed, holding Matthew above the crosstrees so that his feet were inches from the supports. Matthew looked into his eyes and knew the simple pleasure within. Crehan was treating him with the same callous disregard a child might have for an insect.

      
“Let me down.” he said, his voice breaking.

      
“Let you down, is it?” Crehan laughed, and swung the lad so that his body swayed sideways like the pendulum of a clock.

      
“You 'eard, let him down!” Jake was now on the futtock shrouds and level with the crosstrees, but could do little to help his friend. “Let 'im down, or I'll report you!”

      
Something struck a chord, and Crehan looked down at Jake, his face reddening.

      
“Oh, report me, would, you? Seems you've found a friend here, right enough; real peas in a pod, you two are!”

      
Matthew was still dangling, and could feel Crehan's grip slip slightly.

      
“I'm goin'!” he shrieked. Crehan turned back to him, his pleasure renewed.

      
“You'll go when I says you will.”

      
Matthew felt the grip slacken again, and shouted out. The Irishman's face turned to meet his as he realised he had misjudged. He went to pull Matthew in: the boy brushed the firm wood of the crosstrees with his foot, but it was only a fleeting touch. Crehan's grip slipped on his arm as he reached out with his other hand. For several seconds the Irishman struggled to pull Matthew up onto the perch, and had almost succeeded when a sudden blast of wind caught and spun him. The boy shouted and raised his hand to Crehan, who stretched out for him. Then Matthew fell.

      
It happened almost slowly. A flash of Jake's concerned face, then the topsail billowing out beside him. Pamplin shouting from the foretop as he passed, close enough to almost catch. He bashed against the forecourse yard, fought for a grip, and hung crookedly for a split second, before falling once more. Falling, but still conscious, and still fighting.

      
Then he was amongst the massive forecourse, the wind blasting him into the belly of the sail. His body scraped against the canvas; the burn of the course material against his fingers as he battled for a hold. He spun sideways, and caught a glance at the quarterdeck and poop. Everthing appeared normal, as if nothing had happened. Only he was behaving strangely in his private, exposed, battle. The sail tried to swallow him; he grappled with it and almost held, but the force that dragged him down was stronger.

      
There was sudden brightness and a loud noise close to his head that made him start. The pain flowed like a thrill down his back. Then nothing was beneath him. He struck out and gasped, body flailing in the empty, open air; fighting the pull that dragged him down. Anger welled up inside, and he gave out one single robust yell, before he closed his eyes and hit the solid floor of the sea.
 

*****

      
Vigilant
was now riding heavy waves, and the unaccustomed motion, combined with the long spell at anchor, brought out feelings of seasickness in even the most seasoned of her people. Dyson, sitting in the only private space available at that time, the chartroom next to the captain's quarters, was experiencing distinct feelings of unease as he interviewed King in the cramped and stuffy office.

      
“And you have no idea what they were doing aloft?”

      
King shook his head. “I was off watch, sir, as indeed they were. Diggins is quite experienced; he could have been taking Jameson up to show him the ropes.”

      
Dyson nodded. King's conjecture fitted exactly with Diggins' statement. Skylarking, the unofficial climbing of the shrouds, was allowed only when conditions were good. It was still common however at all times and, in Dyson's view, probably a better way for landsmen to learn than being harried up by some bullying boatswain's mate with a starter.

      
“What about Crehan; were you conscious of friction between the two?”

      
King paused for a moment. “There was the incident at the rating board, sir.”

      
“I am aware of that, but since then?”

      
Dyson was looking at him intently, watching every change of expression as King thought through the events of the last few days. “Yes, there was something else, Mr Critchley caught them together in the heads.”

      
“I see.” Dyson withdrew his pen from his coat pocket and tapped it on the desk thoughtfully. “They were alone, I take it.”

      
“Yes, sir. Although Mr Critchley said he thought Crehan was plaguing the boy.”

      
“Do you think Crehan has a liking?” Although illegal, consenting homosexuality was tolerated on some ships, but there were few officers who would not intervene when a lad was involved.