HMS Diamond (19 page)

Captain Smith, who gives constant Attendance, and

expects early Applications, as it is intended to fit her out

immediately on an advantageous cruise.

Rendezvous, at the White Flag

WHERE you will be received by LT. PINE, and every

Indulgence given

that your Merit can entitle you to.

      
Well, he was there. The white flag was flying; but where were the men? Without men the ship was going nowhere, and they were supposed to get underway soon for their first assignment.

      
Pine looked up as the drummer boy began yet another desultory tattoo. It lasted for a minute or so then stopped. It was supposed to attract attention. It didn’t. No one around here cared.

      
It had been long established that Pine’s was a recruiting party, not a press gang. He was looking for volunteers and would not be clubbing anyone over the head and dragging them off. "How much easier it would be," he thought, "if I could do that." There was some talk about a quota system being instituted whereby each town had to provide a certain number of men for the King’s service; but, so far, nothing had passed. The Admiralty had added a few men and some marines to the ship, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

      
The trick was to get a man to accept a coin—the King’s Shilling, it was called. Once he possessed that coin, the man was considered to have accepted a bounty and volunteered, and that closed the deal. A lot of recruiters resorted to trickery. They would drop a shilling in the bottom of a man’s mug of ale. When he got to the bottom of his drink, saw the coin and fetched it out, the recruiter pounced and he had another new recruit. But Pine could not do that. First of all, the innkeeper had some of those new mugs with glass bottoms so a man could see what was in his tankard before he drank. And secondly, Captain Smith would not hear of it. "One volunteer is worth three pressed men, lieutenant," he kept on saying. "Yes, but three pressed men is better than nothing," he now mumbled to no one in particular.

      
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when a man sidled over to his table.

      
"Good afta noon, lieutenant. Yer ‘ave a look like yer could use some company. Can I join ye?"

      
He looked up and saw a tall brown haired man in his late 20’s holding a mug of ale. He did not look muscular at all, but something in his eyes told Pine that he knew what a day’s work was all about. Pine perked up.

      
"By all means, my good man. Please join me. I am Lieutenant Pine from the frigate
Diamond
. Perhaps you’ve seen some of our posters?"

      
"Aye, that I ‘ave."

      
"And you are?"

      
"Name’s Durbin. Cecil Durbin."

      
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." Pine held out his hand and Durbin shook it. Pine noticed the residual black marks left by rope tar on his hands. This was a seaman and no mistake about it.

      
"Yer look ter be about some recruitin’, sir. ‘ad any luck?"

      
"Well, not a great deal so far, but we’re just getting started," he lied. "You look to be a strapping lad, and a seaman to boot. Have you ever thought about serving your King and country with the Jolly Tars of the Royal Navy?"

      
Durbin finished a deep pull on his mug and set it down with a laugh. "Oh, aye sir. I ‘ave indeed. In the last war I was rated able aboard the old
Marlborough
. Was at the Saint’s."

      
Pine could hardly believe his ears. This was not just a sailor; this was a prime seaman. He must have showed his excitement, however, because the man quickly said.

      
"Before yer cop too many ideas, sir. I carry a ‘merican protection."

      
Pine expected something like this. An American protection was a document that certified he was an American citizen and thus could not be pressed into British service. The problem was that there were probably as many forged "protections" floating around as real ones, and he knew Captain Smith would not bring anyone into the navy against his will.

      
"I see," said Pine, somewhat dejected. "But you know that protection doesn’t mean you can’t volunteer."

      
"Yus, sir. I’m well orare a that."

      
Nothing much was said for a while. Durbin stared into his mug of ale and Pine stared at his now ruined poster. Finally, Durbin, as if having made a decision, spoke up.

      
"Tell me about this barky o’ yors, sir. It’s called the
Diamond
, is it?"

      
"Oh, it’s a fine ship. It truly is. It’s newly built, one of the new
Artois
class of frigates—38 guns, long, low, sleek. And the guns are 18-pounders, too; not those 12-pound toys. I can’t wait to take her out on sea trials. I’ll wager she’ll be the first ship ever to run
faster
than the wind."

      
Durbin smiled at the young lieutenant’s enthusiasm. "And this captain o’ yors... Captain Smiff?"

      
"Don’t know too much about him. He’s only been on board for a month or so, but he seems to be a wonderful officer." Pine was starting to warm back up. Maybe the man
was
interested in joining. "He was recently made a knight, you know: Sir Sidney Smith. In fact, he was also at the Battle of the Saints. Would you possibly have known him?"

      
Durbin ignored the question. "Sir Sidney now, huh, isit? Tell me lieutenant, right, does yor ship ‘ave a surgeon?"

      
"A surgeon? Better than that. He’s a physician. Dr. Walker. Now I ask you, how many frigates have a fully trained physician on board?"

      
"And would that be Lucas Walker, guv? And might ‘e ‘ave a surgeon’s mate by the name o’ Whitney? Susan Whitney?"

      
They really weren’t questions. They were statements and Pine couldn’t imagine how this man knew their names. Just as he was about to ask, the man went on.

      
"Tell me lieutenant. ‘ow many men do yer need ter get this barky o’ yors underway?"

      
"To operate her safely, at least 50 more. To be really effective, more like 75 to 80."

      
"I see." And with that the man abruptly got up, nodded and said. "Well, it’s been nice goin’ on wiv yer lieutenant. Good luck wiv yor recruitin’," and he sauntered out the door.

      
***

      
"And so, sir, that’s about the size of it." Pine sat dejected on the overstuffed couch in the Captain’s Cabin.

      
"I tried everything I could think of for 10 days and... nothing. Not a single recruit. I am sorry, sir; but I’ve failed."

      
Smith was even unhappier than Pine but he couldn’t show it. To do so now would destroy the confidence of the young lieutenant and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

      
"I am sorry too, but I don’t believe it’s your fault at all, lieutenant. There are recruiters and press gangs operating all over southern England; and the problem is that the really experienced hands are just that. Experienced. They know how to lay low when the press is on and come out again when they, or the recruiters, have passed.

      
"My problem is how to report to the Admiralty that they’ve just spent over £23,000 on a brand new ship that her captain can’t get underway for want of men."

      
"But surely they would understand that..."

      
"Lieutenant, I have no doubt that some day you’ll have a ship of your own. When you do, you’ll receive a set of orders very similar to the ones I received. In it there is a sentence that reads: ‘neither you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril.’ They mean that, lieutenant. They’re not interested in the odds against you when you recruit, just as they’re not interested in the odds against you when you fight. In either case, you’re expected to win and nothing less than that is even remotely acceptable."

      
Smith was about to go on with his tutorial, when he heard the marine guard outside his door call out.

      
"Sir! Midshipman Knight!"

      
"Send him in."

      
The young midshipman burst through the door, characteristically breathless. "Sir, Mr. Wilkie sends his compliments and requests your presence on the quarterdeck right away."

      
Smith was alarmed. Wilkie was the ship’s master—a sober Wesleyan—and he would not send a message like that unless it was something extremely important.

      
Smith emerged from his cabin with Pine a half step behind and took the starboard ladder up to the quarterdeck. "What is it, Mr. Wilkie?"

      
"I thought you should see this, sir," and he led him over to the larboard rail. Below them on the dock were upwards of 75 men and the common denominator among them was that they were all carrying sea bags.

      
They had arranged themselves in several groups with occasional men moving between them as they recognized old friends. They were young, old, tall, short, muscular and some almost effeminate. In addition to the men there were seven women who planned to accompany their husbands, all warrant officers, to sea.

      
The first of the groups was queuing up near the boarding gangway when a tall, brown-haired fellow separated himself, stepped on board and knuckled a salute at the astonished Smith.

      
"Sor, I ‘erd yer might be in need of some ‘ands. So, me mates and I are ‘ere ter volunteer."

      
Smith didn’t quite know what to say. "By all means. But who are you and where..."

      
Before he could complete the sentence he heard a squeal and saw Susan Whitney rush over and hug the man.

      
"Cecil! Cecil Durbin! What on earth are you doing here? My, but you’re looking good, although..." she tapped him on his stomach, "put on a bit of weight, haven’t you, you old dog?"

      
Smith turned and saw an equally puzzled Walker look back at him and shrug.

      
"Well, just a tad, mam. But a few days at sea’ll make that right, I’ll wager. Come ‘ave a look at ‘oo else is ‘ere."

      
She looked over the side and immediately started waving and laughing. "Issac Pulley, you get aboard this ship and sign-in right this minute!" And she waved some more.

      
"Over yonder’s another bloke. Ran into ‘im a few days ago. Says ‘e knows yer."

      
Smith looked over and his surprise increased. On the dock, waving back was Hugh Hayes, the man who had engineered their escape from Yorktown.

      
"He says ‘e knows Captain Smiff as well," Durbin continued. "Don’t know if that’s true, right, but ‘e mustered up about 20 of ‘is mates ter join us, so I weren’t gonna argue wiv ‘im." Durbin then lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "They’re Romney Marsh men, yer know. Prob’ly smugglers, ever last one of ‘em; but they’re all prime seamen. I’ll give ‘em that."

      
Smith was now regaining some of his composure. "Susan, what’s going on here?"

      
"This is Cecil Durbin, captain. He and Pulley down there helped me rescue some men at the Saints. You know Hugh Hayes, of course, and over there with another group is his brother, Raymond. They’ve all come to volunteer and brought their... ah... associates with them."

      
"Is that true, Durbin?"

      
"Yus, sir, ‘cept for the part where we ‘elped ter rescue all them blokes. It were Miss Susan ‘oo saved us, and we ain’t about ter forget it. B’sides," he said with a wan smile, "we’d all be caught up in a press gang sooner or later any road. Might as well join and be wiv a better class of folk, if yer cop my drift sor."

      
Smith turned around and said, "Lieutenant Pine..." but Pine had already disappeared, gathered up the ship’s muster book and was setting up a table on the fo’c’sle. The men began cuing up in a line where, before officially signing in, they had to stop before Lucas Walker for their physical. This primarily consisted of ascertaining with reasonable confidence that each man was in fact breathing, although Walker also kept a sharp eye open for any obvious signs of serious disease or mental illness. At the same time Susan had rounded up the women and pulled them aside. They would be allowed to accompany their husbands; but living aboard ship was not like living on land. She was giving them a friendly tutorial on some of the differences, as well as giving them an inconspicuous visual "physical" while she did it.