Infernal Revolutions (12 page)

A creaking old ‘64 that went down a storm with enthusiasts for
real sailing
, the
Twinkle
did nothing for me except remove a coat of bile from my stomach. It had been built at Chatham in 1742 as a coal collier, and converted and reconverted several times since as wars demanded. This blurring of purpose had created a vessel of notorious handling, a fact I would vouch for at any hearing, so often was I lurched almost overboard in seas so calm we were drifting backwards. Reviled by sailors, vomited continually upon by soldiers, it was loved at least by rats, which swarmed around its decks in prodigious numbers. Control of the hordes was attempted by the laying of a poisonous paste comprising of arsenic, lump sugar, wheatmeal and water, but though several thousand rats were killed by this means, it also accounted for the lives of two little stowaways who had hidden in the hold, and was therefore subsequently abandoned in favour of simple cudgelling.

But at least the stowaways were out of the living hell that was life belowdecks, and many of us sincerely envied them. No more did they have to suffer the miseries of damp, seasickness, hunger, thirst, heat, cold, headaches, constipation, lice, mouth-rot, boils, the flux and typhus – all of which tormented the rest of us before we had even reached Ireland. And as if these standard privations of life afloat were not enough, we were commanded by Captain George Dobermann, one of the most feared and fearless men in the British Navy. A toothless old cliché of a salt with a limitless capacity for Madeira and whoring, Dobermann was the man most credited with making the British Navy what it was today, viz. savage and merciless. On reputation alone we were terrified of him, although we were assured by the crew that he was some degrees below his usual level of cruelty on this trip. This was perhaps due, some opined diffidently, to the recent death of his wife after forty years of marriage; only diffidently, because by a rough calculation he could not have spent more than six months with her in all that time. Whatever the true reason, however, it unnerved me to see a former tyrant shuffling pathetically along the quarterdeck every afternoon, lonely and preoccupied. What was going on behind those sad, rheumy eyes? What malice was left in that drowsy wasp? What if we encountered an enemy ship, and Captain Dobermann, bereft of anything to live for, decided to seize the opportunity to do something crazily daring with his obedient
Twinkle
crew? ‘Twould clearly be a no-loss scenario for him, for if he failed to take us all with him to the bottom of the ocean he would be commended for his bravery by an impressed Admiral Howe, and subsequently lionized by all stratas of society, with inevitable return of his spite and spark. This was a dread that lived with me for the whole voyage, but, as it turned out, I need not have worried. The only enemy ship we met on the crossing was an American whaler returning home to Nantucket, and not even a Captain Dobermann deprived of a will to live could have wanted to attack that.

Although the Captain scared me witless, at least he was out of sight most of the time. His crew, on the other hand, were constantly in our faces, with such similar temperaments to the Captain that I often wondered whether they were by-blows of his. Aggressive and unpredictable, they mostly spat tobacco juice at us in contempt whenever we pleaded for deliverance from misery. If they did talk to us, it did not take long for disputes and fights to develop, for they would argue to the death, with astounding ignorance, over subjects of extreme triviality (Was blue or red the better colour? Could dragons really fly? Which was the best star in the sky?), and constant floggings were the tiresome result. They were argumentative amongst themselves anyway, advised one friendly midshipman called Maddocks, but when soldiers were involved they were ten times worse.

‘Natural competitiveness? A desire to be Top Dog?' I suggested shyly.

‘Something like that, I suppose,' agreed the midshipman, lounging easy on a capstan, ‘or perhaps just the age-old antipathy of Bluebottles for Lobsters.'

‘And vice-versa!' shouted Ned Lester, irate over a recent flogging he'd received, ‘Don't forget vice-versa, the Bluebottled Bastards!'

Eventually it was decreed by our respective commanders – albeit in more formal language – that if we couldn't play nicely together, we'd better just ignore each other, which we did. I still watched them though, because I found them fascinating. In their blue jackets and wide blue-and-white-striped pantaloons they would scuttle off here, there and everywhere at the pipe of an officer's whistle, like ever-ready bandy-legged little monkeys. They were as brown as nuts, tremendously agile and strong, and had even more of a devil-may-care attitude than soldiers. They also had a curious air about them that was hard to put a finger on; perhaps something to do with them being part insular – having never left the confines of their ship for years – and part cosmopolitan – having sailed around the world and mixed with men, and of course women, of different nationalities. Whatever it was, with their straw hats, fluttering neckcloths, flashing earrings, talismanic tattoos and strange argot-ridden language, I thought they quite outdid my fellow soldiers for panache and sauciness – though of course this was an observation I kept strictly to myself.

Despite my close watch on their comings and goings, however, I did not spot my iron-fisted friend of embarkation day, making me wonder if he had been some sort of guardian angel, helping me to fulfil my destiny. Then again, on storm-tossed nights when I was wet, cold and shivering with fear, the wood creaking violently all around me, I realized the ridiculousness of this notion: if spectral, it was more likely that he had been an evil spirit, urging me on to destruction. Then, on day six of the voyage, I spotted him on the forecastle, gazing out to sea in a very noble and aloof manner. Just airing myself at the time with the rest of my company, doing nothing in particular, I called across:

‘Sir, did you not help me with the ships at Pompey?'

He turned round, looked at me for a few moments without comprehension, then smiled and walked over as though crossing a ballroom at Bath. I, clutching on to a rail for dear life as the ship rolled and lurched along, reluctantly extended a hand in greeting.

‘You will get used to it,' he laughed, as I clamped my hand back on the rail
pronto
. ‘Everyone does.'

‘Maybe I am an exception, Mr…er…'

‘Tetley. Isaac Tetley. Chief gunner of this ship, before you ask. Heard the cannon every morning after breakfast? That's the work of my boys. Firing practice.'

I registered genuine admiration with a whistle and a raise of my eyebrows.

‘'Tis nothing, really. The same to me as firing a musket is to you, just a job after a while.'

‘A more dangerous one though, Sir.'

‘Not on this voyage it isn't!' exclaimed Isaac with an amused grimace, dashing that giant fist down in stage exasperation, ‘That is the problem. No enemy, no battle, no danger. I am bored out of my skull.'

‘Have you been in a real sea battle?' I gulped, eyes no doubt boyishly aflame.

‘Oh, yes,' said Isaac, his own eyes now lighting up, ‘oh yes, yes, yes.'

We goggled at each other for a few moments, taking it all in from our different perspectives.

‘Noise? Smoke? Death? Blood?' I offered, visions raging.

‘All of ‘em aplenty,' confirmed Isaac, ‘and enough excitement to sink a frigate.'

I shuddered with fearful pleasure. What ecstasy there was to be had in this life, if only one were brave or stupid or lucky enough to find it. Isaac, though, was clearly not stupid.

‘But never fear,' he went on, ‘you will have your own share of excitement when you fight in America. I have been watching your daily drill and musket practice, and by God, you scare me!'

I was not sure whether this was an insult or a compliment, and dithered accordingly.

‘Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr…er….'

‘Oysterman. Harry Oysterman.'

‘Mr Oysterman…I am off up the rigging. Not my job, but I need exercise and danger to purge myself of bad humours. The officers allow me to do it because they know I would dash their brains out if they didn't. Coming?'

I recoiled instinctively, almost toppling into the heaving sea.

‘We will meet and talk again then, Sir.'

‘Indeed, Sir.'

And off he went, climbing at first slowly and carefully, then speeding up as he became accustomed to the roll of the ship. Within five minutes he was at the fore top, and within ten he was at the fore topgallant yard, standing easy and chatting amiably with a sailor on duty up there.

Still glued to the rail, I was watching the tiny figure with astonishment, unable to comprehend how anyone could achieve such a task, when a new voice piped up with a possible answer.

‘The workings of God are mysterious, my son. He distributes talents in a seemingly random manner.'

I looked down in puzzlement at a frail old man in black who had appeared under my nose.

‘Your friend may have the talent to climb the rigging, but what talent do you possess that he doesn't?'

Taken aback, I couldn't think of anything – no, not even my poetry – so I just shrugged my shoulders despondently,

‘Because depend upon it, my son, you do have a talent, perhaps many. Find it, find them, and stick to what you are good at.'

‘Have we been introduced, Sir?'

‘My name is Parson Blood, and I am your regimental chaplain, here to offer spiritual nourishment in these troubled times. I am slowly working my way round the ship in order to speak to everyone, but I am afraid my pace is rather slow, due to my age and constant seasickness.'

I thought he looked pale, but had attributed that to the Bible in his hand.

‘Please to meet you, Sir,' I said, shooting my hand out as quickly as I had to Isaac Tetley, ‘but I don't think it's spiritual nourishment I need.'

‘What sort of nourishment do you need then?'

I hesitated, wondering whether to be truthful, but the haggard look on his face suggested he had heard it all before. I looked around to make sure none of my comrades were in earshot, and whispered:

‘Food, proper food, and sex.'

As surmised, he expressed no shock at this answer.

‘I understand that, Mr…?'

Truly, I needed a name badge on my jacket this day.

‘Oysterman. Harry Oysterman.'

‘Mr Oysterman. I understand that. I would like those things myself sometimes. Indeed, I would also include wine on the list, but we can't always get these things, and if we could, we would soon tire of them. God, on the other hand, is Someone you can never tire of. He is always there for us, even in our darkest hour, providing support, solace, uplift. Ask for what you
really
want, and He will always give it.'

This sort of talk was nonsense to me – how could He give me Vickie Tremblett naked, drunk and squirming on a plate? – but I liked the man and his sincerity. I also admired him for enlisting in the army when clearly too old for the job, and trying his best in hopeless circumstances. He was nothing like the parsons I had met in Brighthelmstone, pasty wet mollies who knew more about afternoon tea and muffins than God or the sufferings of the poor. This was the man I wanted beside me when I was dying, or having a leg amputated, or some other horror. Indeed, so comforting was his presence – perhaps after all a gift from the God he was so mad about – that I decided to tip my Vickie Tremblett heartache all over him, knowing he would listen, and relay to me God's message of support.

‘You have had a lucky escape, my boy. This girl was clearly not the one for you. Better that her wantonness appeared immediately, rather than after you had married her, when it would have caused even more misery. Try to forget about her; indeed, try to forget about all girls for the moment. What good can it do to torment yourself with imaginings? Reserve your strength for the fine upstanding Christian girl who will surely come your way if you only persevere in the ways of manhood. An excellent wife is far more precious than jewels, and God will guide you towards her if He sees you are worthy enough.'

‘God must have guided you towards a cracker then, Sir, as you are far more worthy than I.'

‘He did – a beautiful woman called Rose – but it also pleased Him to take her away from me in childbirth. I have remained alone since.'

This was a bit depressing, and made God seem as capricious as a woman, not worth fawning over, but nevertheless I was heartened by the general tone of the parson's speech.

‘And is there any authority for all of this in that thing there?' I nodded towards his Bible.

‘Oh yes –
1 Corinthians 7:1
;
Proverbs 7: 24-27
and
Proverbs 31:10-31
. Amongst others.'

He seemed to know his stuff, and I was duly impressed, though the texts referred to could have been racehorses for all I knew of the Bible. I thanked him for his kindness, and went away feeling invigorated and spiritually cleansed. I even found – possibly thanks to God – that I could walk a little way on the swaying deck without holding on to anything. So inspired had I been by the meeting, that once back in my dark fetid quarters I began to hanker after a miniature Bible of my own, so that I could give it a crafty peek now and again when my messmates were asleep and thereby build up my reserves of worthiness, which I would then unleash on the first passing Christian girl. In the absence of a Bible, however, I had to make do with my homemade thoughts about God. What was He exactly? Indeed was He even a he? Perhaps He was a She or an It or just Another Name For The Unknown? Had He, She or It started the world and then left it running of its own accord, or did He, She or It have an active hand in its steering? Was He, She or It all Good, or all Bad, or like humans a mixture of both? Was there a Devil, and if so, what did He, She or It plan to do about it? I was back to metaphysical musing, and soon my brain was as fuddled as it had been on that fateful morning in my garret. Having no poetry around, I attempted to steady myself by thinking of calm things, and the most reassuring image that offered itself was not of Jesus, but of the imperturbable Isaac Tetley. I reflected that Isaac seemed to get his spiritual calm not from the Bible like Parson Blood, but from climbing the rigging and gazing out to sea, and this gave me an idea, which continued to nag me until an opportunity arose to put it into practice. So, all the while pursuing my spiritual purification (ie. no dirty thoughts, and no grog which induced them), I waited and waited until the real and metaphorical clouds lifted together, and the time was right.