Powder Monkey (13 page)

Ben turned to me and said, ‘He's off to see Dr
Claybourne. His punishment's not over yet. Claybourne's got to put vinegar to them wounds to stop them festering.' All of us near to Ben – Tom, Silas, James – we all winced with mock sympathy.

It was a vicious beating and we had all behaved like a crowd at a Roman circus. Joshua seemed to be a conduit for all the anger and resentment and frustration the crew had kept bottled up during the voyage. Afterwards, when the men had dispersed, I felt guilty about being so callous, but there was something about being in an angry crowd that made it difficult to act differently.

A week later Joshua Leverick threw himself overboard and drowned. When a man died at sea, the crew usually auctioned off his clothes and possessions, and the money raised was sent back to the man's family. Not for Joshua, they didn't. He had broken a sacred rule. Seamen in a Navy ship have so little to protect them from the cruelty of the world, they depend on each other for help. Any man who broke that trust provoked a truly awful vengeance.

The evening after, I was sitting with Richard and Tom Shepherd in the mess. They began to talk, in hushed tones, of a book they had both read. It was called
The Rights of Man
, by someone called Tom Paine. Their discussion filled me with unease, as it seemed quite treasonous and certainly disrespectful of our king.

Tom went on to tell Richard about a reverend called Richard Price, and his Newington Green chapel, of which Tom used to be a member. ‘He's dead now, bless his soul,' said Tom, ‘but he changed my way of looking at the world.'

Tom and the reverend held views which shocked me, especially their support of the French Revolution. To me, and everyone else in Wroxham, the revolutionaries were worse than a pack of wolves. Instruments of Satan, the Reverend Chatham had called them, especially when they rolled out their guillotines and began to execute all the French nobles. We in the village all believed the rich man at his castle and poor man at his gate were part of God's preordained world.

But when I listened to Tom, who spoke in such a quiet, reasonable way, I couldn't help but think some of his ideas were undoubtedly true. ‘The Reverend Price is a man of God too, Sam, so how can he be preaching the work of the Devil?' I had to agree. ‘If a king is a bad ruler, then he doesn't deserve to be king. Have you studied your history, Sam?' I had to admit I hadn't, much. I could recite the English kings back to William the First, but I didn't really know much about them.

Soon afterwards, Tom gave me a beaten-up-looking book, which he kept hidden among the supplies in the hold. It was the very same book: Tom Paine's
The Rights of Man
. ‘He's from your part of the world, Sam. Born in
Norfolk, but moved to Philadelphia. I hear he lives in France now. I picked this up in New York, on my last trip,' he said, ‘so take good care of it.'

Then he began to explain, in an excited whisper, what the book was about. ‘Paine says we shouldn't be ruled by people just because they're aristocrats. Being the son of a king or a duke don't make you any more fit to rule a country than being the son of a coal miner or a mill worker. True, they've got an education, these people. But we should all have education. Everyone should be able to vote, men and women. Then we'd be able to vote for Members of Parliament who would support ordinary people, instead of that lot now in the House of Commons, who are just looking after themselves. And what do we need the House of Lords for? They're all fat and old, and drunk on port for most of the time.'

I was horrified. I didn't want to offend Tom, but I knew enough about what he was saying to know this was treasonous talk. Didn't this man Paine live in France, after all? Besides, I barely understood what Tom was talking about. Parliament, the House of Lords, the House of Commons, these were words I had heard but little understood. I stared at him, almost speechless, while he talked. I took his book out of politeness, hurriedly placing it inside my shirt.

‘Keep it to yourself, mind,' he said.

Later, at the end of the afternoon, when we were resting
before the evening watch, I sat down in a corner of the forecastle, took it out and began to read. Engrossed as I was, I did not notice Lewis Tuck creeping up behind me.

‘Got your nose in a book again, clever-clogs,' he sneered. ‘And what's this you're reading?'

I knew he could not read himself, but still my mind went blank. I opened my mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say.

Tuck seized on my discomfort.

‘Seditious, is it? Treasonable material intent on undermining the morale of His Majesty's Navy?' He thwacked me round the head with his rope. ‘Well, that's a floggable offence, lad. I think I'll have that,' and he snatched the book from my hand.

Help came from an unexpected quarter. Lieutenant Middlewych had been observing the whole incident. He came closer and spoke in an angry whisper.

‘Leave the lad alone, Mr Tuck. Being able to read is not a punishable offence.'

Tuck sprang to attention. ‘Yes, sir, at once, sir.' He tossed the book back to me and went on his way, giving me a look of seething rage that told me exactly what to expect the next time he caught me alone.

‘Carry on, Witchall, carry on,' said Middlewych. ‘Too few of our ratings can read. You should be congratulated.'

By now I had turned bright red, and my hands were
sweating so much I feared the book would slip from my fingers. Please God, I thought, don't make him ask me what I'm reading.

‘What is it you're reading?' said Middlewych.

A thought flashed into my head. My maker had not completely deserted me.

‘It's Captain William Bligh's account of the
Bounty
mutiny, sir. And his extraordinary fifty-day voyage across the Pacific Ocean to Kupang Harbour, on Timor Island, sir.' I began to gabble. ‘The men on the little boat, sir, they had to eat raw seagull – beaks, feet and all, sir.'

‘Good lad,' he said. ‘Did you know Mr Nisbit was a member of Captain Bligh's crew? I'm sure he'll be able to vouch for the authenticity of the account. I'd be curious to read that myself. Perhaps you'd be good enough to let me borrow it when you've finished?'

Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked back to the quarterdeck. It was a full five minutes before I stopped shaking enough to feel I could trust myself to stand up and walk away.

Down on the mess deck I bumped into Ben and told him what had happened. ‘Sam,' he said, ‘where did you get that book? You could be flogged for reading that.' He snatched it from me and went to find Tom Shepherd. He and Tom were good friends, but I could see them both having a quietly furious argument. Had the bosun's
mates not been present, I didn't doubt that they would have come to blows.

I did feel angry with Tom, after that.

‘Ben says you nearly got me flogged!' I said when I saw him next.

‘Sam,' said Tom firmly, ‘you're a bright lad. There are things I'd like to teach you about the world. That book's the best start I can think of.'

I forgave him soon enough, but I still thought about how close I came to having the cat lashed across my back.

After ten weeks on the
Miranda
words and phrases that had at first puzzled me now slipped from my tongue as second nature. So, too, did the actions that went with them. In the rigging I knew my way around the stays and halyards, clewlines, buntlines and slablines. Among the sails I knew at once the clew garnets, peak, nock and leech. I knew a horse was a rope you stood on whilst working the sails. Presented with a loose rope I could fashion a Blackwall hitch or a Carrick bend without a second thought. At the guns the trunnion, quoin, cascable, worm and crows of iron were the
stuff of everyday procedure. I knew, too, my waisters from my idlers, and that the physical hardships of kedging and warping, when the ship was stuck in still water near to the coast, were nothing compared to towing the ship with a barge when it could not make sail.

I had become familiar with almost every part of the
Miranda
. I had even been in the Captain's cabin, yet it was weeks into the voyage before I went into the officers' quarters, which we called the gunroom. Early one morning, I was ordered to help fetch provisions from the bread room – which was most easily entered via a hatchway on the floor there. This was an unsettling glimpse into another world.

The gunroom was abaft of the mess deck, where there were small cabins on either side. This was an area ordinary seamen rarely ventured into. There was a barrier of marines to pass through first – as they always sat and ate between us and the officers. So when I was called into the gunroom I was curious to know what lay beyond that wooden partition.

I saw at once a long table set with an elegant lace cloth, with silver cutlery, blue and white china, and candles to supplement the lanterns that swung from the low ceiling. Glass goblets were set by each place, and a crystal decanter full of red wine stood at the top of the table. At the other end of the table a couple of roast chicken lay gently steaming. As the aroma wafted into my nostrils I
felt a great pang of homesickness. We always had chicken at Christmas, Easter and birthdays, and I suddenly longed to be sitting around our dining table with my family.

At either side of the gunroom was a row of small wooden cabins for the officers. As I waited by the hatch to the bread room I caught a glimpse into the one occupied by the lieutenant of the marines. His bright red jacket was laid out on his cot, which stretched the length of the cabin and was covered by an embroidered cream bedspread. I could also see a small writing table, and a basin. A carpet covered the wooden deck, and I glimpsed a portrait of a pretty-looking woman and two children on the wall. For me in my hammock, sleeping with an entire watch of men packed shoulder to shoulder above the tables on the mess deck, the lieutenant's cabin seemed like a little oasis of luxury, although the room was barely a third the size of my bedroom at home. What would I have given to have my own small space of tranquillity and privacy on this frantic floating rats' nest? Then, in an instant, the lieutenant swept into his room, and the door slammed shut. This snapped me out of my little daydream. I took an armful of biscuit and was gone.

A few days later, I was sent down to the gunners' store on the orlop deck in the hold, to fetch replacement parts
for our gun carriage. I rarely visited this gloomy spot, save to collect my powder cartridges, but was fascinated by its nooks and crannies. Tiny doors led off from the platform to the after powder room, the bosun's stores, sailroom, and other storage places. Beyond, at the very stern of the ship, our supplies of biscuit sat going mouldy in the dark. I never got used to the overpowering smell down here, and had to stifle the urge to retch. As I waited for the gunner to produce the parts I needed, I overheard an urgently whispered conversation. Here on the orlop deck was where the junior midshipmen slept, and I could make out the young one whom Silas had annoyed by staring too long at him, in a heated exchange with Lieutenant Spencer.

‘But, Uncle,' said the boy, ‘you know I never wanted to go to sea.'

‘Don't “Uncle” me, Neville,' said the Lieutenant sharply. ‘Such persons as Uncles are nowhere to be found aboard His Majesty's vessels. Well, you're here now, and you'd better make the most of it. Your mother is expecting me to look after you, but I shan't be mollycoddling you. Your father would be livid if he could hear you fretting like this. You've got five generations of Navy officers to live up to, and I'm going to make your family proud of you even if I have to take the skin off your backside.

‘Now, next time I order you to climb to the topgallant,
I expect an instant response. “Aye, aye, sir” is the only acceptable reaction. Not a lily-livered “I can't”. You are on this ship to learn how to command men. And you can do that properly only if you win their respect. You won't always have a bosun's mate to back you up – especially when you go into battle.'

The midshipman seemed to wilt under this tirade, backing towards the wooden panel that fenced in the orlop deck from the hold. It got worse.

‘And another thing,' went on the Lieutenant, ‘get rid of that disgusting fungus that's sprouting on your top lip. Next time I see you it had better be gone, otherwise you'll be spending a couple of hours tied to the mizzenmasthead.' With that, Spencer turned and headed back up on deck. He walked past me without a second glance, indifferent to whether I had heard him or not.

As soon as he had gone, the boy began to sob quietly. Then he recovered himself, dried his eyes with a handkerchief, and began to climb up the narrow ladder from the hold to the orlop deck. I slid into the shadows. I knew from bitter experience how losing face could mould a boy's behaviour. I did not want him to know I had seen him, and have him punish me for it.