Powder Monkey (15 page)

Ben gave him a dirty look. ‘Yer a cheery sod, Edmund. The lad doesn't need that sort of talk right now, y' misery.'

Poor Joseph. What a bright spark he was. I had a life. He didn't.

In the weeks after the storm we patrolled the seas off northern Spain before heading south close to the coast of Portugal. The voyage settled down into a dull series of days, then weeks, when very little seemed to happen. No enemy ships were sighted, no remarkable weather blighted our passage, and the crew grew weary and sullen.

I learned to avoid Lewis Tuck as much as I could, and when this was impossible, I made every effort not to incur his wrath. Michael Trellis and his cronies would still issue their occasional taunts, but they knew I had
friends who would protect me if their bullying edged into violence.

By mid-December we rounded the south-western tip of Spain and arrived at the Gulf of Cadiz. We were expected to reach Gibraltar a few days before Christmas. When ship's gossip about our nearness to Gibraltar reached Silas at the mess table, his eyes lit up. He told us, in a mischievous whisper, that last time he had served with the Navy he had spent some time in the hospital in Gibraltar, on account of a broken leg incurred whilst loading provisions. Despite his injury it was, he said with a smirk, a most splendid stay. For the nurses that staffed the hospital were almost all ladies of easy virtue, who were more than willing to perform all manner of lascivious acts in exchange for a few shillings.

‘Every last one of 'em a dark-eyed beauty!' he said. ‘Mind you, they all liked a drink too. A couple of them changed my dressing when they were three sheets to the wind. I had to drink a bottle of rum myself to deaden the pain.'

Seeing how the men around the table reacted to this titbit was a picture to behold. Some had eyes out on stalks, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Peter Winchelsea, one of the foretopmen sitting down the table from us, was blushing furiously.

‘Oh aye, Mr Winchelsea, have you stayed at Gibraltar Navy Hospital too?' said Silas rather unkindly. Peter
was well known as a pious man.

‘I have not, sir,' snapped the foretopman, who was referred to as ‘The Reverend' by his messmates. ‘I am perturbed by your indecent observations. If I should have the misfortune to ever find myself in that hospital, I shall pray to the Lord to give me strength to resist these unholy sirens.'

Silas would not be drawn into an argument. Instead, he lifted his mug of grog, and said, ‘A toast to unholy sirens. Long may they give us all manner of unmentionable diseases!' Most of us thought this a fine end to the conversation. Toast duly drunk, we went back to our duties.

The whole incident tickled Richard considerably, and when we were alone together on the upper deck he performed a splendid mime of everyone's reactions.

‘I was wondering how I could get myself into the hospital too,' I confided. ‘D'you think you could arrange it? Nothing life-threatening, or permanently disfiguring, though.'

‘I'd go for a sprained ankle, myself,' said Richard. ‘Or maybe a mild case of scurvy. Not enough to lose any teeth, but enough to make you go off-colour, and develop a few rashes.'

Ben told me about scurvy when I had been reluctant to eat a wormy apple. It seemed to eat a man away from the inside. Teeth fell out, gums bled constantly, sores and
rashes covered the body, and any victim of the disease felt unutterably weary. It was preventable, for some reason, if a sailor ate fresh fruit and vegetables. And when these were not available, as I'd heard Dr Claybourne say, he should drink lemon juice. This was horrible, unless you mixed it with rum and water.

Richard and I hatched a plot to see if we could develop scurvy. But then we decided that these fabled ladies, especially ones we might be tempted to go astray with, wouldn't find us attractive with half our teeth dropping out. Besides, deliberately making yourself unfit for duty was a floggable offence.

‘It'll have to be a broken leg, then,' said Richard.

‘Perhaps we ought to take a leaf out of the Reverend Winchelsea's book after all,' I sighed. The subject was laid to rest.

Gibraltar loomed out of the mist three days later. It was strange for me, at a time of the year so near Christmas, to be in a mild climate. The few days before we reached the port were splendid – clear skies and calm sea, with a gentle breeze. For this brief period I actually began to enjoy being aboard the
Miranda
. Whenever I did feel sorry for myself, I'd think of Midshipman Neville, who had curbed his temper a great deal since the early days of the voyage, but who still looked rather lost and lonely, whenever I set eyes on him.

After I'd been up the foremast with him, he'd ignored me the next few times I saw him. But a few weeks later, when the ship had been off the northern coast of Spain and he was taking a navigational sighting with a sextant at noon, he'd called me over and explained what he was doing. Over the next few weeks a friendship of sorts had seemed to develop between us. Ben, ear attuned as usual to ship's gossip, told me his name was Robert and that Lieutenant Spencer was his mother's brother. The Nevilles, as I had suspected from his dress, were a very wealthy family.

‘He's not a bad lad to have on your side, is Mr Neville,' said Ben.

Silas was less forgiving. ‘Sucking up to the officers, eh, Sam?' he sneered, when he had seen us talking together. I could understand his resentment, although I still felt hurt by that remark. I liked Robert Neville despite of who he was, not because of it.

For most of the voyage, land had either been out of sight or some distant misty cliff almost indistinguishable from a cloudy horizon. It was too far away to imagine it as solid ground that did not sway beneath your feet, with trees and green grass, and friendly people. On the
Franklyn
I had never been away from land for more than a week, and this voyage had already lasted over three months.

As we grew nearer ‘the Rock', as Gibraltar was known, I feasted my eyes on its contours and crags. The port had been built around a great rocky outcrop that thrust high into the air, and was visible a good twenty miles before we reached it. The rock was covered in lush green vegetation, and as we approched I could make out the government buildings around the port. Great fortifications snaked up the side of the rock, giving it a formidable air. Ben told me we had held on to this bit of Spain for nearly a hundred years. It was a useful place to have as a port.

On the morning we were due to arrive, Captain Mandeville summoned us all into the waist. ‘We shall be arriving at Gibraltar this afternoon, and staying for two days whilst the ship takes on provisions and engages in minor repairs. The port is well known for its changeable climate and lively southern winds, so we shall keep to our sea watches. I shall also require you to assemble at eleven o'clock tomorrow, to witness punishment. Finally, no one on board, not even myself, will be going ashore. Marines will be posted on every exit point, with orders to shoot any man who attempts to leave the ship. That is all.'

With that, the Captain turned tail and vanished below deck. The bosun bawled, ‘Ship's company dismiss,' and we hurried back to our duties. That dinner-time we wondered about who was to be punished and why.
Knowing that something awful was to happen the next morning cast a gloomy mood over the crew, and rather spoiled the pleasure we felt arriving at Gibraltar.

Later that day we moored in the harbour, and began the task of unloading empty food and water barrels and hauling fresh supplies aboard. Every one of us was looking forward to fresh water, fresh vegetables, fresh anything, really – aside perhaps from the poor wretch who was to be punished. Maybe he was too sick with anxiety to contemplate eating at all? I could not help but think about him, as one of the bosun's mates spent most of the afternoon sitting on deck fashioning a cat-o'-nine-tails in full view of us all, carefully knotting each of the nine strands before placing this wretched device in a red baize bag.

We spent the whole of the rest of the day reprovisioning – loading barrels of salted beef and pork, cheese and flour, bread, spirits and beer, biscuit, pease and tobacco. All of it was hauled aboard in the hot sunshine, and stowed away in the hold. There were even a couple of boxes of lemons. Dr Claybourne would be pleased to know that Mandeville wasn't so mean with his crew's health after all.

The next day fresh supplies of tar were taken on board, and heated up. We all set to work caulking the planking on the decks to make them watertight, with me
being especially cautious not to spill any. A team of shipwrights from the port also came aboard to mend some leaks in the hold. By eleven that morning the smell of tar was overwhelming. Then the bosun's pipes were sounded, and he called out, ‘All hands on deck to witness punishment.'

We all gathered around the mainmast, and the marines assembled in a bright red wall on the quarterdeck facing us, muskets held straight before them, bayonets attached. The ship's officers, all dressed in full ceremonial uniform, joined them. In front of them, a grating had been set up in readiness for the man about to be flogged. Standing next to it was one of the bosun's mates, clutching the red baize bag. It seemed shameful to be called upon to witness this cruel ritual on such a beautiful day.

When we were all assembled, two more marines appeared from below deck, dragging a man who was so terrified he could barely walk. I saw at once that it was Robert Hartley – one of Captain Mandeville's servants – and my stomach turned over. He was a slight fellow, with a timid manner at the best of times, and I could not imagine him bearing up well to such hard physical punishment. I wondered what on earth he had done to merit such an ordeal.

All was ready. Then Captain Mandeville appeared on the quarterdeck, and fixed us with a stern eye. He carried
a copy of the Articles of War and began to read from Article 2.

‘All flag officers, and all persons in or belonging to His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, being guilty of profane oaths, cursings, execrations, drunkenness, uncleanness, or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God's honour, and corruption of good manners, shall incur such punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve.'

A brief silence followed, while we all wondered what possible derogation of God's honour and corruption of good manners mousy old Hartley could have been responsible for. Then Mandeville spoke again.

‘Steward's mate Robert Hartley has been found guilty of stealing from the Captain's wine supply. The sentence is thirty-six lashes. Seize him up.'

With that Hartley had the shirt ripped from his back, and was spreadeagled face forward to the grating, his wrists and ankles tied with canvas. Meanwhile we all looked at each other with amazement, and asked ourselves in what moment of lunacy a man like Hartley would consider stealing from his own captain. It was the stupidity of it. And being an officer's servant was one of the easiest jobs on the ship. I wondered what Hartley would do if he survived. He was one of the most lubberly-looking men on the
Miranda
. I couldn't imagine him hauling up a mainsail or manhandling a gun.

The marine drummer boy beat out a tattoo. The bosun's mate took the cat from out of the bag.

An awful silence lay heavy over the ship, as the bosun's mate removed his jacket and braced himself to begin the whipping. The rope whistled through the air and landed with a hefty thwack on Hartley's narrow back. He let out a piercing scream, then again, and again . . . After twelve lashes Lewis Tuck came forward to take over the flogging. Another bosun's mate replaced him after his dozen strokes.

When it was over, Hartley's back looked as if it had been roasted in an oven. He was unconscious and had to be dragged below deck to the sick bay. It had been like watching a mouse being tormented by a pack of savage dogs.

At breakfast Ben told me Hartley had died during the night. ‘Some men can stand to be lashed a hundred times, even two hundred, if they're the sort of brutes who're used to harsh punishment,' he muttered. ‘But some men can't stand even a couple of dozen lashes . . .'

I felt sick at heart for the rest of the morning. My mood only lifted at dinner when Ben told us all that a consignment of mail had been delivered to the ship, and was soon to be distributed. Perhaps there would be news from home for me, and even a letter from Rosie?

My messmates all looked thrilled by this opportunity
to receive post. All except Edmund Ackersley.

‘Don't get too excited,' he cautioned. ‘Handing out of post on a Navy ship is always an anxious moment. For some, it's news of tragedy – wife or sister who's died having a baby, or a parent popped their clogs . . .'

Tom and James both shouted him down. ‘Shut up, you dreary misery – y' like a death at a birthday party!'