Powder Monkey (5 page)

‘I've been on one of these, my lad, and a frigate is a dangerous place to be.'

One of the marines hissed at him to shut up – and pointed his bayonet close to Silas's stomach. Shortly
after, we bumped alongside the
Miranda
's gangway. It was so small only a child could enter without stooping. We were shoved through and on to the gun deck one by one.

It was chilly outside, but inside the ship there was a clammy warmth, and a sharp tang of tar and creosote. Mixed with this was a rank, stale dishcloth odour that seemed to rise beneath my feet. I sensed it like an animal senses a beast of prey. It was the sort of smell that drifted from the prison in Norwich.

It was too dark to see much of the gun deck, other than a long row of guns receding into the gloom at either end of the ship. As we stood there, I heard a lone voice singing to a violin.

Red and rosy were her cheeks,
And yellow was her hair,
And costly were the robes of gold
My Irish girl did wear
.

We were taken quickly below to the crowded mess deck, where there was no natural light, just one or two lanterns and a stifling fug. Faces turned round in sudden silence to look at us new arrivals. The dim lights cast murky shadows over their features, giving them something of the look of Hallowe'en ghouls. Then we were hustled even further below, to the hold.
Here too only a few lanterns lit the way. We were now below the waterline, in the belly of the ship. All around, piled high, were boxes, ropes and barrels. Rancid bilge-water, tar and hemp mingled to make an intimidating stench. The ship reeked of fear and brutality.

‘Gentlemen,' said the Lieutenant, who had followed us all the way from the
Franklyn
, ‘perhaps you'd be good enough to wait here while we go though the formalities.'

I found his mock courtesy irritating. Silas did too and said, ‘Perhaps you'd be good enough to provide us all with a nice cup of tea. Only the best china cups, mind.'

All at once a thick-set thug, standing in the shadows behind us, stepped forward and delivered a hefty thwack to Silas's back with a knotted rope.

‘Perhaps you'd be good enough to shut your face,' said the man in a matter-of-fact way – all the more effective for its calm authority. I noticed he wore a tall black hat with the ship's name painted on it.

The Lieutenant seemed completely unaffected by this act of unexpected violence. ‘Meet Mr Tuck,' he said to us. ‘He's one of the
Miranda
's bosun's mates. He's here to keep an eye on you all. Now, I'm going to ask you to wait here while we enter your names into the ship's muster book.' He turned and vaulted up the stairs.

We crouched down on the floor and were called up two at a time. Even in the dim light I could see that the
hold was spotlessly clean, like the rest of the ship. Silas began to tell me what to expect, but another blow from the knotted rope cut short our exchange. Eventually the two of us were marched up to the mess deck. Again, all conversation stopped. The entire deck was watching. Here we waited to be called further up. A few men continued to stare unashamedly, especially at me. Some were the cold, intimidating stares of bullies and thugs. Others were more leery – the kind of faces I had noticed on men staring at young women. I thought of a picture I had seen in one of my father's books of a lone antelope wandering the plains of Africa, being eyed up by a pack of lions.

‘Don't show them you're frightened, lad,' whispered Silas, risking another clout from the rope. This time none came. Instead, the marines gave me an encouraging smile.

‘You stare back and show them you're made of stern stuff,' said one.

I breathed deeply, and tried to feel angry rather than afraid. Now my eyes had grown accustomed to the light, I could take a proper look at the men I would be sailing with. The
Franklyn
's crew numbered barely fifteen or twenty men. Here there were hundreds. Most I judged to be in their twenties – hardened sea dogs like Silas, brown and weather-beaten, tough as leather. There were a few older men too, and a scattering of youths and boys
like me. The crew were a mixture of races too, with some darker faces, and a few black ones. Some carried the disfigurements of war – patches covering empty eye sockets, scarred arms and faces, missing fingers, even one or two missing legs . . . Some had tattoos – here a fiery sun or green mermaid, there a red dragon. One man, who wore only breeches, had a large and gory depiction of the crucifixion across his broad back. Underneath, close to his hips, were the words ‘The Lord is a man of war'. I sensed he was not a good fellow to annoy.

I stood there aghast, wondering how I would survive with this brutal crew, and my eyes darted to and fro searching for a means of escape. Whatever happened, I was going to get away. Then a terse order came from above. A marine shoved me in the back to usher me upstairs. Silas was left below. There on the almost deserted gun deck, under the glow of a couple of lanterns, was a table at which sat the Lieutenant and another man. Now I was used to the gloom I could see the deck more clearly. Hefty beams crossed over a low ceiling that most grown men would have to stoop to navigate. The rows of red- and black-painted guns stood lurking by the gun ports on either side, catching some of the faint light of the lanterns. For a brief second I could imagine the noise and terror played out here when the
Miranda
went into battle.

‘Good evening,' said the Lieutenant, in his cheery way. ‘I am Lieutenant Middlewych, first officer on the
Miranda
. This is the ship's surgeon Dr Claybourne. We're going to ask you several questions about yourself, and make sure you're in suitably good health to serve aboard one of His Majesty's ships.'

Anger rose in my chest. I'd been dragged here against my will, and now they were telling me I might not be good enough for them. But I knew it was wise to say nothing.

‘Sit down, lad,' said Middlewych, beckoning to a stool in front of the table.

Middlewych wanted my details for the muster book – the ship's records. Where was I born? What age was I? How long had I been at sea? All these questions I answered truthfully, but then he asked my parents' names and where they lived. ‘We'll need to know where to look for you if you run away,' he said. I gave the right names, but on an impulse I blurted out a fictitious address in Norwich – a house in Chantry Road – a street my father and I passed through on our trips to the town. I was certain I was going to escape, and I'd be damned if I was going to help them find me.

Then I was rated – Boy Second Class. ‘Behave yourself and you'll move up a rate before too long,' smiled the Lieutenant.

The doctor spoke then. He was a stout man in early
middle age, with a broad Scottish accent. ‘Remove all y' clothes and stand just here.' There followed an unpleasant minute of prodding and poking, while I stood naked and burning with humiliation. I felt like a horse being examined on market day. ‘He's in good health,' said the doctor. ‘No evidence of disease. Now go and wash in that bucket over there.'

I washed quickly, then they gave me some fresh clothes – canvas trousers, short jacket and chequered shirt, all too big. ‘You can scrub your own clothes clean tomorrow,' said the Lieutenant, ‘and use these as a second set. The cost will be deducted from your wages. Now wait below, and we'll find you a berth.' I heard him call over a marine, and order him to find someone or other.

By now it was late in the evening and I was sick and dizzy with exhaustion. A tall, stocky man with a bald head came up to me. He looked around my father's age.

‘Crikey – they've sent us a babee!' he said. ‘Next thing we know, we'll be getting wenches to work with!'

I looked at him with baffled irritation. He ignored my ill manners and smiled, then put out a hand for me to shake.

‘So you're Sam, aren't you? Bad luck, lad, getting yerself landed in this blasted palaver. My name's Ben Lovett. Lieutenant Middlewych tells me I'm to be your Sea Daddy. D'you know what that is?'

I shook my head. I was so wrapped up in my own misery, I could barely bring myself to speak.

‘I'm to look after you while you get to know the ship,' he went on. ‘I'll be telling you what to do and how to carry out your duties. Where to sleep, where to eat, where to take a leak . . . Come and sit down and we'll have a chat.'

Ben had a friendly face and I liked him immediately. His accent was one I didn't recognise, so I asked him where he was from.

‘I'm from Birmingham, me,' he said. ‘Not many sailors from Birmingham. It's all foundries, coal mines and canals.' He stopped and sighed. ‘Lord knows how I ended up goin' to sea. Should have gone on a canal boat. Y' don't get many storms in a canal. Or French frigates, for that matter.

‘Did you take the bounty?' he asked. By now I felt quite stupid for not taking the five pounds I had been offered, and was embarrassed to tell him I didn't. But he whispered, ‘Good for you. I didn't take it either, when they got me. Just because they've got your body doesn't mean you have to sell them your soul! I think we're going to get on, you and me.'

His unexpected kindness in this frightening world almost brought me to tears. He noticed, and spoke to me sternly. ‘C'mon now, Sam. We'll have none o' that crying. This is not a good place for tears.'

Ben took me to the steward's room, where I was issued with two hammocks and a blanket. I had to pay for the blanket too – thirteen shillings to be taken from my wages. By now most of the ship was asleep, and we picked our way through a forest of sleeping men on the mess deck, to a space near the bow.

‘I'm not going to show you how to do this now,' whispered Ben. ‘I'll show you when there's more light and you're not so tired.' He swiftly undid the ropes that tied my hammock together, and slung it on hooks between two beams. ‘I'll show you gettin' in tomorrow, as well,' he said with a wink, and quickly lifted me under the armpits, and swung me into the hammock. I had never been in a hammock before. On the
Franklyn
we had slept in wooden bunks. The hammock felt comfortable and even quite snug, when I had wrapped the blankets around me. Ben slung his hammock next to mine. Right leg up, left hand holding the top, a jump up, twist round, and he was in.

I was so tired I could have slept on a marble floor. But barely had my head touched the pillow, it seemed, than I woke next morning with a bosun's mate howling ‘Out or down' in my ear. I sat straight upright in surprise and lost my balance, plummeting to the deck. Tears sprang to my eyes, and Ben came swiftly to my aid.

‘Quick, now,' he said. ‘In the morning you need to get
out of that hammock at double speed. Stay in there and they'll cut you down. Now, watch this . . .' With that, he rolled up his hammock and bedding, and roped it tight together. I followed the best I could, but I was groggy with sleep and had a thick headache. ‘Not bad, not bad,' said Ben, but undid the lot and did it again himself. ‘Now come and eat your breakfast.'

Ben beckoned me to sit down with him at one of the long wooden tables on the mess deck. As we began to eat our oatmeal we were joined by his friend Colm, an Irishman who had been pressed three years ago. He made no secret of his dislike of the Royal Navy, but he told me, ‘We all have our cross to bear here on the
Miranda
. I reckon if I keep my head down and do as I'm told, I'll come out of this life in the Navy without being flogged or killed.'

There was something about Colm that made me trust him, so I told him and Ben I'd given Lieutenant Middlewych a false address for his muster book. I felt proud of my deception, and wanted to impress my new shipmates. But they weren't impressed.

‘Aren't you the clever article, Sam,' scoffed Colm. ‘How are you going to change that now? You could be flogged for it.'

My mouth went completely dry and I began to feel faint.

‘Flogged?' I blurted out.

Ben butted in. ‘Don't scare the lad, Colm. I doubt they'd flog him for that.'

‘Maybe so,' Colm went on, ‘but how're you going to write to your family without some sharp-eyed busybody of an officer noticing the address is different from the one in the muster book?'

That was it. I had to get away as soon as I could. ‘I'll be gone before that happens,' I said defiantly.

‘Sam, you haven't got an ounce of sense in your bonce,' chided Ben. He obviously didn't take me seriously. ‘I've never known a man get off this ship. They were killed trying, or ended up getting flogged or hung from a yardarm.'

I cursed myself for not keeping my own counsel. ‘There's nothing to it then, I suppose. I'll just have to confess . . .' I said.

Ben spoke. ‘No, mate. Just keep quiet for now and see what happens. Right now there's too many other things for you to worry about. When we're done here I've to take you to see the Captain. He's going to tell you what you're going to be doing.'

So after breakfast he led me up to the Captain's cabin. It took up the entire rear end of the gun deck, with a set of windows that ran over the width of the stern. Light streamed in, catching on silver candlesticks and polished mahogany. Lieutenant Middlewych was there, sat behind a table. Next to him was a slightly older man.
Judging by the lavish amount of gold braid around his hat and coat, and the immaculate look of his clothing, there was no doubt this was the Captain. He looked at me with something between a sneer and a smirk, his pointy nose wrinkling with distaste. Middlewych's manner was now quite different, too. He was sitting stiffly upright and greeted me with cold eyes, and no nod of recognition. I stood before them waiting for someone to speak, wishing I could sit down, not least to steady my trembling legs. Ben was curtly dismissed.

They waited for him to leave before either spoke. ‘Good morning, Master Witchall,' said the Captain, in a brusque, well-spoken voice. ‘I am Captain Mandeville. I understand you were pressed yesterday evening. You are now under Navy regulations, and subject to the full Articles of War. That, to be perfectly clear, means you can be flogged for neglect of duty, insubordination, drunkenness and anything else I think fit. If you desert, or strike an officer, you will be hung from the yardarm. Lovett will instruct you further in the Articles of War. I advise you most strongly to pay heed. Your friend Mr Warandel can tell you what it's like to be flogged, so try not to cross me.' He gave a beady, humourless smile, then continued. ‘Lieutenant Middlewych here tells me you're nimble in the rigging. We may yet call upon your services in that area, but for the moment we've no need for topmen on the
Miranda
. What we need is a powder boy for the gun
crews. The last boy we had failed to put the top on his powder canister when we attacked a French brig. A stray spark floated down and blew him to a pink mist. AND it made a dreadful mess of my ship. You look fast on your feet, so I'm sure you'll fit the bill.' Then he turned to the Lieutenant and nodded for him to continue.