A Sloop of War Page 5

  The slowly retreating island of Barbados, he repeated to himself. He frowned for a moment, looking first up at the spread of bulging white sails and then down at the sloop’s wake. He strode forward to inspect the traverse board that recorded the ship’s speed, shaking his head at what he read. The officer of the watch was the sloop’s master’s mate. He was still getting used to such junior warrant officers keeping watch. In the Agrius it was only senior sea officers that did so, but the little Rush boasted but two of those, Sutton and Joseph Appleby, the ship’s sailing master. The more competent of the warrant officers would have to keep watch too.

  ‘Ah, Mr Wardle,’ said Clay, recalling the unfamiliar name with difficulty. ‘Would you pass the word for Mr Sutton and the boatswain, if you please?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Wardle replied, touching his hat in salute.

  George Carver, the boatswain, was the first to arrive on the quarterdeck. He knuckled his forehead at his new captain rather than saluting, betraying him as a former seaman who had worked his way up. He was young for a boatswain, probably no more than late thirties. His pigtail was relatively short, with barely a grey hair among the brown. He was also one of the few men Clay had met in the service who was taller than him. Sutton arrived slightly later, apologising for the delay, but he had been down in the hold looking over some damage that the carpenter was keen to show him.

  ‘No matter, Mr Sutton, you are with us now,’ said Clay. ‘Gentlemen, how fast do you think we are going?’ The boatswain and the lieutenant both looked up at the sails, and then down at the wake in a curious repetition of the process that Clay had gone through a little earlier.

  ‘Five knots?’ speculated Sutton. The boatswain signalled his agreement, not wanting to disagree with his new lieutenant.

  ‘You are wrong, Mr Sutton. We have not touched three knots all morning,’ said Clay. He pointed across at the distant island. ‘When we departed Bridgetown it was dawn. We have been favoured all morning with a good stiff trade wind that any Christian ship would fair delight in, yet here we are, almost noon now, and yet the wretched island is still in sight.’ He turned to the boatswain.

  ‘Mr Carver, I had always been told that these Swan class sloops are well founded vessels capable of a tolerable turn of speed. With the sail we have set, should we not expect a little more from her? Or did the Navy Board play a cruel trick on us when they named the ship Rush?’

  ‘No, sir, by rights she should be much swifter than this,’ replied the boatswain, ‘but I am afraid she is long overdue to be careened. Her bottom is all foul with weed, some of the bigger fronds are as much as a cable long. You can see them in her wake sometimes. Did Captain Parker not mention it when he handed her over to you?’

  ‘He most certainly did not,’ fumed Clay. ‘Fronds of weed two hundred yards long! I have never heard of the like! No wonder she shows a shocking want of speed.’

  ‘But Mr Carver, why has this not been addressed before?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Well sir, I know that Captain Parker did request she be careened a few times, but there are precious few facilities at Bridgetown, and there always seems to be another ship as needed it more, like. By rights she should have been sent to one of them proper dockyards at Jamaica or Antigua, but what with the squadron being so short of ships I imagine the admiral was never able to release her. We did try to get some of the weed off by giving such members of the crew as can swim large knives, but what with the sharks hereabouts....’

  ‘Our duty is to blockade Micoud. How shall we intercept any French craft if we can barely muster three knots?’ demanded Clay. ‘I doubt if we could overhaul a rowing boat! No, gentlemen, it will not do. I need you to deliberate with each other and devise some proposal to address matters. With your intimate knowledge of the ship, Mr Carver, and I know from my experience of Mr Sutton’s resourcefulness, I have every confidence you can produce a solution that will answer to provide some immediate improvement now. For my part you can rely on me to insist that the ship is properly careened when I next see the admiral, but alas we shall not now be back in Bridgetown for several months.’

  *****

  Able Sedgwick was finding that his time handling his dugout canoe on the west coast of Africa had not prepared him well for the bewildering life ahead of him as a seaman aboard the Rush. The only other ship of a comparable size he had ever been on was the slaver that had brought him to Barbados, but he could draw little of any use to him now from that appalling experience. Although he did not know it, he was in many ways fortunate that his naval career was to start aboard such a small ship. He could have been posted on board a second rate like the admiral’s flagship the Princess Charlotte, lost among a crew of almost eight hundred strange faces spread across her many levels of deck. The Rush was at least a manageable size with her single gun deck and with only a hundred and twenty souls aboard.

  Two of those souls now stood in front of him. One was his petty officer Tom Green, a barrel-chested man whose deep bass voice was so rich with the accent of the Welsh valleys, that Sedgwick found it a struggle to follow more than one word in three. The other was a pleasant looking man in his late twenties with long blond hair and penetrating blue eyes who held himself with the swaggering self assurance of a trained top man. He was every inch the sailor. The same shapeless clothes that had been issued to Sedgwick seemed to hang well on his muscular frame. His long hair was neatly plaited down his back, a well used marlinspike hung around his neck and a single thick gold hoop glinted in his left ear.

  ‘Now look you, Sedgwick,’ Green boomed, ‘this here man is Adam Trevan. You will be one of his mess mates. Just you keep right close to him for now, do as he tells you, and keep your nose clean. He will show you your duties, like. Right, carry on the pair of you.’

  ‘Aye aye, Mr Green,’ replied Sedgwick to the retreating Welshman’s back, before turning to face Trevan. The seaman held out his hand towards him with a smile. Sedgwick was familiar with the gesture. He had seen white men shake hands before, in the slave market, on the plantation, but no man, white or otherwise had ever shaken his hand before. After a moment he touched Trevan’s hand uncertainly, felt his own hand gripped firmly and responded in kind.

  ‘Right there, Able,’ said Trevan, ‘now that sheep buggerer is out the way, let’s get you sorted. Starting with your kit.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Trevan,’ said Sedgwick cautiously. ‘My English is good but I find you and Mr Green’s accent a little difficult. What was that about sheep buggery? This morning Mr Taylor read me the Articles of War, and buggery I think is very bad. Is it not punished with death?’

  To his surprise, Trevan started to laugh.

  ‘Oh dear me,’ he chuckled. ‘Him with his Welsh, and me being Cornish like, that must be vexing for’ee. I will try and talk a mite slower. First up, I ain’t no Grunter, so you can stow the Mr Trevan. Call me Adam.’

  ‘Thank you, Adam,’ said Sedgwick.

  ‘The part about him buggering sheep is not really true,’ explained Adam. ‘We hands tend to be a bit saucy-like, you know, a bit rude when we are talking about the Grunters and all. We don’t mean anything by it most times. Didn’t you slaves do something similar with the overseers on your plantation, when they couldn’t hear you?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ replied Sedgwick, a little disturbed by the parallel Trevan had found between the hard faced, brutal overseers he had left behind, and his new ship’s petty officers. Before either man could say anything more, seven clear strokes of a bell sounded from the forecastle.

  ‘Right Able,’ said Trevan. ‘We need to hurry. Seven bells means we are on watch in half an hour. Let’s get your kit stowed, starting with that hammock.’

  *****

  When Trevan and Sedgwick came on deck at the start of their watch, the former slave’s head buzzed with all that he had learnt. The Cornishman led the new recruit to their watch station up on the forecastle of the Rush, and Sedgwick was instantly entranced with the delightful free flowing wind and the sweepin
g motion of the ship. The sloop’s speed through the water may have been a matter of shame for its new captain, but to him the towering white pyramids of canvas spoke only of raw power. Ahead of him the long bowsprit thrust towards the distant horizon, holding out a broad fan of overlapping triangular head sails that soared up high above his head. Beneath his feet the Rush’s round bow seemed to be constantly busy, shouldering aside the deep blue water with muscular ease and throwing an ever renewing wash of white foam to either side. He smiled with pure joy. This was closer to what freedom should feel like.

  ‘Now then, Able,’ said Trevan, drawing the new recruit’s attention back on board. ‘Let’s see how much you can remember. Whe’re you going to find your hammock tonight?’

  ‘On the larboard side, abaft the main mast, three rows over, second from the top,’ recited Sedgwick, ‘I will hang it at place number thirty-seven on the lower deck.’

  ‘That’s very good, mate,’ said Trevan. ‘You even said “abaft” like a proper tar. Now, can you tell me what all the ship’s bells mean?’

  ‘The day starts at noon, when we get our grog,’ answered the new recruit. ‘The bell then counts out each half hour, and when it gets to eight bells, the watch changes and the bell starts afresh.’

  ‘Well I never did,’ marvelled Trevan. ‘You sure you never been to sea before? You must be a right deep one, or maybe I am just a proper good teacher, like. You are now ready for your next lesson. What do you reckon them two Grunters are up to?’ Trevan pointed towards the quarterdeck where Sutton and the boatswain were engaged in a lengthy discussion, with much pointing, and peering over the side.

  ‘I am not sure, Adam,’ said Sedgwick. ‘How would I be able to tell?’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue, mate,’ said Trevan. ‘I only knows that when the Grunters are doing a deal of thinking it generally leads to trouble and work for us next, you mark what I say. See now, them two have just disappeared off in the direction of Pipe’s cabin.’

  ‘Pipe’s cabin?’ queried Sedgwick. ‘Is that another of your seaman words?’

  ‘No, not this time, mate,’ chuckled the Cornish man. ‘Pipe is what we used to call the captain back on the Agrius. Clay pipe, see, like what you smoke—you get it? Mind, that’s just for us like, don’t you go letting the Grunters hear you call him that. Steady now, they’re back. That was right quick,’ he continued, looking past Sedgwick.

  Down on the main deck Sutton and Carver had reappeared, and were calling over some of the petty officers, including the hulking figure of Green.

  ‘Told you so,’ said Trevan, as Green came towards them. ‘Here comes that Welsh bugger.’

  ‘You forecastle men!’ rumbled the petty officer up at them from the main deck. ‘Come with me down to the cable tier.’ Sedgwick and Trevan followed the other seaman down first onto the main deck, then down ladder ways through the ship to the low, cramped orlop deck, deep below the waterline. As they descended through each layer they saw parties of men busy removing the gratings that covered the main hatch way, to create a large square opening running up through the ship. Trevan looked around at Sedgwick in surprise.

  ‘This is mighty strange,’ he said. ‘It’s almost as if we are about to rouse out a cable to anchor with, but that makes no sense right out at sea like.’

  As they descended the light became weaker till they were in semi-darkness. Green took a lantern from its place by the ladder way, and bent double as he disappeared into the gloom. The bright sunlight and clean air of the Caribbean seemed a distant memory now. They were surrounded by sharper vapours, rising up from the dark hold below them, bilge water and damp, vinegar and the sweet smell of something half rotten.

  At the foot of the lowest ladder way, Sedgwick stopped, unable to follow the other men under the low beams and along the dark deck.

  ‘What’s the matter, Able,’ asked Trevan. ‘You ain’t scared of the dark, are you?’ Sedgwick shook his head. In the dim light Trevan could see beads of cold sweat blistering his face. He was once more that terrified and bewildered young Ashanti fisherman, being forced onto the slave deck of the ship that had brought him to the Caribbean. Claustrophobia seemed to flow in a fog from the narrow space ahead, threatening to overwhelm him.

  ‘Does this ship carry slaves?’ he whispered.

  ‘No, mate, nothing down here worse than rats and damp,’ Trevan reassured him. ‘It’s a narrow, dark spot I grant you, but there is little for you to fear, except for one very angry Welshman if we don’t look lively now. Come on, you stay good and close to me.’ Sedgwick felt the Cornishman’s hand once more in his. This time it was leading him forwards as if Trevan was a mother, and he a child.

  They made their way through the coils of huge cable that filled the space, following the light of Green’s lantern as he searched. Strange bars of yellow and black flowed over the stacked cables and the bodies of the other men who crouched around the cable tier.

  ‘Stretch of eight inch cable he said, not used for years he said,’ muttered Green, peering around the coils of rope. He paused at last at one lost in a far corner. ‘Right, over here lovelies,’ he ordered. ‘Get the end of this cable out to the main hatch and feed it up to the party on the deck above. Look lively now!’

  *****

  Once the cable was laid out in long loops across the main deck, Lieutenant Sutton explained what he wanted the men to do.

  ‘Take a yard of cable each and cut at it with your knives,’ he explained. ‘Not all of the way through, but frayed so that the fibres bristle, as if it were the tail of an angry cat. Do you all follow?’ The men exchanged glances at the strange order. Slowly at first, they started to stab and rip at the thick rope, but under the encouragement of Sutton and the boatswain they soon worked with increasing enthusiasm. Trevan indicated a space where Sedgwick should sit on the deck, next to a large savage-looking seaman with dark hair and eyes.

  ‘No, not here, Trevan,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You take your fucking monkey somewhere else.’

  ‘Easy there, Josh Hawke,’ said Trevan. ‘This here’s a shipmate now.’

  ‘No negro bastard is ever going to be a shipmate of mine, do you hear me?’ Hawke snarled.

  ‘All Right, Josh, keep your temper like,’ said Trevan. ‘We will find us another spot. Come on Able, let’s go over there.’

  The two men moved to another section of the rope, and sat cross-legged next to each other working away at the tough hemp. After a while, Sedgwick spoke up.

  ‘Adam,’ he said, ‘who was that man, and why is he so angry?’

  ‘I shouldn’t take no notice of him,’ said Trevan. ‘Hawke’s a strange bastard. He’s not got many mates on the barky, to be honest. Most of us will be just fine with you, but he was pressed off a slaver. I reckon that might be why he is a bit hot about having you as a shipmate.’

  Sedgwick looked across at Hawke. He well remembered the sailors who had manned the ship that had brought him to Barbados. They had been pitiless, cruel men who had cowed their cargo with unremitting savagery. He could still feel the hot pain from the bull hide whips they had used to lash the slaves and the casual way that the sick and ailing had been tossed overboard alive to the waiting sharks.

  ‘Steady there, Able,’ cautioned Trevan. ‘You’re stabbing at that cable like you be trying to kill someone!’

  When the cable was butchered to the satisfaction of their lieutenant, the ship hove to into the stiff breeze and the call went out for all hands. The small deck was soon thronged like a market day crowd with both watches gathered. The crew were agog to know what the strange hairy rope was for. Under Sutton’s supervision it was looped under the bowsprit and lowered down until it disappeared beneath the hull like a belt. Each end of the cable rose out of the sea and came over opposite sides of the ship. The crew were split between the two ends and encouraged to pull in opposite directions as if about to take part in a tug-of-war match.

  Backwards and forwards the cable sawed, as first one half of the crew and then the ot
her heaved on it, scrubbing the hull of the Rush in much the same way that a bather might towel his back dry. Sutton and Carver each supervised an end as they progressed slowly back down the ship, carefully working their way around the various chains, port lids and swivel guns as they went. Up on the quarterdeck Clay looked with satisfaction at the clumps of dislodged weed that bobbed to the surface all around his ship. At the end of two hours of the back-breaking work that Trevan had feared, the cable was pulled back on board, and the men dismissed. The Rush still needed to be cleaned properly, for the curious scrubbing would have missed much, but at least she would be able to go a little faster now.

  *****

  ‘Hey, Adam,’ called a voice as Sedgwick and Trevan walked past on route to their mess table. The sailor had to shout to be heard over the hubbub of the lower deck, where discussion of the afternoon’s strange activity combined with anticipation of their coming evening meal, made for a noisy combination.

  ‘Evening, Tom,’ replied Trevan, shaking his fellow sailor by the hand. ‘This here is Able Sedgwick, just joined our mess today. Able, that be Tom Wilson, ordinary seaman in the afterguard.’

  ‘Good to have you on board, Able,’ said Wilson with a smile, before returning to Trevan. ‘Them two Grunters you followed across are rare deep ones, and no mistake. Fancy scrubbing all that weed off with a cable! I never heard tell of such a thing, but it’s given the barky a good couple of knots, according to my mate Ben, him being a quartermaster an’ all. I tell you that arse Parker would never of dreamt of such an idea.’