His Majesty's Ship (2 page)

      
It must be over sixty miles from Leatherhead, three days—two at a push, and yet the youth seemed happy to stroll with him, no limps or complaints. The man eyed him carefully; clearly this was more than a dream-struck boy. He pulled his watch from his pocket.

      
“All right, my lad. It's gone six, if we stay here much longer you could end up in the Navy, likes it or not.”

      
They turned from the sea, and began to retrace their steps as the officer continued.

      
“I can't promise you a frigate, in fact I can't promise you nothin'. You'd be better off trying for a collier and learn to sail without His Britannic Majesty's discipline, but I can tell you're set, and it'd be wrong of me to put you off.”

      
Matthew's step had picked up and he was almost skipping as he continued.

      
“Keep yourself clean, obey orders, and never let your mates down. Other than that, you've got to trust to luck. Oh, and you'll have to try and speak more clearly.”

      
“It's a stammer. My father said it would go in time.”

      
“Belike it will, but lose it—if you want to get on and give orders.”

      
They stopped outside a whitewashed building where an ensign flew from a jack rigged over the door. Matthew had noticed it when they passed by earlier, but had been too intent on his story to give it thought.

      
“You're certain?” the officer asked, and received a nod in return. “All right, this here's the Rondey; go inside an' they'll look after you.”

      
Matthew viewed the place with a moment's hesitation, before moving forward. The man stopped him.

      
“Take care of yourself,” he held out his hand almost harshly. Matthew took it, feeling the well remembered roughness of the village carpenter.

      
“Thank you,” he opened his mouth to say more, then closed it, feeling suddenly foolish. He pushed the door open in front of him, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

      
For a moment the elderly officer stood and looked after him. His seafaring days were over, and he was not sorry. This lad would find a different navy to the one he had joined, thirty-seven years ago. Probably a better one, but certainly no less tough. For all his belief that it was not dreams that led him, the boy was in for a shock. If he lasted out he might carve a career for himself. He might find the life to his liking, and even prosper. He could get himself noticed, encouraged and promoted, only to finally be sent ashore when he had no more to give. And then he would find there was little for him to do, little that anyone asked of him, except maybe to send another kid off in his wake.

      
The wind was suddenly icily cold. The old man shivered, drew his watch coat about him, and set off for the boarding house that was his home.

*****

      
It was a mere pile of books, but they moved HMS
Vigilant
from being a purposeless hulk to a commissioned ship of war; and they were all heaped in front of her captain. At thirty-eight Shepherd was no stranger to the position. In the fourteen years that he had held post captain rank
Vigilant
was the fourth ship he had commanded, and the first to be classed as a line-of-battle ship albeit, as a sixty-four, the smallest of the type.

      
He had been in command for almost two years, having commissioned her back in 'ninety-three, just after the French declared war. Together they had sailed with Hood at Toulon, and later met Howe's fleet coming home after the drawn-out action that ended on the first of June. They had been satisfying times, but for the last seven weeks
Vigilant
had been penned up at Spithead, and the next cruise, following a bunch of worn out merchants down to St. Helena, looked like being about as exciting.

      
At that moment, however, Shepherd had other matters on his mind; matters that ambushed him on occasions like this and kept him from his proper work. In all his time, never had the urge to break away from land been so great. For a moment he gazed into the distance, before bringing himself back to the problems in hand with an effort that was very nearly physical.

      
He must think about the crew; they had been idle for too long. The wedding garland had been hoisted after eight days, but even the novelty of women on board had done little to ease men who were used to the activity and strain of life at sea. Three had deserted in the first few days, and even after one had been caught, dragged back, and punished in front of the entire crew, there had been a steady wastage of one or two a week ever since. And it was always the better seamen who deserted, the ones who would be readily accepted on board a merchant ship, and paid handsomely for their risk. The consequence was that he was over twenty topmen down, and almost equally lacking in ordinary seamen. There would be the usual offerings from the press, and the local assizes might produce some landsmen, but it took a long time to train real sailors, and that was what he lacked most. Of course a spell at sea would knock a few of them into shape, and a decent cruise to the South Atlantic was better for training hands than beating about on some God forsaken blockade.

      
Shepherd's mind, dwelling on the intake, naturally moved on to the new lieutenant. Curtis had been taken ill with tubercular consumption and transferred to the hospital at Haslar, where he seemed destined to stay for some while. In his place they had been given an enigma by the name of Rogers. Shepherd was naturally cautious about unknown officers. In a relatively small world the usual reason for a man to be anonymous was fast and silent promotion, frequently bought by means of interest, favours or outright bribery. There could be few other ways for a man to progress without creating something of a name for himself.

      
Unfortunately the habit was becoming far too common. Shepherd knew one captain who had made post before the age of eighteen, and a flag officer's son who openly boasted about being rated midshipman and allowed to compile sea time before taking a commission, while he was still in his cradle. Tricks like that might work in the army, but when at sea, where a ship and every life on board could so easily depend on the judgement of one man, it was plainly ridiculous.

      
The call from the sentry outside the door interrupted his thoughts, and Shepherd was annoyed to realise that for the last five minutes he had been doing little, other than staring into space. At his curt word the door opened and Dyson, his first lieutenant, entered.

      
“Message from ordinance, sir. They'll be ready to load at noon.”

      
Dyson was a solemn man, several years older than his captain. Shepherd had retained serious reservations when he was appointed as there had been a number of rumours circulating about him, and his methods. It seemed that Dyson was known for being rather a cold fish, with a taste for discipline that was almost bordering on the unhealthy. However his references had been good and so far Shepherd had been pleasantly surprised by the efficiency of his second in command. He was able to carry out most tasks without the fevered activity exhibited by some executive officers, and Shepherd was quick to appreciate that discipline in a ship-of-the-line was more important and harder to enforce than the frigates he had been more accustomed to.

      
“Very good. Have you alerted the master?”

      
“Yes, sir.” Dyson's face bore no expression.

      
It was the duty of the sailing master and his assistants to supervise the loading of any stores. Taking on shot and powder would affect the ship's trim and alter her sailing abilities.

      
“I was wondering if we should send the starboard watch to dinner early, sir. That would give us the entire afternoon to see it finished”

      
“Can you do it in the time?”

      
“Yes, sir.” Dyson was reassuringly positive.

      
“Very good, make the arrangements.” As Dyson turned to go Shepherd noticed a mark just behind his right ear. It was a hint of soap, and it stood out quite plainly. Clearly the lieutenant had shaved in the dark that morning, and missed the lather. More importantly, no officer or servant had bothered, or dared, to advise him of the fact. It was a small point, but one worth remembering.
 

*****

      
“
Vigilant.
” The lieutenant fairly spat the name out, before settling himself into the stern of the lugger. Unseen by him the three man crew busied themselves with loading his luggage and casting off. They had carried too many bad tempered young officers to be surprised at one more. The cold wind was excellent for the short passage to Spithead, and the small craft fairly shot through the dark, crusted waves.

      
It was a damn bad show, being posted to a ship-of-the-line, a damn bad show. The least he had hoped for was first luff of a frigate, although really he was ready for command, and promotion. He was aware of the strings his father had pulled to get him this posting; well he would just have to pull a few more, and harder.

      
The lugger drew near to a sixty-four, and for the first time Rogers looked on his new ship. Small, when judged against the average British liner, and lacking in power; twenty-four pounders rather than the normal thirty-twos. It would also be a good deal more crowded than a frigate and less likely to be despatched on the sort of cruise that won promotion and prize money. Of course a lot depended on the captain; Shepherd had been known as a frigate man in the American war, maybe he would breathe a bit of life into the old barge.

      
A heavily laden wherry was pulling away from the larboard side, the cackles of laughter and shouted farewells identified it as carrying doxies. So the ship had been under the wedding garland. That would mean a lax, and probably unhealthy crew with countless little stores of sailor's joy hidden about the place. Hardly an inspiring start.

      
The midshipman of the watch hailed Rogers' boat as it passed under the counter, and approached the starboard main chains. One of the boatmen looked at Rogers for confirmation, before bellowing “Aye Aye”, in reply: the accepted signal that a commissioned officer was on board. The boat bumped once against the side, before hooking on. Rogers stood up, fumbling in his pockets for coins, and clambered up the slippery battens to the entry port. A tall, fair haired lieutenant was there to meet him. Rogers accepted the hand guardedly and gave his name to the younger man.

      
“I'm Tait,” he was told in return. “Welcome aboard.”

      
Rogers eyed Tait evenly. “Been with the ship long?”

      
“Nearly two years,” Tait replied. “I passed my board in 'ninety and was commissioned in March 'ninety-one.” The man looked in his early twenties, a good five years younger and yet only a few weeks junior to him.

      
Rogers smiled for the first time. “February, same year,” he said, with ill concealed satisfaction.

      
Tait took the information in good heart. “In that case you'll be number two.”

      
That sounded like a fresh set of officers; it was better than it could have been, and Rogers began to perk up slightly.

      
“Is the captain aboard?”

      
“In his quarters, doesn't like to be interrupted though. First Lieutenant's in the wardroom, maybe you should report to him there?”

      
“When do we sail?” Rogers studiously ignored the advice.

      
“Ship's currently being cleared of wives, we're taking shot and powder tomorrow, with the last of the water the day after. Most of the convoy's been ready to leave for ages, but we've been waiting on two more John Company ships joining us. They won't be here 'till the morrow”

      
“Convoy?”

      
“Yes, we're acting as senior escort. Slow as far as St. Helena, then straight back with the next home bound.”

      
Tait had one of those open, honest faces that pleased Rogers. He'd be a useful junior; eager for the boring jobs and satisfying to boss about. That, and the almost independent command they would enjoy as a senior escort, placed him in a decidedly better frame of mind.

      
Rogers nodded at the younger man. “I have a few things to discuss with the First Lieutenant. Have my dunnage brought aboard and sent below, will you?”

      
He strode past Tait, and made his way to the wardroom without waiting for a reply.
 

*****

      
“Two more days of Peter Warren victuals,” said the old man, to no one in particular. “Then we're back to salt beef and pork, with pease puddin' twice a week, an' suet on Sundays.” He smiled to himself as his mates began dropping the meat into the boiling coppers. “That fresh stuff jus' ain't got the quality or the flavour; t'aint natural.”