H. M. S. Cockerel, page 8
Men who’d been put ashore sick or hurt into Greenwich Hospital, but had recovered, they were particularly vulnerable, for they owned pay certificates, or solid coin for once, and there were many jobbers and “sharks” who preyed upon them to buy up their certificates for a pittance, then turn them in at the Pay Office for full value. And get the released hospitallers drunk, penniless and desperate. Desperate enough to fear returning to the Fleet, and sign aboard a merchantman or privateer.
So some of their raids were in the nature of rescue missions to reclaim those befuddled men before worse befell them; the Navy “getting its own back.”
Tonight it was to be deserters, the genuine articles this time, not stragglers, and the “gang” was the round dozen of the toughest of hands. True deserters would face punishment, and would fight like a pack of badgers to stay free.
Their hideout was above an “all-nations,” a dramshop serving a little bit of everything, at the back of a winding mews of dockyard warehouses. It was a mean and narrow building, dwarfed by the height of the warehouses, hard up against a blank brick wall which separated it from one of the worst “Bermudas” of Wapping, a slum so gruesome and crime-ridden, and its lanes and alleys so convoluted, that their escape from any threat would be assured, if they had warning.
“One door art th’ back, sir,” the crimp whispered in Lewrie’s ear, his breath as foul as rotting kelp. “Winders’z bricked up, ’cept fer that’un ye c’n see. Winder Tax,” he shrugged. “But I’d s’pect ’ey got ’em one jus’ boarded over, ’bove th’ wall, sir.”
How Lilycrop, or Bridey, had talked the crimp into aiding them, Lewrie could not fathom. Crimps usually were in competition with the ’Press. The Navy had to use their own gangs, for locals stood a fair chance of being found beaten to a pulp, or dead, if they were spotted helping round up people for the Navy.
The old Mother Abbess, Lewrie decided, leaning away to escape the stench, must know where he buried the body! Took his clothes, too, no doubt; the crimp’s body odour was, if anything, even more loathsome than his breath! He smelled like a corpse’s armpit!
“Down to the end of the mews, Bosun,” Lewrie instructed, after giving it a long look. “Two hands atop the wall, either side of their bolt-hole window. You’ve placed two more at the back entrance?”
“Aye, sir. Snuck ’round a’hind th’ warehouses. One to stop the front door, once we smash in.”
“No need f’r ’at, sir,” the crimp muttered, producing a sack of tinny, clanking objects from within his greasy coat.
“You have a key?” Lewrie goggled.
“Manner o’ speakin’, like,” the crimp chuckled softly, thumbing through a set of picks and tiny pry-levers, selecting them by feel in the dark, foggy gloom. “Best lock’s on th’ shop side, not th’ stairs door. Been in afore, I has, an’ nary a drap’d I get, th’ knacky ol’ whore-son!”
“Let’s go, then,” Lewrie murmured, changing his grip on his truncheon. They flattened themselves against the front of the warehouses, vague darker shadows in the night, in single file. Alan gave the dramshop another squint as they got closer. There was one door to the alley, offset to the left of the storefront, and the window, or bulkhead bay, that formed the majority of the narrow building’s face, was tightly sealed by large barred shutters.
“I gets ’is lock t’op’m, sir . . .” the crimp informed him in a gay, professional afterthought. “’Ey’s a door t’th’ right, ’at’s th’ shop. Pair-o’-stairs onna lef . . . that’s y’r pigeon, sir. Up ye’ll fly. I’ll be waitin’ backit th’ corner. Ah, tha’s me darlin’!” he wheezed as rusty tumblers clicked. A light thumb on the latch, and it was open. “Wait!” The crimp drew out a small flask of oil, and atomized the hinges of the door with as much loving care as a woman might, to apply her favourite, most alluring scent.
“On y’r own now, sir,” the crimp bowed, and lightfooted his way to the far end of the alley, farthest from observation.
“We’ll creep, far as we may, men,” Lewrie ordered. “First sign of alarm, though, we go like blazes. Lanterns hooded, ’til I give the word. Right?”
They slunk into stygian blackness, feeling softly with toes for the first step of the riser, groping for a railing that was not there. And measuring the height of the subsequent steps, and their depth, one cautious tread at a time. Nine men, including Lewrie, his bosun and Cony, all trying to breathe, to climb as silently as possible; though to Alan’s ears, they made as much noise as a like number of grunting, rasping hogs in that narrow, airless passage.
Lewrie held up one hand to warn his gang to pause for a moment, so he could listen. He thought he heard soft murmurings, a snatch of throaty laughter from above. Unfortunately, his men couldn’t even see their hands in front of their own faces, much less his, so all he did was bunch them up to a chorus of grunts, subdued yelps of surprise, of awkward feet thunked on creaking boards, and the thud of truncheons on the peeling plaster walls.
“Hoy, wazzat?” came a cry from above.
“Go!” Lewrie screamed, almost on his hands and knees to grope upward quickly. “Lanterns! Go!”
There was a hint of light, so he could espy a tiny landing and an array of doors at the top of the steep stairs. One of them opened a crack, spilling more light, right ahead of him. Lewrie scrabbled to his feet and dove for the door, crashing into it before the people behind it could close and lock it. He stumbled through at waist level, avoiding the slash of a jackknife above his head. Before the assailant could slash again, he was brought down by a truncheon smashing on his arm. The knife dropped from his numb fingers.
“In the King’s name!” Lewrie howled, lunging at the startled young sailor on the cot before him. He used his truncheon like a pike to knock the breath from the lad, and curl him up like a singed worm around his bruised stomach, gasping for air.
There was more ruckus from the center room, as its denizens discovered that their escape route through the boarded-up window which let onto the stews was filled with pressgang hands.
“Jeez- us! ” the bosun exclaimed with disgust. “Bloody . . . !”
“Got these, sir,” Cony told him. “Christ!”
Lewrie turned about, taking his eyes off the younger sailor for a moment. His assailant was knelt on the floor, against the wall near a wardrobe. Cony and two more hands were already binding him in irons. Oh, he was a sailor, no doubt about it; tattooed and sun-baked, a ring in his ear in sign he’d survived a sinking sometime in his past. And as grizzled and stocky as a longtime bosun’s mate. His clothes were sailors’ “short clothing” and purser’s slops—though the man was now bare-arsed nude, still sporting the remains of a prodigious cock-stand.
“Oh, bloody . . .” Lewrie muttered as he grasped the situation. He turned back to the younger sailor and ripped the filthy linen sheet away from him. He too was naked.
“Please, sir!” the lad whimpered, looking up with pleading in his large, doelike eyes. Except for the usual ruddy sailor’s tan, he was . . . pretty; pretty as some biddable young miss! “Please, sir!” he begged again, almost fluttering his lashes in hopes he could stir pity. “Warn’ wot ya think, sir, I swears it! Warn’ my fault, sir!”
“A Goddamned sodomite!” Lewrie almost gagged.
“Don’ take me, sir . . . they’d flog me somethin’ awful. They’d hang me, sir! I’m a good topman, sir, see . . . ain’t never been flogged? Ain’t been no trouble ’board ship, sir.”
He reached out in supplication, tears rolling unashamedly down his face, and Lewrie flinched back from his touch, fended him off with the truncheon.
“Don’ never mess ’board ship, sir,” the young seaman began to blubber. “An’ won’ never ’appen agin, sir. Won’ do h’it no more, I swears it. Fell in wif bad comp’ny, sir. Run outa money, an’ . . . an’ I needed money, sir. Drink an’ bad companions, sir! Sir!”
“Irons here,” Lewrie barked, snapping his fingers for his men.
“Oh, please mates, don’ do h’it! I’ll go back, swears I will. Ain’t no trouble wif me messmates . . . !”
“Ain’t no mate of yer’n, ya bugger,” one of the gang growled as he advanced with a set of fetters. “’Old still now . . . missy! ”
Lewrie stumped stiff-legged from the chamber, onto the landing, peeking into the other rooms for confirmation. He had not only stumbled onto a nest of deserters, he’d stepped right into a proper dungheap.
No wonder they’d run, he thought. Sodomy was one of the few of the thirty-six Articles of War, besides murder and mutiny, the Navy really did hang people for.
“Gawd, sir,” his bosun spat, “ain’t just deserters. This here be a boy-fucker’s buttock-shop. Center room, sir . . . musta been seven ’r eight o’ th’ . . . things . . . t’gither when we busted in, as evil’z . . . anythin’! Not all of ’em seamen, though, Mister Lewrie. Dramshop owner, ’e’z one, too. Caught ’im in th’ front room, we did. Had ’im a lad in ’ere no bigger’n me youngest boy Tommy, th’ bastard. Two of ’em’z ship’s boys. An’ a coupla . . . gen’lmen! ”
Lewrie took a look in the front room. It was much larger than the other two chambers, part bedchamber and parlour, and quite well furnished compared to the rest. A chubby old reprobate sat unmanacled on the edge of the high bedstead, trying to cover part of his nudity by shrouding his groin with his hands, wide-eyed and high-browed, and striving to appear as sheepishly innocent as a dog might, caught licking the Sunday roast. But cowering up by the pile of pillows, weeping fit to bust, was a cherub of a boy, not over ten years old.
“That . . . suet-arse was buggering that boy? ” Lewrie demanded.
“ ’Pears he wuz, sir. In bed with ’im, naked’z Adam, anyways.”
“You miscontrue, sir,” the harmless-looking old bugger began to explain, shaking his head as if it was a very tiny, silly mistake. “I can assure you, sir, you see—”
“Save it!” Lewrie snapped. “Tell it to the magistrate.”
The man gasped, paling with dread. Hauled before a court on a charge of sodomy, he’d face hanging for his peculiar tastes. A public whipping, then days festering in the stocks on display as his most hopeful prospect; but subject to the taunts, fruit, stones and physical abuse of the Mob. And few survived that, either.
“Didn’ cuff ’im yet, sir . . . bein’ a civilian’n all,” the bosun commented. The ’Press had been sued before for even laying hands on civilians, no matter how briefly. And the bosun was a cautious, and experienced, Impress man. “T’other bugger’z in ’ere, sir.”
Alan stomped to the door of the center chamber. There he saw what he could only construe as the aftermath of a backgammoner’s orgy. Cheap, low beds lined the walls, feather mattresses and blankets stood service for the carpet. The room reeked of spilled rum, gin, brandy and ale. Several candles guttered in the corners, so the participants might take pleasure in observing, between bouts. Even by that guttery light, Lewrie could pick out several seamen, and a pair of snot-nosed, shivering ship’s boys, from the pasty-skinned, maggot-pale civilians.
One of the civilians—again, unfettered—had hurriedly dressed. His clothes were elegant and expensive—silks and satins, fine-cut figured velvet coat and breeches, expensive shoes, the accoutrements of a courtly salon slug. And a courtier’s smug airs.
“I am a gentleman, sir,” he began, with a sneer at discovering an officer to whom he could complain. “I am a civilian. I am not, nor have I ever been, a sailor, sir. Therefore you have no authority over me, and I insist you let me pass, at once!”
“But you are a bugger, ain’t you?” Lewrie countered. “What if we just call for the ‘Charlies’ and hold you ’til a magistrate comes?”
“You would not dare, sir,” the slim young courtier simpered. “No magistrate would sanction the ’Press in his domain, sir, even were he aware of your presence . . . which awareness I most sincerely doubt,” the man shot back, sure of his ground. “Show me your warrant, sir, or confess that your actions this evening have no sanction.”
Damme, Lewrie groaned; a bloody sea lawyer! And, no, we don’t have a warrant to show. That’s why we were successful tonight. Word couldn’t get out, and the streets about weren’t warned to expect us.
“I see, ” the slim aristocrat purred in triumph. “So it will be impossible for you to detain me, d’ye see. Nor summon any local authorities ’pon me. Nor hold me ’gainst my will. You alone have authority to detain, to lay hands upon me, sir, but your writ does not extend to your minions. And your bullybucks have already laid hands upon me, striven to prevent me from dressing, or departing. That constitutes, of itself, a wrongful-taking . . . for which you, and you alone, are liable before a court of justice, sir.” He was singsonging with glee.
Damme, he’s well versed, too! Damn his eyes!
“And I feel it my obligation to caution you, sir, that I am from a most influential and powerful City family. With a circle of friends far more powerful than are yours, I’d expect, with legal assistance far beyond your miserable purse. You are in difficulties enough already. Detain me a moment longer, and whatever befalls you will be a greater measure of chastisement than ever you might imagine. Now let me pass, I say!”
He has me by the short hairs, Lewrie gloomed to himself; all he had said was true. He could be bound up in court for months. Oh, the Admiralty would pay his legal expenses, bail him out of debtors’ prison if he lost the judgment, and if the fop demanded a huge settlement. But he’d be out thousands over the matter. And he couldn’t risk losing every farthing he had.
“You speak for the others, too, I take it?” Lewrie found spirit enough to sneer in return.
“My dear sir, I care little for any but myself,” the man confessed gaily. “These sailors are properly in your limited jurisdiction. They and the rest . . . well, it was dull sport, after all. I will take my man-servant yonder, and depart. Should you have no objections?”
“Get out,” Lewrie grumbled at last. “Get out, and be damned to you, you . . . !”
“Adieu,” the elegant young bugger smirked, making a “leg” and sweeping his showy, egret-feathered hat across his breast. “ Bonne nuit. Though not, you will understand . . . au revoir . . . n’est-ce pas? ”
“Sufferin’ . . .” Lewrie sighed, slamming his truncheon into his palm, over and over, as the courtier and his shivering “man” departed.
“Aye, ’at stinks, sir,” the bosun muttered sourly. “Nothin’ ye could do, else. Not with th’ likes o’ him! ”
“He left one of ’em behind, at any rate,” Lewrie observed, as he walked deeper into the orgy chamber to gaze down upon an unconscious form huddled hard up against a cot.
“Well, ’at’un cut up a bit rough, ’e did, Mister Lewrie. Hadta bash ’im a good’un. Gawd! ’Ese pore tykes. Just babes, some of ’em. Wish we could go ’fore a magistrate. Local parish might take ’em in, set ’em right, ’fore they gets buggery in their blood.”
“This parish?” Lewrie scoffed, still squirming over his defeat. “What could they do? Already Irish bog-trotter poor. Full of future victims. Can’t have boy brothels in rich parishes. Like that sneerin’ shit, just left? Prays the loudest in his family pew, I’d wager, and plays upright for all to see. Can’t take his sort of pleasure in a good parish. But that’s what the East End is for, ain’t it?” And I should know, Lewrie shrugged in wry self-awareness. In my early days, I was all over the East End whores, Drury Lane to Cheapside. Least, they were girls! And I paid well. Full value and more.
“What say we let ’ese litt’lest beggars go, Mister Lewrie?” the bosun almost begged. “Coupla cabin boys, ’eir sort’d not be missed f’r long, no with s’many volunteers. We take ’em in, sir, all they get is caned, then discharged, anyways. T’other tykes, well . . .”
“Aye, Bosun, turn ’em out,” Lewrie decided, unable to look the quivering, fearful children in the eyes. “Tongue-lash before they go, though. Put some fear o’ God in ’em. But we take the rest with us.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Lewrie went to the last, unconscious, civilian by the cot. He rolled him over with his foot, hoping for signs that he might yet be a seaman, subject to impressment. And his pitifully weak writ.
“Well, damme!” he gasped, as if butted in the solar plexus. It had been years! 1780, if it was a day! That last bitterly cold morning when the naval captain and his brute of a coxswain had come for him, in his father’s house in St. James’s, to drag him off as an unwilling midshipman. There, lying at his feet in enforced “repose,” was the bane of his adolescent life. Even with a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, a livid bruise on his cheek and blood matted in his lank, sweaty blond hair, the bastard appeared to be sneering, in truncheon-induced sleep! No, there was no mistaking the rail-thin, haughty, thoroughly despicable face of his half brother Gerald Willoughby. His backgammoning, windward-passage-preferring, butt-fucking sodomite Molly of a half brother.
“Oh, God . . . thankee, just!” Alan whispered with sudden glee.
How many nights he’d swung in his hammock aboard Ariadne, his first ship, with silent tears of rage coursing his cheeks, wasting all that precious sleep with schemes of revenge on all who had connived to push him off, a hopeless, clueless victim, to sea.
His father, for Alan’s inheritance he’d hoped to steal; their solicitor Pilchard, who’d forged and swindled in the cause; his icily beautiful half sister Belinda, who’d lured him to her bed so he could be discovered “raping” her; even the parish vicar who’d been duped into being witness to his alleged crime.
Most especially, this taunting, cruel, sneering, troublemaking, back-stabbing, lying, canting, sneaking, arrogant swine!
