Post captain, page 42
Breakfast was something of a disappointment. Captain Hamond had always drunk cocoa, originally to encourage the crew to do the same and then because he liked it, whereas Jack and Stephen were neither of them human until the first pot of coffee was down, hot and strong.
‘Killick,’ said Jack, ‘toss this hog’s wash over the side and bring coffee at once.’
‘Ax pardon, sir,’ said Killick, seriously alarmed. ‘I forgot the beans, and the cook’s got none.’
‘Then jump to the purser’s steward, the gun-room cook, the sick-bay, anywhere, and get some, or your name will not be Preserved much longer, I can tell you. Cut along. God-damned lubber, to forget our coffee,’ he said to Stephen, with warm indignation.
‘A little pause will make it all the more welcome when it comes, sure,’ said Stephen, and to divert his friend’s mind he took up a bee and said, ‘Be so good as to watch my honey-bee.’ He put it down on the edge of a saucer in which he had made a syrup of cocoa and sugar; the bee tasted to the syrup, pumped a reasonable quantity, took to the air, hovered before the saucer, and returned to the hive. ‘Now, sir,’ said Stephen, noting the time on his watch, ‘now you will behold a prodigy.’
In twenty-five seconds two bees appeared, questing over the saucer with a particular high shrill buzz. They pitched, pumped syrup, and went home. After the same interval four bees came, then sixteen, then two hundred and fifty-six; but when four minutes had elapsed this simple progression was obscured by earlier bees who knew the way and who no longer had to fix either their hive or the syrup.
‘Now,’ cried Stephen, from out of the cloud, ‘have you any doubt of their power to communicate a locus? How do they do it? What is their signal? Is it a compass-bearing? Jack, do not offer to molest that bee, I beg. For shame. It is only resting.’
‘Beg pardon, sir, but there ain’t a drop of coffee in the barky. Oh God almighty,’ said Killick.
‘Stephen, I am going to take a turn,’ said Jack, withdrawing from the table in a sly undulatory motion and darting through the door with hunched shoulders.
‘Why they call this a crack frigate,’ he said, swilling down a glass of water in his sleeping-cabin, ‘I cannot for the life of me imagine: not a drop of coffee among two hundred and sixty men.’
The reason became apparent to him some two hours later, when the port-admiral signalled Lively proceed to sea. ‘Acknowledge,’ said Jack, this news being brought to him. ‘Mr Simmons, we will unmoor, if you please.’
The unmooring was a pleasure to watch. At the pipe of All hands to unmoor ship the men flowed rather than ran to their stations; there was no stampede along the gangways, no stream of men blundering into one another in their haste to escape the rope’s end; as far as he could see there was no starting, and there was certainly very little noise. The capstan-bars were pinned and swifted, the Marines and afterguard manned them, the piercing fife struck up Drops of Brandy, and one cable came in while the other went out. A midshipman from the forecastle reported the best bower catted; the first lieutenant relayed this to Jack, who said, ‘Carry on, Mr Simmons.’
Now the Lively was at single anchor, and as the capstan turned again so she crept across the sea until she was immediately over it. ‘Up and down, sir,’ called the bosun.
‘Up and down, sir,’ said the first lieutenant to Jack.
‘Carry on, Mr Simmons,’ said Jack. This was the crucial moment: the crew had both to clap on fresh nippers - the bands that attached the great cable to the messenger, the rope that actually turned on the capstan - for a firmer hold, and to loose the topsails so as to sail the anchor out of the ground. In even the best-managed ships there was a good deal of hullabaloo at such a time, and in this case, with the tide running across the wind - an awkward cast in which split-second timing was called for - he expected a rapid volley, a broadside of orders.
Mr Simmons advanced to the break of the quarterdeck, glancing quickly up and down, said, ‘Thick and dry for weighing,’ and then, before the rush of feet had died away,
‘Make sail.’ No more. Instantly the shrouds were dark with men racing aloft. Her topsails, her deep, very well cut topsails were let fall in silence, sheeted home, the yards hoisted up, and the Lively, surging forward, weighed her anchor without a word. But this was not all: even before the small bower was fished, the jib, forestaysail and foretopgallant had appeared and the frigate was moving faster and faster through the water, heading almost straight for the Nore light. All this without a word, without a cry except for an unearthly hooting of Woe, woe, woe high in the upper rigging. Jack had never seen anything like it. In his astonishment he looked up at the main topgallant yard, and there he saw a small form hanging by one arm;
it swung itself forward on the roll of the ship and fell in a sickening curve towards the maintopmaststay. Almost unbelievably it caught this rope, and then, altogether unbelievably, shot up from one piece of rigging to another to the fore-royal and sat there.
‘That is Cassandra, sir,’ said Mr Simmons, seeing Jack’s face of horror. ‘A sort of Java ape.’
‘God help us,’ said Jack, recovering himself. ‘I thought it was a ship’s boy gone mad. I have never seen anything like it - this manoeuvre, I mean. Do your people usually make sail according to their own notions?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the first lieutenant, in civil triumph.
‘Well. Very well. The Lively has her own way of doing things, I see. I have never seen . ..’ The frigate was heeling to the breeze, marvellously alive, and he stepped to the taffrail, where Stephen, dressed in a sad-coloured coat and drab small-clothes, stood conversing with Mr Randall, bending to hear his tiny pipe. Jack looked at the dark water slipping fast by her side, curving deep under the chains; she was making seven knots already, seven and a half. He looked at her wake, fixing an anchored seventy-four and a church tower - hardly a trace of leeway. He leant over the larboard quarter, and there, one point on the larboard bow, was the Nore light. The wind was two points free on the starboard tack, and any ship he had sailed in would be aground in the next five minutes.
‘You are happy about your course, Mr Simmons?’ he said.
‘Quite happy, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.
Simmons knew his ship, that was obvious: he most certainly knew her capabilities. Jack repeated this - he was convinced of it; it must be so. But the next five minutes were as unhappy as any he had ever spent -this beautiful, beautiful ship a mere hulk, dismasted, bilged . . . During the moments when the Lively was racing through the turbid shoaling water at the edge of the bank and where a trifle of leeway would wreck her hopelessly, he did not breathe at all. Then the bank was astern.
With as much impassivity as he could summon he drew in the good sparkling air and desired Mr Simmons to set course for the Downs, where he was to pick up some supernumeraries and, if Bonden had not vanished, his own coxswain, seeing that Captain Hamond had taken his with him to London. He set to pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck, keenly watching the behaviour of the Lively and her crew.
No wonder they called her a crack frigate: her sailing qualities were quite out of the ordinary, and the smooth quiet discipline of her people was beyond anything he had seen: her speed in getting under way and making sail had something unnatural about it, as eerie as the cry of the gibbon in the rigging.
The familiar low, grey, muddy shores glided by; the sea was a hard metallic grey, the horizon in the offing ruled sharply from the mottled sky, and the frigate ran on, the wind now one point free, as though a precise, undeviating rail were guiding her. Merchantmen were coming in for the London river, four sail of Guineamen, and a brig of war for Chatham, apart from the usual hovellers and peterboats: how flabby and loose they looked, by comparison.
The fact of the matter was that Captain Hamond, a gentleman of a scientific turn of mind, had chosen his officers with great care and he had spent years training his crew; even the waisters could hand, reef and steer; and for the first years he had raced them mast against mast in furling and loosing sail, putting them through every manoeuvre and combination of manoeuvres until they reached equality at a speed that could not be improved upon. And today, jealous for the honour of their ship, they had excelled themselves; they knew it very well, and as they passed near their acting-captain they glanced at him with discreet complacency, as who should say, ‘We showed you a thing or two, cock; we made you stretch your eyes.’
What a ship to fight, he reflected: if he met one of the big French frigates, he could make rings round her, beautifully built though they were. Yes. But what of the Livelies themselves? They were seamen, to be sure, quite remarkable seamen; but were they not a little elderly, on the whole, oddly quiet? Even the ship’s boys were stout hairy fellows, rather heavy for lying out on the royal yards; and most of them talked gruff. Then there were a good many brown and yellow men aboard. Low Bum, who was now at the wheel, steering wonderfully small, had had no need to grow a pigtail when he entered at Macao; nor had John Satisfaction, Horatio Jelly-Belly or half a dozen of his shipmates. Were they fighting men? The Livelies had had none of the incessant cutting-out expeditions that made danger an everyday affair and so disarmed it: circumstances had been entirely different - he should have read her log to see exactly what she had done. His eye fell on one of the quarterdeck carronades. It was painted brown, and some of the dull, scrubbed paint overlapped the touch-hole. It had not been fired for a long while. Certainly he should look at the log to see how the Livelies spent their day.
On the leeward side Mr Randall told Stephen that his mother was dead, and that they had a tortoise at home; he hoped the tortoise did not miss him. Was it really true that the Chinese never ate bread and butter? Never, at any time whatsoever? He and old Smith messed with the gunner, and Mrs Armstrong was very kind to them. Plucking at Stephen’s hand to draw his attention, he said in his clear pipe, ‘Do you think the new captain will flog George Rogers, sir?’
‘I cannot tell, my dear. I hope not, I am sure.’
‘Oh, I hope he does,’ cried the child, with a skip. ‘I have never seen a man flogged. Have you ever seen a man flogged, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Stephen.
‘Was there a great deal of blood, sir?’
‘Indeed there was,’ said Stephen. ‘Several buckets full.’ Mr Randall skipped again, and asked whether it would be long to six bells. ‘George Rogers was in a horrid passion, sir,’ he added. ‘He called Joe Brown a Dutch galliot-built bugger, and damned his eyes twice: I heard him. Should you like to hear me recite the points of the compass without a pause, sir? There is my Papa beckoning. Goodbye, sir.’
‘Sir,’ said the first lieutenant, stepping across to Jack, ‘I must beg your pardon, but there are two things I forgot to mention. Captain Hamond indulged the young gentlemen with the use of his fore-cabin in the mornings, for their lessons with the schoolmaster. Should you wish to continue the custom?’
‘Certainly, Mr Simmons. A capital notion.’
‘Thank you, sir. And the other thing was that we usually punish on Mondays in the Lively.’
‘On Mondays? How curious.’
‘Yes, sir. Captain Hamond thought it was well to let defaulters have Sunday for quiet reflection.’
‘Well, well. Let it be so, then. I had meant to ask you what the ship’s general policy is, with regard to punishment. I do not like to make any sudden changes, but I must warn you, I am no great friend to the cat.’
Simmons smiled. ‘Nor is Captain Hamond, sir. Our usual punishment is pumping: we open a sea-cock, let clean water in to mix with what is in the bilges, and pump it out again - it keeps the ship sweet. We rarely flog. In the Indian Ocean we were nearly two years without bringing the cat out of its bag; and since then, not above once in two or three months. But I am afraid that today you may think it necessary: an unpleasant case.’
‘Not article thirty-nine?’
‘No, sir. Theft.’
Theft it was said to be. Authority, speaking hoarse and official through the mouth of the master-at-arms, said it was theft, riotous conduct, and resisting arrest. With the ship’s company assembled aft, the Marines drawn up, and all the officers present, he led his victim before the captain and said, ‘Did steal one ape’s head. .
‘It’s all lies,’ cried George Rogers, still clearly in a horrid passion.
the property of Evan Evans, quarter-gunner. .
‘It’s all lies.’
‘And being desired to step aft. .
‘It’s all lies, lies!’ cried Rogers.
‘Silence, there,’ said Jack. ‘You shall have your turn, Rogers. Carry on, Brown.’
‘And on being told I had information that led me to believe he was in possession of this head, and on being desired, civil, to step aft and verify the statements of Evan Evans, quarter-gunner, larboard watch,’ said the master-at-arms, swivelling his eyes alone in the direction of Rogers, ‘did call out expressions of contempt:
was in liquor; and endeavoured to conceal hisself in the sail-room.’
‘All lies.’
‘And when roused out, did offer violence to Button, Menhasset and Mutton, able seamen.’
‘It’s all lies,’ cried Rogers, beside himself with indignation. ‘All lies.’
‘Well, what did happen?’ said Jack. ‘Tell me in your own words.’
‘I will, your honour,’ said Rogers, glaring round, pale and trembling with fury. ‘In my own Gospel words. Master-at-arms comes for’ard - which I was taking a caulk, my watch below - tips me a shove on the arse, begging your pardon, and says, “Get your skates on, George; you’re fucked.” And I up and says, “I don’t care for you, Joe Brown, nor for that fucking little cunt Evans.” No offence, your honour; but that’s the Gospel truth, to show your honour the lies he tells, with his “verify the statements”. It’s all lies.’
There seemed to be a more familiar ring about this version; but it was followed by a rambling account of who pushed whom, in what part of the ship, with contradictory evidence from Button, Menhasset and Mutton, and remarks on character; and it seemed that the main issue might be lost in a discussion of who lent someone two dollars off of Banda, and was never repaid, in grog, tobacco, or any other form.
‘What about this ape’s head?’ said Jack.
‘Here, sir,’ said the master-at-arms, producing a hairy thing from his bosom.
‘You say it is yours, Evans; and you say it is yours, Rogers? Your own property?’
‘She’s my Andrew Masher, your honour,’ said Evans.
‘He’s my poor old Ajax, sir, been in my ditty-bag ever since he took sick off the Cape.’
‘How can you identify it, Evans?’
‘Anan, sir?’
‘How do you know it is your Andrew Masher?’
‘By her loving expressions, sir, your honour. By her expressions. Griffi Jones, stuffed animals, Dover, is giving me a guinea for her tomorning, yis, yis.
‘What have you to say, Rogers?’
‘It’s all lies, sir!’ cried Rogers. ‘He’s my Ajax. Which I fed him from Kampong - shared my grog, ate biscuit like a Christian.’
‘Any distinguishing marks?’
‘Why, the cut of his jib, sir: I know him anywheres, though shrivelled.’
Jack studied the ape’s face, which was set in an expression of deep, melancholy contempt. Who was telling the truth? Both thought they were, no doubt. There had been two ape’s heads in the ship, and now there was only one. Though how anyone could pretend to recognize the features of this wizened red coconut heavy in his hand he could not tell. ‘Andrew Masher was a female, I take it, and Ajax a male?’ he said.
‘That’s right, your honour.’
‘Beg Dr Maturin to come on deck, if he is not engaged,’ said Jack. ‘Dr Maturin, is it possible to tell the sex of an ape by its teeth, or that kind of thing?’
‘It depends on the ape,’ said Stephen, looking eagerly at the object in Jack’s hands. ‘This, for example,’ he said, taking it and turning it about, ‘is an excellent specimen of the male simia satyrus, Buffon’s wild man of the woods:
see the lateral expansion of the cheeks, mentioned by Hunter, and the remains of that particular throat-sac, so characteristic of the male.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Jack. ‘Ajax it is. Thank you very much, Doctor. The charge of theft is dismissed. But you must not knock people about, Rogers. Has anyone something to say in his favour?’
The second lieutenant stepped forward, said that Rogers was in his division - attentive to his duty, generally sober, a good character, but apt to fly into a passion. Jack told Rogers that he must not fly into a passion; that flying into a passion was a very bad thing - it would certainly lead him to the gallows, if indulged in. He was to command his temper, and do without grog for the next week. The head was confiscated temporarily, for further examination- indeed, it had already vanished into the cabin, leaving Rogers looking somewhat blank. ‘I dare say you will get it back in time,’ said Jack, with more conviction than he felt. The other defaulters, all guilty of uncomplicated drunkenness, were all dealt with in the same way; the grating was unrigged; the cat, still in its bag, returned to
its resting-place; and shortly after the hands were piped to dinner. Jack invited the first lieutenant, the officer and midshipman of the watch, and the chaplain to dine with him, and resumed his pacing.
His thoughts ran on gunnery. There were ships, and plenty of them, that hardly ever exercised the great guns, hardly fired them except in action or for saluting, and if this was the case with the Lively, he would change it. Even at close quarters it was as well to hit where it hurt most; and in a typical frigate-action accuracy and speed were everything. Yet this was not the Sophie, with her pop-guns: a single broadside from the Lively would burn well over a hundredweight of powder - a consideration. Dear Sophie, how she blazed away.
