Authors: David Donachie
Giddings didn’t yell. Indeed, he hardly raised his voice as he said, ‘Take them, lads.’
Ghost-like, in the dim light from the stars, the men emerged. The trio tried to resist, to insist that they were of gentle birth. Neither was much of a success. They were too drunk to stand upright and even in dim of a lantern Nelson could see they wore clothes that were close to being rags.
‘Might I suggest, your honour, that we whip this lot off to the premier. The racket they’re making will scare off any more prospects.’
‘Make it so, Giddings,’ Nelson replied, shivering slightly.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Giddings asked, holding up his lantern, and peering into the officer’s face.
‘Fine!’ Nelson insisted, though he felt anything but. The cold and damp seemed to have seeped right through his body, which shuddered
uncontrollably
every few seconds.
‘You don’t look it,’ Giddings insisted, with real concern.
‘Are you a surgeon, man?’ Nelson snapped. ‘Attend to your duty and let me do the same.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Giddings replied, his voice, for the first time, stiff and formal now, thinking, Happen this officer weren’t so soft after all.
He detailed two men to take the captures, now with their arms bound, to the Tower. Within the hour they would be entered on the
Lowestoffe
’s books. Then the party set off down more narrow, stinking alleyways. The ever-present smell of human waste and filth seemed to press in on him like the buildings above his head, adding to Nelson’s discomfort. The streets, if such lanes could be flattered by such a description, cleared ahead of them.
The locals knew who they were, and if some of the men were too drunk to flee, they had womenfolk or friends around who, when alerted, dragged them to a secure place. They tried one tavern, but it was full to bursting with scarred, tough looking individuals, too numerous for such a small party.
‘If we mark the spot, your honour, we can come back with more men.’
‘Yes,’ Nelson responded weakly.
Giddings’s lantern was lifted high, to show a pale sweating face, eyes that were without spark, and a mouth that was slack at the corners. ‘You ain’t on the up and up, sir, no matter what you say. Death’s door be more like it.’
Nelson waved his hand to push Giddings and the lantern aside, but his gesture was too feeble to achieve anything, serving only to confirm that he was sick. He fell forward slightly, the bosun’s mate grabbing his arm to steady him.
‘Thank you, Giddings,’ he whispered, pulling himself upright, willing himself to fight the desire to let go.
‘Mainmast goin’ by the board,’ the sailor replied, as Nelson started to fall over. Giddings caught him, and with one easy arm hoisted him on to his shoulders. The protest died in Nelson’s throat as the world around him, dark night pricked with lanterns, lost focus.
‘Back to the Tower, lads. Mr Nelson has passed out.’
‘Weak as piss, is he?’
‘Don’t know, matey,’ Giddings replied, half turning with the comatose officer on his shoulder. ‘He ain’t half bad as commissioned sods go. But I’ll wager this, if the little bugger fights like he swears, he’ll be a rare plucked ’un.’
Being seasick for the first time was an added burden for a man already weak from fever. Nelson was self-conscious about his condition, though none of his fellow officers referred to it, aware that they, too, might succumb to a different motion than the choppy seas they were now experiencing. At least he knew it would pass, which was more than could be said for the pressed men they had hauled aboard. Exposed to their first taste of the North Sea off Ramsgate, they were convinced they were about to die. Given they had lacked good health before going to sea, several looked as though they might be right.
Not knowing their duty they had to be driven to even the simplest task often with the end of a knotted rope, a starter that stung the back of the ribs as the petty officers applied it with relish. Grey skies, a heaving ocean and sporadic rain added to the discomfort of working on deck. Hands that had clenched on a rope became blistered and raw as they heaved on the braces, or hauled on lines to get sails and spars aloft.
Sentiment had to be put to one side. An inexperienced crew, indulged, might sink them, and Lieutenant Nelson was as harsh as his own condition would allow him to be. He yelled as loudly as Waddle, though he eschewed use of a starter, instead pushing men into place with his bare hands. On several occasions he knew how close he came to receiving a return blow for his efforts. But before they had put to sea, William Locker had read them the Articles of War, so each landsman knew that death was the penalty for striking an officer.
As second lieutenant, Nelson was in charge of half a watch, with only a quartet of proper seamen to help him control over fifty men, not one of whom seemed ever to have laboured in his life. A very few had some semblance of brain, but most were thicker than the wood on which they stood, gormless individuals who could not comprehend any request to haul on a rope, even if it was accompanied by careful, repeated explanation.
‘Come along Mr Nelson,’ yelled Waddle, moving forward from the quarterdeck to where his second was supervising a party just in front of the gangways overlooking the waist. Free with his starter, the premier laid into every back that presented itself, leaving the unfortunates cowering in his
wake. ‘You must get your men on to the mainmast braces quick, or God knows what fate we’ll endure.’
‘They’ll be slick enough when they know their duty, sir.’
Waddle swung at another head that was trying to retch into the sea, catching the man across the cheek. ‘By damn, they’ll know their duty or take a turn at the grating.’
That was Waddle’s response to all transgressions – a good flogging. Nothing would persuade him that there was another way and Nelson was in no state even to try now; he was so weak he had to take hold of the hammock nettings to remain upright. Another sudden shower hit them as he opened his mouth to protest. ‘They are my division, sir. Might I be allowed to discipline them?’
‘They are my responsibility, sir!’ Waddle yelled, swaying easily on his good sea legs as the water streamed off his oilskins. ‘So is the whole ship. And take care that I do not see fit to discipline
you
.’
Waddle pushed the thick, knotted rope into his second lieutenant’s hands. ‘Take this, sir, and apply it heartily. And that, Nelson, is an order.’
The weather worsened as they rounded the South Foreland off Dover, to beat down the Channel into the teeth of a westerly rain filled wind. The watch was changed, and a new set of sick, useless individuals came on deck, those going below staring at him in disbelief as he told them to piss on their hands so the blisters would heal. If anything, having been confined below, the new lot were in a worse state than their companions, the rags they wore soon drenched, their hair matted over low, confused foreheads.
Aware that Waddle was watching him, their officer swung the rope, adding the obligatory curses, although the starter landed with little venom. Yet such consideration was wasted. These men had so little experience of the sea that they considered themselves hard done by and they saw the man who commanded their division as a tyrant.
Life below was just as rough. Experienced hands were determined that these lubberly newcomers should defer to them. Men soaked to the skin shivered in damp hammocks as cold air whistled around them, occasionally retching over the side, though their stomachs contained nothing that would stain the red painted deck. Two men died before their watch was turned out again, either from despair or fatigue, their emaciated frames testifying to the life of poverty they had abandoned in order to enlist in the King’s service.
Facing a five-day blow with a brand new crew taxed all of Captain Locker’s ability as a seaman. The master and he were rarely off the deck, as they shifted canvas and wood to haul round so that
Lowestoffe
could make some headway into the screaming westerly wind. There were ports off his lee that would harbour the entire convoy if conditions worsened, but Locker wanted no safe anchorage if it could be avoided. So Portsmouth, Lymington and Poole were ignored until, due south of Plymouth, he put his helm down and took the wind a few points off his stern. His bowsprit was
now set on a course to weather what they must pass with plenty of sea room, the coast of Brittany off Ushant. The manoeuvre was copied at once by every one of the merchant captains for whom he was responsible, each one heaving over to show the copper that lined their bottoms as the wind drove into their side.
With the wind abaft their beam the pitch of the vessel eased. Men who had survived in the choppy waters of the Dover Straits and stayed upright in the English Channel were struck down by the change in motion. But it was an easier movement, which served Nelson well: he lost the yellow look of fast-approaching death, and got some colour back in his cheeks. Now that the sails were set true he could attend to the needs of his watch, most of whom now struggled to walk on a deck that was not only rising and falling but canted like a gentle slope.
‘Giddings,’ he ordered, ‘get some food into any man who has not eaten.’
‘That’ll do the decks no good, your honour,’ said Giddings, crossly. ‘Let them lay till the weather clears. ‘Sides, you could use some victuals yourself.’
What colour he had gained disappeared as he paled with anger. ‘Two men have died already. If we leave them there’ll be more. Do as I say, and any man who refuses food, force some well-watered rum and ship’s biscuit down his throat.’
‘Permission to set some of them upright to act as swabbers. There’s shit all over the lower decks from them that know no better.’
‘Make it so,’ Nelson replied, heading for the wardroom. That matter would have to be sorted out before divisions on Sunday. He couldn’t blame the lubbers who had had no chance to be educated, but they must be told to use the heads, on fear of some punishment, otherwise the ship would stink throughout the whole commission.
Little did he know that Giddings was below, telling his sickening charges just how lucky they were. ’Cos if it had been any other officer than Mr Nelson, you stupid cunts would be had up already. And I tell you, one more steaming turd found between the hammocks and it won’t be the grating you’ll get, it’ll be my fist down your throat.’
As soon as he entered the wardroom Nelson accosted the purser, his pinched face pink from sitting near the stove. ‘How soon can we issue the new hands with some proper clothing?’
Like all pursers, Abel Corman had a sleek appearance, although he was personally of slight build. Perhaps it was the quality of his clothes, and that he had been below all the time they had battled their way down the Channel. The bottle of claret, secure in the rack by his left elbow, might also have added to his overwhelming appearance of well being.
‘Best left till the weather moderates a trifle, Nelson. We can’t go laying out good canvas on a wet deck. And with all this heavin’ and hoin’ there’d be no end of waste in the cutting.’
‘We’ve lost two men already.’
Corman sniffed, pulled out his bottle of wine and hinted, with a forward
push, that Nelson might like some. ‘Happens every commission, young fellow. They come aboard with every manner of disease in their frames. It’s the hovels they live in, of course, and the salt water and air does for them. I remember when I was assistant in HMS
Ardent
we lost a round two dozen, most of them overboard, between Harwich and Leith.’
Even sick with fever Nelson had gone out with press gangs until the ship had its complement. The purser’s air of complacency riled him, but he controlled it, albeit with difficulty. ‘Would it surprise you, Mr Corman, that having gone to great trouble to acquire them, I’d be mighty loath to lose any more.’
Corman blinked then: the tone had been polite enough but the ice-cold blue eyes and the pale drawn face hinted at deep anger and frustration. ‘And I think that men dying of wet and cold might be more wasteful than a few shreds of canvas.’
‘Spoken like a fellow who has no need to account for it,’ Corman said, sitting forward, skinny chest puffed out, his tone pompous. ‘But I do, sir, and to men who can spot the waste of a farthing fraction.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Nelson hissed.
Corman held up his hand, aware that the youngster was close to losing his temper. ‘It is the Captain’s decision, Nelson, not mine. I suggest that you eat and drink something yourself, or perhaps you will be the one to expire.’
Waddle, in oilskins, entered behind them. ‘Mr Nelson, we shall be returning to normal watch keeping, now conditions are somewhat eased.’
‘Sir.’
‘Which means that, if I were you, I should get some sleep. I’ve set Midshipman Latimer the first dog-watch. You are due to relieve him in less than two hours.’
‘I asked Corman if we could issue some clothing to the landsmen.’
Waddle staggered as
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pitched over in the wake of a large wave. ‘In this? Are you mad?’
‘No, sir, but I am concerned for the condition of the men.’
The round face, red from wind and rain, still seemed smooth, though the eyes, red-rimmed and tired, were less so. ‘Take it as a blessing, Nelson. Weather like this weeds out the weaklings for you. Saves you the trouble of having to deal with them for the rest of the commission.’
‘Quite,’ put in Corman. ‘The weeds usually end up at the grating, and if they expire from that it causes ill feeling in the crew. If it’s not that, the sods tumble overboard for no reason.’
Nelson glared at him. ‘I must ask again, sir.’
‘And I must refuse.’
‘Sir,’ Nelson protested.
‘You mistake your position, Mr Nelson, which I attribute to the influence of your connections. Let me remind you that we are at sea now.’
‘Permission to see the Captain.’
‘Denied!’ barked Waddle. ‘He is even more exhausted than you look. The
men will be issued with their ducks when the sun is out and the deck even. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Nelson replied, pushing past the premier.
‘Where the devil are you going man? I told you to get some sleep.’
He was sick of Waddle and his attitude that men were lower than the animals cosseted in the manger, and expendable. He was even more tired of deferring to his malice.
‘I do believe, sir, that even in the bounds of naval discipline, that is beyond your remit.’
‘Damn you, sir.’
‘And damn you Mr Waddle.’ Nelson’s blue eyes were blazing with passion. ‘We have the good fortune to live in a country where opinions may freely be stated, and these are mine. That your actions are a disgrace to human decency. Worse, they are more likely to sink us than save us. You, sir, are nothing short of a bully, and while you may instruct me in many respects I will never obey an order that forces me to emulate what I consider base behaviour. I will earn respect, not enforce it.’
‘How dare you?’ Waddle spat, his knotted starter raised to strike.
Nelson didn’t flinch. ‘Use it, Mr Waddle, and I’ll call you out.’
There was a moment when it looked as if Waddle was going to succumb to temptation. He was bigger, stronger and healthier than the man challenging him. But he lacked the strength of will to impose himself on a personality that he must have known would never buckle. As soon as the moment of danger had passed, Nelson spun round and left the wardroom. He heard Waddle curse as he departed, then the words, faint but clear, addressed to the purser: ‘There’s a lily liver in that breast, Corman, mark my words. He thinks me blind, thinks I can’t tell the odds between a proper blow with a starter and a dumb show. I’ve come across the type before, who’re soft on the hands. It would not surprise me to learn that Mr Nelson would rather bed them than work them. No doubt he thinks to win their affection, but I know it to be as true as the nose on my face that when the time comes, and there’s death flying about, they won’t follow him.’
‘He certainly has a great deal to learn,’ Corman replied.
Waddle’s reply had real venom in it. ‘No, he doesn’t. Not with his uncle so well placed that every senior officer will grovel to appease him.’
Was that true? Would he be favoured even if he was useless? The way Waddle continued certainly meant he thought so. ‘That whey-faced pup will rise like well-mixed dough in warm air and, no doubt, have a ship of his own, while I am still some other captain’s whipping boy.’
Eventually the weather did ease, though the sun didn’t make an immediate appearance. Badgered on a daily basis by Nelson, Corman finally relented and hauled the necessary bolts of canvas from the sail locker. Each man was issued with enough to make a set of trousers and provided with cloth to knock up a shirt. Then, amid much grumbling, the better-qualified hands
were set to teaching them how to sew their ducks, with Mr Nelson prowling on the main deck to ensure that none of the usual jokes were played. He wanted no three-legged men in his division.
Easier weather provided a chance to train the men rather than drive them. And once they had a uniform appearance, and had been fed for a week on plain but proper food that they could keep in their stomachs, they began to look like a reasonably healthy bunch of hands. Those with hair long enough had already begun to plait it, taking in good heart or ill the taunts of the long serving, pigtailed topmen.