On a Making Tide (9 page)

The boys had two wooden kids each, full to the brim with good East Kent beef, mixed with potatoes and broken ship’s biscuit. Earlier in the day they had been happy to accept John Judd’s help but now they were impatient for their food. Amos Cavell cracked first, seeking to hurry Judd in his explanations. ‘So what’s the second, Little Bitt?’

‘Why, that’s easy, lad. You find the ‘ardest bastard on the ship, the finest man in a fight, and make sure you’re his very best friend.’

Routine is everything aboard a ship, and a compact vessel like
Swanborough
was no exception. It didn’t take either boy long to become familiar with his new home. High prowed, with deep holds and a prominent poop, she was 120 feet long, two-masted and broad in the beam. Fully laden there was little room for the crew. The forepeak, where they messed, was smaller than any mid’s berth. But the main gripe was the lack of rest: it took every available man to sail her, and with a crew of over thirty, in the chops of the Channel, time was spent either on deck or aloft trimming sails, with Nelson often shouted at for his ignorant fumblings.

But even under such trying conditions the steady nature of the days took hold, ironing out the differences between crew contingents, as well as providing a cure for ailments caused by past carnality or just plain hankering for the shore. The crewmen became names, not just faces, while Rathbone, keen to remain in contact with his well-connected supernumerary, was eager to explain his motives for various actions.

‘It don’t do to apply the harsh word early on a cruise, Mr Nelson. A wind takes days to clear the heads of the worst of the drinkers, pining for loved ones notwithstanding. There will be one or two cases of pox aboard for certain, and that’s as debilitating an affliction as is known to man. Thank God, the cook can work his coppers and provide us with our meals, but is also handy with the mercurials.’

Each change of sail was alluded to, and the reason for the course explained on the chart. But Nelson came to dread being singled out: he hated to be seen as in any way different, and that applied especially with Amos Cavell. He took to dodging the Captain, especially at mealtimes, happier to help the other youngster fetch the grub. Then he would sit down to listen with equal devotion to the tales of the older men with whom he now messed.

Half the crew had been in the Navy, and one or two had even observed a gun fired in anger. Officers under whom they had served were named and
compared for their seamanship and their standards of discipline, many cursed and few praised. He listened avidly to yarns of men pressed on land as well as at sea; of a life locked away from society as long as the country was at war; of anger caused by official abuses perpetrated by an uncaring government.

All agreed there was a right way to go about things and a wrong way; that rations issued were sacred in both weight and measure; that pursers were rogues who would steal your eyes and come back for the holes. There were good captains and right sods, who would trim the skin off your back for pleasure. The most often quoted word was ‘rights’, applied to everything from pay to punishment. Every member of the crew, from landsmen to topman, had rights, and it was a foolish captain who gainsaid them.

Every one of them, King’s Navy or merchant, had gone foreign. An exchange of opinion on numerous exotic sounding ports tended towards an examination of the relative merits of taverns and bawdy houses, and Nelson’s innocent enquiries regarding physical particulars of the landfalls, tides, currents and hazards were met with incomprehension. Naturally, disagreements were loud and continuous, with accusations of ‘gilding it’ commonplace. Every one of the men claimed to have lived through the biggest storm the world had ever known, with waves high enough to engulf the tallest house, to have seen the most gigantic whale, the prettiest mermaid with the finest jewelled mirror, as well as icebergs the size of England.

But most of all each and every one had rogered the most expensive, beautiful and accomplished whore, and left her sated, gasping with pleasure, having performed throughout the entire night like the veritable prize bull in the quality of their couplings. That was the point at which he and Amos Cavell’s views parted company, with the Deal boy sneering at the claimed prowess as nothing more than fancy.

‘And how the devil do you know that, smart arse?’

Amos Cavell looked at Nelson, his dark eyes narrowed and his thin face insufferably superior. ‘It be ’cause I’ve done it, and I know it ain’t like they say.’

That caught Nelson out. He and his siblings had been raised on a thirty-acre smallholding, with chickens and livestock, so acts of procreation, in the general sense, held no mystery. But human carnality did. So care with his words would be necessary, as essential as the look of scorn he gave Amos.

‘Takes no more’n a minute at most,’ said Amos, with so little emphasis that it rang true, ‘though I will say it’s pleasurable enough. All that about being at it all through the night is bollocks.’

Maintaining his air of disbelief was hard, but Nelson tried, though he was aware that the look of doubt on his face had slipped half-way to curiosity. ‘Don’t you josh me, Amos Cavell.’

‘I ain’t joshing, mate. It’s no hardship to get your end seen to in Deal. I
reckon we has more whores than any other town in the land, and some of ’em are younger than me. If that don’t provide, a walk in the country around will see you attended to quicker than you can pick an ear of corn.’

Amos, who had been more interested in his own words than the attitude of the enquirer, suddenly looked hard at his companion, and a grin spread across his face that depressed the other boy. ‘You ain’t never been there, Nelson.’

He wanted to lie, to boast in the same tone he had heard at the mess table, but his tongue was stuck to the top of his rapidly drying mouth.

‘Makes no odds to me, mate,’ Amos continued, his expression giving the lie to that statement: there might be no discernible difference between them, but he had seen the way Rathbone treated Nelson. This intelligence served to redress the imbalance in their respective stations. ‘It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And now we’re on water there ain’t nobody doing nothing but talk on. Mind, I should think there’s no end of puddin’-pullin’ goin’ on. Have you had your first purl yet?’

Nelson blushed and shook his head, the long fair lashes covering the shame in his eyes. He was reminded of the mid’s berth in
Raisonable,
of the below belly conversations in which he had taken part, conscious of the lies needed to maintain face; and of that moment in the hold with Rivers, and his own reaction to the older boy’s attentions.

‘Then you’d best haul away every chance you get,’ Amos added gleefully, landing an over-emphatic punch on Nelson’s shoulder. ‘Milk don’t come from an ignored teat. Nothing like pulling your own to bring matters on.’

If sexual prowess was the stuff of dinnertime, both boys soon discovered that allusions to it were constant both on deck and aloft. Every item of equipment seemed to have a name that invited some jocose innuendo. Some, like the cunt splice or the arse on a block, were without subtlety. Others were hardly less obvious, like the hand organ, a huge block of sandstone used for cleaning the deck. Amos Cavell could never be brought to say futtock shrouds without giggling, nor call ‘bear a hand’ without a wave of his right wrist, an action that became wearing to Nelson and John Judd alike.

But as they laughed, and sometimes groaned, the two boys also learnt. There was none of the cracking on that Rathbone had told Nelson he would find in the Navy. It was steady as you go in the merchant service. But sails had to be set each morning, and properly to get the best out of the ship. And the wind, which never seemed to be in the same place two days running, meant that every time they went aloft at first light to re-rig the top hamper, they were working to a different sail plan.

Grey skies and westerlies accompanied
Swanborough
down the Channel all the way to Portland Bill, but then they cleared to a bright blue, and the wind shifted into the north, which allowed Captain Rathbone to port his helm and set a southerly course to open the Bay of Biscay. For once, Horatio
Nelson broke his self-denying ordinance and got close enough to hear the master and his mate discuss the alternatives.

‘Arse lickin’, are we, Nellie?’ whispered Cavell, who had sidled up unseen. More infuriating was the way he skipped clear of the sweeping blow Nelson aimed at him in response.

It was still summer, with long sunlit days, in which the ship, under a mass of white canvas, made good progress. With little to do, there was time to make, mend and entertain. At the Parsonage there had always been sisters to sew for a male Nelson, and when spare canvas was issued to make fair weather ducks, this became obvious. His efforts with the needle produced much blood from the pinpricks that covered his hands. Judd came to the rescue once more, by showing him the proper use of a thimble, as well as how to sew, then watching over the less than perfect results. However, the pricks he suffered paled into insignificance as he watched those in venereal pain take their cure, a service delivered by the cook.

After dinner was the best time. There wasn’t a man aboard who couldn’t, at the very least, recite a patriotic ode. With the clement weather and clear night skies, these could be delivered on deck. Rathbone had a fine, if unsteady tenor voice, while Verner prided himself, as most topmen did, on his ability to hornpipe. Once he had been persuaded that there was no shame in his attempts to entertain, young Mr Nelson, with his voice unbroken, added a touch of the counter-tenor. The fiddler, a toothless stick of a man called Catgut, would saw away all night if need be so that every man would get his chance.

John Judd was no mean shantyman, and he taught Nelson to dance as well as to hand and reef. The boy absorbed quickly what he was taught, especially aloft. Knots, which had been like cat’s cradles, became simple till he could do a clove or half hitch eyes shut. It was he who got the running bowline first but he was beaten to the sheepshank by a determined Amos Cavell, who, when bested, always talked about first purls to even matters out.

No day was brighter, no knot more satisfying, as the morning that particular jibe could be laid to rest. His cracking voice accompanied by angry spots had signalled the change and an inspection of his hammock was called for before he could scrub it clean. The result of his nocturnal emissions was pronounced a true picture, though the ribbing he had to endure over the following weeks every time he went forward to the heads or sought a peaceful place to say his prayers brought no end of rouge to his cheeks.

John Judd continued with his self-imposed task, often taking the boys aloft to demonstrate some of the finer points of seamanship. The nautical words became second nature as the voyage progressed. By the time they reached latitude 20 degrees north, there was no mystery in parrels and cheeks, chain slings, trusses or a Flemish horse. Judd didn’t seem to mind when the other hands passed on tasks to the trio, like greasing blocks or
re-reeving ropes. As they worked he talked, stating his opinions on everything in a quiet but emphatic way.

So they learnt their trade, from the lowest lanyard to the highest topgallant stay, where the shrouds were so narrow that they would scarce contain one foot, and a hand on the royal stay was essential to avoid falling. Heights held no terror now: jumping for the backstay hawsers that held the masts in place, and racing to the deck, were a ten-times-a-day occurrence, despite the number of rebukes they earned for skylarking from Rathbone and Verner. Down and down they dropped, with the temperature rising inexorably, until on latitude 14 degrees north they picked up the trade winds and Rathbone set his course for Antigua.

Water that had been fresh in the English Channel had suffered from heat and time – it was now turning green and brackish – the biscuits were full of bargemen, and the rats in the holds had multiplied until they were a menace. The routine of the nautical day, with its three square meals, began to chafe as the unchanging nature of the food replaced gratitude for being fed at all. The dolphins that accompanied the ship for several days only lifted the spirits for a while, though both the youngsters had a great deal of fun lowering themselves from the pitching bowsprit, to stand on the outer martingale stay in an attempt to reach down and touch them.

‘Belay that, you stupid little buggers,’ yelled Verner, his face made pink by his passion and his adherence, in stifling heat, to his blue coat of office. ‘Where’s that sod Judd?’

‘Here, Mr Verner,’ said Judd, rising from the heads and pulling up his ducks.

‘Can’t you keep an eye on them, man? If they come off that there stay the bows will crack them wide open.’

‘I keeps an eye on them as much as I can, Mr Verner,’ Judd replied, crossly. ‘And never do I complain that others leave me to it. But even I must be allowed my occasions.’

‘Well, tell them, if they’re going to take so much interest in dolphins, to get a line overboard and haul one in for the Captain’s supper.’

‘Is that a shark, John Judd?’ called Amos Cavell, pointing to a fin cutting through the water. Nelson was still lowering a hand to try to touch the dolphins as they flew up and apart, diving in all directions.

‘It is, young feller,’ Judd replied, ‘and you best get yourself back inboard.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause them sharks has teeth as long as your arm. And they can climb the planking.’ Both boys had their soles back on the foot-ropes in a flash, as the fin cut under the bows, missing them by inches as the great fish swung in an elegant arc. Judd spat loudly as he sat on the thick line of wound ropes that gammoned the bowsprit and attached it to the ship. ‘Partial to a boy, they are, an’ all.’

‘Can they really climb?’ asked Amos Cavell, squinting in disbelief.

His good friend Nelson tried to contain a grin as Judd replied, his face
serious. ‘You wait till Antigua, Amos. The locals there train ’em to scale up and fetch down the coconuts. Then they places them in those great jaws, jumps on the shark’s head, and cracks the buggers open.’