I gets the biscuit down me neck before I even gets to the bench and as soon as I'm down I attacks the meat, crammin' its loveliness against me lips and chewin' the fat and grindin' the gristle and suckin' up the hot salty juice and swallowin' as fast as I can and if I could have snorted it up me nose to get it down any faster I would have. At last it's done and I licks the shingle and licks my fingers and wipes me mouth on me sleeve and then I licks me sleeve. Lord!
I now takes time to look about and notice that Jaimy and me has been joined by the other boys and they're eatin' just as ravenous as I did, lookin' 'round furtive to make sure no one's thinkin' of grabbin' their grub. I see, too, that Jaimy's got a tin mess kit, prolly bought for him by his father. Must be nice, says I to meself, thinkin' back to how homesick he looked when he first come on board and how homesick I was when I was tossed out in the street on That Dark Day with me mum and dad dead and me sister goin' to be put up in jars. Try that for a serious dose of the homesickness, my fine young fellow.
Jaimy ain't eatin' his dinner with any relish at all, just pickin' at it and wrinklin' his nose.
I gets the feelin' that the nose wrinklin' is part from what he's eatin' and part from the squalid nature of us boys sittin' next to 'im. I sees as how we could be a hard blow to an untrained nose. Cheer up, lad, thinks I, happy in me full belly and in me filth and squalor, I've always found the nose to be a most forgivin organ. It sets up a powerful protest right off, but it quits when it knows it's beat.
"Better eat it, boy. It ain't gonna change none. Same thing, day after day," says a sailor sittin' across from us. "Ain't that right, Snag?"
"Right you be, Mate," says the sailor named Snag, who seems to have but one tooth in his head but who still seems to be able to chew up his ration right smart with that one tusk. "Don't never change. Old Horse come to his sad end in a poor sailor's gob."
That's awright with me, I thinks, just keep bringin him on. He and the other men tap their biscuits on the table, and worms and weevils falls out of some of 'em. If there was any of 'em in my biscuit, they'll have to take their chances in me gut. They won't be the first bugs I ever et, neither.
Jaimy eats the meat and biscuit, slowly.
The talk around the table is that we're goin' out to look for pirates, there ain't bein' a proper war goin' on right now, but I don't care if we're goin' out to run around in circles and dance ring around rosie as long as they keep feedin' me that lovely pork. Or beef. Or horse, or whatever it was.
"'Scuse me, Sir," I says to the sailor what had spoken and seemed like a nice sort compared to the usual run of cutthroat I'd seen on the ship so far and might answer some questions without givin' me the back of his hand. "But do they always feed us so early? It's only early in the afternoon. And where're we supposed to kip and what..."
The sailor holds up a hand. "First of all, you don't be callin' me 'Sir.' You be callin' me Delaney, Foretopman, Rated Able, and if we can stand the sight of each other in a few weeks, you can call me Liam. You say 'Sir' to the men in the fancy uniforms, and you don't say anythin' to them at all unless they talk at you first, and when you have to talk to them, you look down at the deck and put your right knuckle to your forehead and say, 'Beggin' your pardon, Sir.' And you never lifts your hand to them or you'll be flogged or hanged. Second of all, we're gettin' fed early 'cause we're sailin' with the tide, which is soon, and it's likely to be chancy out there and they wants us fed so's we can work through the night if we have to. Which we prolly will."
I thanks him for his kindly advice.
"And thirdly, any questions about your place on this bark, you ask the Bo'sun. He's the one wi' the cudgel. The nobby. And he's the one what handles The Cat. He ain't an officer, but it wouldn't hurt for you green hands to call him 'Sir' for a while. He won't mind."
Just then there's a long piercin' warblin' whistle and all the men jumps to their feet and heads off.
"That's it, then," says Liam Delaney. "We're off to sea."
PART II
While the Winds Do Blow,
And Enemies Abide,
Music and Friends Hath Charms,
To Set Our Sorrows Aside.
Chapter 7
We are all salty sea sailors now, havin' survived our first days at sea, if only just barely.
The first day out was glorious, as we rode the tide out to the mouth of the harbor, our sails goin' up and our banners a'spankin' and people wavin' from the shore and us boys not knowin' what to do yet so we just watches in wonderment and stays out of the way. Some of the hands is way up in the riggin' lettin' out sails and some is on deck haulin' on ropes, and the officers are shoutin' all sorts of strange orders like it's another language altogether. I'm marvelin' about the newness of it all and the smell of the air, which don't smell like sewers or rubbish or horses or anything like the city. Sea monsters or cannibals or pirates may get me in the end, but at least Muck won't, and if I watches meself, maybe I won't get hanged after all. It's all just grand, I thinks.
At least I thinks that till we clears the calm waters of the harbor and hits the open ocean and the ship leans sickeningly on its side and I slips and falls down and the boat stays like that for a while till there's more bawlin' of orders and it lurches over to the other side. I can feel the roll of the waves under the boat and the wonder to me is that this ship can be moved about so easy by the wind and weather when it must weigh a million pounds at least and carries tons of men and food and cannons and cannonballs and powder and such. It's like a city block in London suddenly comes loose from the earth and starts oozin' around. It ain't natural-like, and it makes me all queasy. For the first time in my life I ain't thinkin' about eatin'.
When everything calms down and night falls, I catches the Bo'sun's eye and fearfully asks him where we're supposed to go for the night, and he motions us downstairs to the gun deck where sailors are puttin' up their hammocks, but no hammocks for us, no. We're to sleep in a pile between two of the massive guns, and I hear Jaimy draw in his breath sharply beside me and I knows he don't like it, but it looks like home to me and the other boys. There's even a pile of old blankets and I dives in, grateful to be lyin' down 'cause me stomach feels better that way, and the others join me. Jaimy, too, in spite of the squalid nature of the rest of us, and I manages to wriggle up next to him. I don't know why I wants to, but I do and I gets it done.
So we're lyin' there and we get into talkin' about where we come from, and Davy and Tink and Benjy are just like me from the streets but from the other side of the city and we know a lot of people in common, 'specially Muck, and we all spits when we hears the name of Muck. Willy, the big one who tried to face me down when we first stepped on this ark but who seems all right now that he sees there ain't gonna be no bully runnin' our bunch, is from a farm where he slept in a barn with the animals and had to work terrible hard ever' day. But this year the farmer what kept him give him the boot 'cause his own kids was gettin' big enough to help on the farm, so here he is. He was glad to get off the farm to become a salty sea sailor cause he really didn't like it much, the dirt and the hard labor and all.
"Seafarin' looks to be hard labor, too," says Tink. Tink's a medium-sized lad with dark curly hair and a pleasant look about him. We'll get along.
"I know, I know," says Willy, like he's thought about all this real deep. "When there's a battle or storm or such, ye work like bloomin' 'ell, but when the battle's done and the storm's over, ye set down wi' yer mates to a cup o' tea or grog, if ye're still alive, and if ye ain't, well, at least ye ain't rakin' no manure. It ain't constantlike, y' see. I hates constant work. Work that never gets done."
"Least you got to eat constant," says Davy, and some of us grunt in agreement.
"Wot I likes most is," says Willy, endin' what is prolly the longest speech of his life, "is that the ship ain't got no manure."
We don't ask where Jaimy comes from, 'cause we already knows he's a nob, at least compared to us, and he don't offer nothin' in the way of his past life. It prolly saddens him to think of it. It don't matter none, I thinks, we're all just ship's boys now.
"Shaddap, ye little twits," comes a growl out of one of the hammocks swingin' overhead, "before I comes down and puts the bashin' on yiz." Already sounds of snorin' is issuin' from the men overhead.
So, with the roll of the waves beneath me, I sleeps.
The next day the wind and seas gets even rougher and the boat adds some new moves in its dance through the waves, which are now like mountains, and we goes up and down and now sideways and over and I don't get up for three days, 'cept to crawl to the head to spew up the vile juice in me gut through one of the holes, then I crawls back to the kip and gets sick again but this time I don't make it to the head and I has to clean it up, which makes me sicker yet. I'm makin' me usual deals with God and hopes that Jesus will come take me in His lovin' arms, but once again He don't come and on the next day Jaimy brings me some food and I eats it and keeps it down, and on the next day I am up and I never gets seasick again.
I am ready to do my duty.
Chapter 8
We ain't been out a week and we're all still green and hardly over the seasickness when Sunday rolls around and it's announced that we will have a Captain's Inspection and Church. It is on this fine day that I have me first real scare in the way of the discovery of me female nature. The problem with the head warn't nothin' compared to this.
It seems that every Sunday, if it ain't blowing a gale, the Captain comes round and peers at everything and everybody to make sure all is up to snuff, and then we rigs for Church. The Captain's name is Captain Locke, but we're just supposed to call him Sir if he ever talks directly to us, which ain't likely.
So Sunday mornin' the ship is all in a stew about gettin' ready for the dread Inspection. All the decks are double cleaned and the copper and brass is polished and the men comb their hair and put on their best outfits, which is white trousers and blue tops with a flap on the back and blue caps and a blue neckerchief with a fancy knot on it at the neck. The midshipmen have on their black trousers and black jackets with white shirts and black neckerchiefs, and the officers put on their best uniforms, which are all blue with gold piping and big cockaded hats with more gold on them, too, and everyone looks just fine. 'Cept us ship's boys, of course.
Finally, when everything's done and everyone's standing stiffly at their divisions, the Captain comes around, followed by the First Mate, Lieutenant Haywood, and by the Bo'sun, who don't look happy. Every time the Captain looks at a cannon or a bucket or a seaman and then says something to Mr. Haywood or the Bo'sun, you just know that some poor sailor's gonna pay.
The Captain inspects the division next to us and says something sharp to the midshipman in charge of that division, Mr. Wemple, fourteen years old if he's a day, and Mr. Wemple turns bright red but keeps his head up 'cause hangin' your head ain't allowed in officers, even if they want to do it and I can tell Mr. Wemple really wants to do it and crawl away and hide but instead he says, "Yes, Sir, beggin' your pardon, Sir, I'll see to it right away, Sir."
I dares to steal a look at Captain Locke out of the corner of me eye. He's got the grandest uniform of any of the officers, with a jacket of the deepest blue velvet and shiny gold buttons and gold swabs on his shoulders and pants just the creamiest white with nary a spot on 'em. He's got gray hair under his fine cockaded hat and a long nose and the fiercest eyes under his craggy brows and a mouth that looks like it could snap an unlucky ship's boy in half. I starts quiverin' to be standin' so close to such a man, a man who could have me poor self pitched over the side and suffer nothin' for it.