I go over and put my arm around Georgie's shoulder. He quivers and he looks up at me, and a look of horror comes over his face and he tears out of my grip and plunges below.
I had forgotten that I was splattered with the dead seaman's blood and must present an awful spectacle. I move the muscles of my face about and can feel the dried blood caked there. Do I hear it said, or is it only in my own mind? Bloody Jack yet again. Sorry, Georgie.
Before I follow Georgie down into the berth, I go into the gun room, the officers' quarters.
They stiffen as I enter, the hatred and humiliation plain on their faces.
"I know you do not want me here, gentlemen, and I will not stay long."
I go up to the gunnery officer and stand before him. "The shame here is not yours, Mr. Smythe. I hope you know that, and do not do anything rash to yourself. This will right itself soon."
He looks at me with eyes burning in rage and shame. He says nothing, but he nods.
I turn to Mr. Pinkham and ask right out, "There is nothing that can be done? Like a complaint made to his superior officers?" If this be mutiny, then so be it.
Mr. Pinkham shakes his head sadly, totally defeated and caring not that this is being discussed in the open. It occurs to me that these four would have talked about this among themselves many times before. Now there are five officers in on it.
"No, the Captain is always able to pull himself together when he is under scrutiny from above. I have seen him do it. The Flag would agree that, though he is a harsh commander, he is not insane. They would side with him and nothing would be accomplished."
Hmmm. I think on this for a moment and then I say, "Thank you, gentlemen, for receiving me so kindly. We all know what happened today was a sham and a mockery. I will continue to stay in my quarters in the midshipmen's berth, and I will take my meals there as well. I think that would be best. Good day, gentlemen."
With that I turn and leave.
I go down into the berth and find Ned and Tom already there.
"You two all right?" I ask. They are subdued, but they nod. "Good. Go find the Weasel and tell him to get us something to eat and drink. Tell him I want a half ration of rum drawn for the two of you. You look like you could use it. Oh, and find out if my uniform is ready yet."
I go in my cabin and strip off my silks and wrap them in a bundle and wash the blood off my face and hands and hair and then put on my nightshirt till such time as my uniform arrives. Then I go in to see Georgie.
He is lying facedown on his bunk. He is crying, and he shudders when I put my hand on his shoulders.
"You saw something horrible today, Georgie, but you will get over it."
"No, I won't! I won't never forget him lying there without his head. I'll never forget that!"
"Come. Turn around." He does, and I put my arms around him and he puts his head on my chest.
"You look just like my sister Theresa when you're dressed like that," he says, his voice shaking.
Ah.
"There, there," I say, as I rock him back and forth. The crush of the day does its work on him and soon he falls asleep. I lay him back on his bunk and pull up the covers.
Why did they send you off, Georgie? Did they think it would be like it was in the books? With bright fancy uniforms and flags snapping and all that? Well, maybe it would have been like that if you'd been sent to a grand flagship where you'd be some admiral's pet and set up as a side boy with nothing else to concern you except etiquette and naval rituals and traditions, instead of being sent here to this Hell Ship. But then, the flagships have to fight sometimes, too, so you never know.
I leave his cabin and sit at the table and think about food. And maybe a drop of wine.
Then the hatch door opens and the Weasel falls in, but not with food. No, he is kicked into the berth by Robin, who is red with rage, and who, obviously, has had some of his rum ration already. The Weasel is howling piteously and covering his head with his arms to ward off further kicks from Robin.
"What's this, then?" I say, mystified. I see that Ned has come in bearing my uniform jacket and my trousers. But not my...
"Ask him," says Robin, delivering another kick.
"I warn't doing nothin'," wails the unfortunate Weasel, "just spreading a little joy is all."
"What?" I say.
"The wretch was exhibiting your drawers and charging one penny to ... handle them," says Robin. "Here's his bag of pennies. And there was a line of men clutching other pennies."
I am aghast.
"Kick him again," I say. Robin does. The Weasel howls. "Again," I say. "Penny a sniff, hey?" I pick up my bundle and throw it at him.
"Here are my silks," I say. "You will wash them and you will dry them and you will carefully iron them. You will not put them on and prance around. You will not wear the pants over your face or anything like that or I will have you lashed to the grating and given twenty. Remember that I have friends in the crew and they will be keeping an eye on you. I know several who would cheerfully slip a knife twixt your ribs. Do you understand? Good. Now, get out and get us some food and drink or I will get us another steward and put you in with the Waisters and the rest of the trash."
The Weasel slinks out, limping.
Men, I swear.
Soon he is back, seeming all contrite, bearing steaming plates of food, and we fall to. I give Ned and Tom some watered rum to make them sleep better. I send them off to bed, saying Tom will have the Four-to-Eight. I will take the Mid and Robin will shortly go up and take the Evening Watch. He is very quiet.
"Robin," I say, "it is rough, but it is war. They were trying to kill us." I put my hand on his arm.
He doesn't say anything for a while. Then he takes another sip of wine and sighs and puts his hand on mine. "I know, but still. All those young men. Singing and all..."
"That was a lucky shot, your first time aiming a gun."
He snorts. "Aiming? I didn't aim. I just pulled the cord."
"So you see, it was just Providence. God called those Froggies to Him."
He smiles in spite of his gloom. "I suppose..."
"I suppose you should go up on watch, now. I'll see you when I relieve you for the Mid."
We rise and face each other ... closely face each other. He is dressed for his watch and I am still in my nightshirt since I'm going right to bed anyway.
"Jacky. I ... I ..." he stammers.
"I know, Robin, I know," I say and take his hand and squeeze it in both of mine. I go on my tiptoes and give him a light kiss on the cheek. "I know, too, that you did very well out there today. Now go on watch, knowing that I am very, very proud of you."
Chapter 12
We have the funeral for the fallen sailor the next morning. I was hoping he would turn out to be one of the worthless Waisters, one of Muck's bunch, but no such luck. He was Simon Baldwin, a good man and a good seaman. All, except for the Captain, who is either too sick or too uncaring to come up, turn out for the words to be said over poor Baldwin, and then the plank is lifted and the canvas-covered body slips off into the sea.
After the ceremony, Baldwin's things are auctioned off at the foremast, the money taken in to be kept for any family he might have. I bought his oilskins.
The sailmakers do make the skirts for the unfortunate starboard gun crews, and they put them on. The rest of their friends look about—daring anyone to make a comment. After some snickers and guffaws from Muck and his crew, when it looks like it might come to blows, Mr. Pinkham lets out the word, very quietly, that those men should take off the skirts but keep them tucked in their belts, should the Captain come back on deck and they have to get them back on right quick. I'm coming to have more and more regard for Mr. Pinkham every day—how he could have put up with the Captain's cruelty for so long, and still kept on, I don't know....
The ship returns to its ordinary routine, day after day, watch after watch. I continue to drill the gun crews, being Assistant Gunnery Officer now, all of the gun crews, not just the now overly proud Division One. I have put Robin in charge of the four forward starboard guns and he is bringing them, and himself, along nicely. He drills his crew relentlessly and his men are coming to respect him. He really is growing into a man before my very eyes.
We are discovering that there are experienced gunners amongst the crew. I have put Harkness in charge of the four port quarter guns and Shaughnessy, the starboard four. We all drill over and over, every day, but it is back to dry runs—no powder to be used. I am left to do what I want—Mr. Smythe, the Gunnery Officer, has turned to the bottle.
The entire ship's company now calls themselves the Werewolves.
I continue the boys' schooling—it is good for them, as it gets their minds off the past battle. Ned and Tom have bounced back all right, but Georgie still mopes about. If he just had someone his own age to help him through this time in his life.
The boys' schooling is sometimes not exactly what I had laid out for them in the way of worthy study. One day, I came silently into the midshipmen's berth where Tom and Ned were bent over what I assumed was their navigation book when I heard both of them stifle giggles.
What? Navigation is good, useful, and interesting, but it is seldom funny, I'm thinking.
"So what are you two buggers going on about?" I ask and march up to them. I look down, and there, nestled in the book of navigation, is a copy of The Book. I feel my face turning red.
Ned, his pug-nosed face suffused in glee, squeals out, "You and Jaaaaaaaymmeeee in the haaaaaammock!"
Tom, his head down and keening, rocking back and forth in joy, has both his arms thrust down hard between his thighs. "Jacky and Jaaaymeee sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G ... " he squeals in delight.
I grab The Book and fling it into my cabin. "You little rotters! You are supposed to be studying! Where's my switch? You'll get it now, by God!"
But they flee the room in time to escape my wrath. "And don't believe everything you read!"
Christ! That book will be the end of me!
I have found that the Master-at-Arms, Peter Drake, is a skilled swordsman, so I have arranged for him to give the lads lessons in swordsmanship, a skill no young gentleman can do without. Me, too.
So, each day all the middies and I line up on Three Hatch, which is right in front of the quarterdeck and is open and free of gear, and we are taught. I have told Drake that he is allowed to yell at us during instruction.
We are all equipped with fencing foils—sort of practice swords made only for poking at your opponent, no slashing. That's for sabers, later.
Drake barks out the commands.
En garde! We get down in a crouching position, with our foils held in our right hands about breast level. Our left hands are in fists and on our hips.
Advance! We whip out our front foot to take a step and bring up the back one to maintain the crouch. Advance! We do it again. The foil begins to feel heavy in the hand. Retreat! We reverse the steps and go back. Advance! Advance! Lunge! On the last command, we extend our back legs and lunge forward and we extend our sword arms as if we were plunging our weapons into the belly of our opponent. Recover! We pull back to the original en garde position just in case we didn't finish him off and he's about to plunge his sword into our own dear bellies.