“Well, Sam,” he said, “you are part of the fastest crew on this deck, and good luck to you all. An extra tot for these men.”
Our crew gave a hoarse ragged cheer, and the officers went away. And that was one of the very best days of my whole life.
In the middle of our second winter in the Mediterranean, the French fleet did move out of Toulon, and for weeks we sailed to and fro through rough seas searching for them, only to find in the end that a gale had driven them back into harbor.
“They’ll be out again,” said Mr. Smith at the mess table, whacking his piece of bread on the table to break it and knock any maggots out. He nodded his head wisely. “You mark my words. It won’t be long. Bonaparte wants to invade England, he’ll want all his ships in the Channel.”
My uncle said, “The carpenter heard Mr. Quilliam say Spain has declared war on us again.”
“Spanish Navy never yet beat ours,” Jonathan said.
“Surely not, but Boney has the whole of Europe on his side now. He has the pride of the devil, that one—crowned himself Emperor, took the crown right out of the hands of the Pope and set it on his own head!”
Mr. Smith squished a piece of boiled turnip onto a bit of bread. He said, “Such big thoughts, and him not but a small little man.”
Jonathan said, “Our Admiral is a small little man too, but a lion inside.”
“God bless him!” they all said, and raised their mugs and drank to Nelson, even though they had only the tail-end of the Mediterranean red wine they called black strap—since all the rum had long ago run out. There was nothing in my mug but an inch of stale water, but I drank his health too.
And before spring was out, a frigate came bowling over the sea to tell us that the French had run for it, and were out of Toulon. We went all around looking for them, and then two weeks later word came that they had gone west and were out past Gibraltar, in the open sea. Everyone knew that the Admiral must be wild to get after them. But we were shut in the Mediterranean and we hadn’t the right wind. Slowly we worked our way west against light headwinds, and you never saw so many seamen whistling to the air, or following other private spells, to try and summon up a levanter, the strong easterly wind that would help us on our way. But none came.
We reached Gibraltar, and cast anchor with the wind still foul. That did give pleasure to the officers and men who were allowed ashore (I was not one of them this time) while we took on fresh water and supplies, and sent all the ship’s linens ashore to be washed in fresh water for the first time in many months. Off went the boats to the great rock, full of eager men.
Hugh Portfield and I were on deck, scrubbing clean the chicken coops that would soon have new birds in them, and with us was a seaman pumping up seawater to wash them off. I never did know his name; like Tommy, he came from Jamaica and spoke that singing English. We were all working away when suddenly there was a great bang as one of the cannons on the upper gundeck went off. The smoke from it puffed out over the water. We all stopped, staring.
Figures were moving about on the quarterdeck. I could see the Admiral’s starred coat, and his cocked hat with the green shade that sheltered his eyes. Then a flag was run up at the foremast, a white rectangle on a blue ground.
“What’s that?” said Hugh.
“Blue Peter,” said the seaman. “The flag for setting sail. They’re calling the men back from shore.”
The ship was growing busy. A midshipman came running toward us. “Finish that up, lads, smartly now! Get those coops below.” He paused, and gave us a quick grin; for a moment he was just a boy, like us. He said, “The Admiral’s got his wind!”
As we scurried about, I could see Admiral Nelson pacing impatiently to and fro while the ship’s boats gradually began to creep back toward us from the shore. Sure enough, the few sails hanging high above our heads began to droop, and then rattle, as the wind changed and picked up. The bosun’s pipe shrilled, and men ran to the rigging and began to climb.
And before the day was half over we were sailing out into the Atlantic Ocean, and all the ship’s linens were left behind.
The French had sailed to the West Indies, and we were chasing them. In spite of our haste in leaving Gibraltar we had fresh water on board, and fresh meat and vegetables, which brightened everybody’s life considerably. And the men who had been moaning about having to drink wine in the Mediterranean were cheerful at the prospect of our taking on West Indian rum. All that our Admiral was thinking about, we knew, was sailing as fast as possible to catch the French.
And we were for sure sailing fast. It was a wonderful sight, that great ship with all sails spread, thundering along with a following wind and white water foaming round the bow. The rest of the fleet had a hard time keeping up with us.
“Trade winds, Sam,” said William Smith. “They blow all year, northeast to southwest across the Atlantic, and give a smart run in this direction. Coming back, it’s a different matter.”
It was one of my days for sailmaking work, and we were up on deck, working in the sun. The others were cutting a spare staysail out of a huge roll of canvas. Because of my too-small hands Mr. Smith used me only for sewing thinner stuff; this time I was mending the bosun’s hammock. I was being very careful; for a ship’s boy, doing a job for Will Wilmet the bosun was a bit like working for God.
I looked out at the blue sky, scattered now with puffy white clouds. The air smelled of salt, and of the tar between the planks of the deck, that was soft enough now to mark bare feet. “Richard Bacon said we would see flying fish soon. Is that true?”
“Not up here, lad,” Jonathan said. “They skim the surface, like little birds. I was in a cutter once and they came right onto the deck—not onto big old Victory, though.”
“You’ll see wonders,” Mr. Smith said solemnly. “A bird called a pelican with a great bag under his bill, to hold his fish. Huge hairy spiders as big as your hand. A nut as big as your head. White beaches, green palm trees, fish all the colors of the rainbow. And the sun shines all day, in the tropics.”
Jonathan tugged hard at the canvas, inching it off the roll. “But then a great black squall can come up fast as lightning and take your masts off, if you’re not careful. And offshore from those pretty white beaches there’s a million mosquitoes and sandfleas to drive you mad with itching. If you haven’t already died of yellow fever or malaria, or the bloody flux.”
“Jonathan Stead,” said Mr. Smith, “God gave thee a beautiful voice and a very dark soul.”
“I speak true, is all,” Jonathan said. “Pass me the shears. And consider that before we reach those palm trees, we are like to be in action, which this poor lad has never seen.”
I said, “I hear a lot about it. The men tell such tales, all blood and guts.”
“All true,” Jonathan said.
Mr. Smith said gruffly, “Well. We are at war.”
Somewhere across the afterdeck a terrible shrieking noise started up, hurting my ears.
“What’s that?”
“The grindstone,” Jonathan said. “They’ll be working to sharpen everything that has a blade—cutlass, tomahawk, pike, dirk, axe. When the fight comes hand to hand, we have to be able to kill those Frenchies fast, before they can kill us.”
We sped along for another two weeks, and the sun grew warmer and turned us all brown-skinned, except for some fair fellows whose skin would only redden and blister, and who had to keep their shirts on however hot it might be. Our gun crew did well at exercises, and we were all in good spirits until one day when Stephen came to grief.
He deserved it, I suppose, though he was never a bad fellow. He just could not resist pocketing something now and then from the galley; it seemed to him a natural part of his job. I had given up warning him, and nobody ever caught him; the other boys simply knew that if Stephen wanted you to roll his hammock for him, or wash his shirt, he would pay you with an orange or a piece of cheese. I think even Mr. Carroll turned a blind eye to it, probably because he behaved the same wa
y himself.
Every Sunday, after crew inspection and divine service, the captain made a formal inspection of the entire ship. So at the start of the day, before the drums beat to muster and we all trooped on deck, Lieutenant Quilliam would make a whirlwind tour of the ship with two midshipmen to make sure nothing would be found wrong. All we boys stood to attention on the upper gundeck as he strode past; he wore white gloves, and ran a finger along a beam here or a box there to check for dust.
He passed us by without comment, and we all felt a quiver of relief. But one of the midshipmen behind him paused in front of Stephen. It was Oliver Pickin, tall, tanned and confident, and he leaned past Stephen and reached into his kitbag.
I don’t think it can just have been an impulse; I think he knew. He called to the lieutenant, and he held up an orange.
Lieutenant Quilliam looked back. He hesitated, but he was clearly in a hurry. “See to it, Mr. Pickin,” he said, and kept on going.
Stephen was standing stiffly to attention.
“Is this yours?” said Pickin.
“Aye, sir,” Stephen said. “Cook gave me it, please sir.”
Pickin smiled. “We’ll see about that,” he said, and off he went in his smart Sunday midshipman’s uniform, taking the orange with him.
And of course Mr. Carroll had not given Stephen the orange, Stephen had stolen it—and thievery is a bad crime in the Royal Navy. He was sentenced to two dozen lashes.
Boys were not flogged as men were, with the cat-o’-nine-tails, because it would have killed them. I had seen several floggings aboard Victory and I don’t like to think about them; each time, the man’s back was turned to a bloody pulp and he was not a normal person again for weeks afterward. Those floggings were done in high ritual style in front of the whole crew, but Stephen was beaten below decks; he was bent over a cannon, tied down, and given two dozen hard strokes with a cane by a bosun’s mate, with all of us boys lined up to watch and all the midshipmen too. Lieutenant Quilliam was there in command. It was awful. Stephen looked so small, bent over that cannon.
They took him down to the surgeon afterward, because he was bleeding badly; he said the vinegar that was put on the cuts to help them heal hurt almost as much as the beating. Hugh and I tried to do all his work for him for days, and of course he couldn’t sit down. I would hear him crying softly in his hammock at night, and I wished bitterly that I had been able to stop him pinching things from the galley. He did stop, after that. At least I think he did.
You always had to remember, in the Navy, how close you were to disaster. I don’t just mean close to death in battle. The topmen who raced up the rigging were always one step away from a fall that would send them hurtling down either to the deck, which would break their necks, or into the sea, where they would drown. So were the lookouts, and the midshipmen when they were sent aloft. Danger was everywhere; you could fall overboard in a storm, you could be crushed by the recoil of a cannon or a shift of cargo in the hold. And if ever you lost your temper with an officer, however badly he had treated you, you could be hanged.
I was saved from that, one terrifying day.
Stephen and I were crossing the deck on our way back from an errand for the cook. I was walking a little behind him, as I always tried to do now to keep him from hurt; his wounds were still raw, and anything banging into him was anguish. Even wearing his trousers was painful for him.
Ahead of us was a group of midshipmen with their quadrants, practicing taking a bearing, as they regularly did with the captain or another officer to instruct them. There was only a little room to pass them, so we took care, but as we drew level someone cannoned into me, knocking me hard against Stephen’s back. Stephen cried out in pain.
I turned round, and saw Oliver Pickin looking down at us, smiling. “Poor little Stephen,” he said. “Does it still hurt then? Are we having a bit of trouble sitting down?”
He had done it on purpose, and for the second time. I hated him, that minute; it was like a noise in my head. I could think of nothing but that I had to punch him. I felt my fists clench, and I know I began that quick backward turn before you pull back your arm to hit someone—but from behind me a hand took hold of my arm.
And that light, faintly accented voice said, “Mr. Pickin, in this service a man who has suffered punishment has paid his dues. It is not the act of a gentleman, let alone an officer, to make reference to it. I should be obliged if you would apologize.”
If I hadn’t already realized that it was the Admiral, Oliver Pickin’s face would have told me. He had flushed even darker than his tan, appalled and terrified.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said. His eyes went to Stephen, and he said stiffly, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Sabine.”
The hand let go of my arm, and I looked round and saw that thin brown face, beneath the green eyeshade and the cocked hat.
“Sam Robbins, is it not?” said Admiral Nelson. “You are a good friend, Sam. Now go about your business.”
And we saluted him and ran, and I knew that he had saved my life.
Molly
IN ENGLAND
For three days, Molly and Kate and the grandparents zigzag across London with small Donald, doing all the things they used to do in city summers. They visit the London Zoo and give Donald a ride in a cart drawn by a llama, and watch the seals and the penguins show off as they are fed. They chug up the River Thames in a boat to Hampton Court, and have tea. They go one afternoon to the Globe Theatre, built as a replica of Shakespeare’s own Globe, and see a wonderful production of The Tempest. Molly is very impressed by the acrobatic young actor playing Ariel, even though the program tells her he comes from North Carolina. She is still in a state of aching happiness at being home again.
Next day it is raining, and her grandparents are very apologetic, as if the lack of sunshine were a personal failure on their part.
“Such a shame, when you only have this week,” says Granny irritably. “It’s August. I don’t know what the weather can be thinking of.”
This seems to Molly such an endearingly English remark that she crosses the room and gives her grandmother a hug.
“Thank you,” says Granny in surprise, and hugs her back. Then she studies her, with the expression which is becoming familiar to Molly; a mixture of concern and affection and caution, as if Molly were a small fragile object which might shatter. They all look at her like that, Granny and Grandad and Mum. It makes her feel she has to appear sturdy and bright and brisk, at all costs, though inside she feels torn in half. The thought of going away from this place again looms ahead like a huge black cloud.
Kate comes into the room, looking relaxed. “Donald has gone to sleep, thank the Lord,” she says. “I’m going to put a load in the washing machine. Why don’t you three go to a movie, at that little cinema down the hill?”
“What an excellent idea,” Grandad says. “Then we’ll come back and I shall take us all out to dinner, including Donald.” He begins flipping through the newspaper, looking for the film listings.
Granny says, “And you must have a think about what you’d like to do tomorrow, Molly dear. It’s your call, as they say. Anything you fancy.”
This is too good a chance to miss, so instantly Molly brings out the request she is now longing to make. “The thing I’d most of all like,” she says, “really really most, is to go and see Lord Nelson’s ship. HMS Victory.”
“Good gracious!” Granny says.
Out of the corner of her eye Molly sees Grandad’s head go up. She knows he used to be in the Royal Navy, long ago.
Kate says, looking slightly stunned, “She’s been reading a book about Nelson—right, darling?”
Molly suddenly finds herself not only bright and brisk, but fluent. “It’s in Portsmouth Harbour,” she says. “I know it’s a long way. Too far for Donald. Maybe Grandad and I could go. And you two could have a mother and daughter day, and Granny can do some bonding with Donald.”
Grandad is smiling. “An old friend of mine is a g
uide on board the Victory,” he says. “He will be so astonished to see us, I can’t wait to see his face. Molly, my love, that’s an excellent idea. Portsmouth trains go from Waterloo, I believe.”
Next day, Molly and Grandad catch the Portsmouth train from Waterloo Station: a handsome blue and white train, with orange and red doors. It has a voice, a metallic but soothing female voice which speaks from the ceiling and tells them that this is the 9:08 train for Portsmouth Harbour, and adds a list of the stations at which it will stop on the way. Molly feels a twitch of excitement as they begin to move. She is sitting next to the window. Grandad is beside her, reading The Times.
Gradually the tall buildings of London fall away as the train hums along, and Molly is looking at a landscape that she has not seen for a long time; the familiar rows of small brick houses, with tiled roofs, and clay chimneys with television antennas attached to them, and outdoor drainpipes running down from each roof. Blackberry bushes bloom along the edge of the railway track. It is a very ordinary English sight, but she looks at it with pleasure and affection. Fields slide by, green fields with sheep grazing in them.
Grandad folds The Times and tosses it onto the table in front of them. “Tell me why you want to see the Victory, Moll,” he says. “What’s this book you’ve been reading?”
So Molly eagerly tells him the story of going to Mystic Seaport, and the rain driving them into Mr. Waterford’s shop, and The Life of Nelson that she bought there because he reminded her of Trafalgar Square and home. But even now, even to her grandfather, whom she trusts more than almost anyone in the world, she says nothing about Samuel Robbins’s piece of Nelson’s flag.
Outside, a little village flashes past, all thatched roofs and bright blossoming gardens.
“Oh!” Molly says in delight.
“Picture book,” says Grandad, nodding.
“There are no villages in America,” says Molly. “Not like that.”