When the worst of the stench was gone, there was still much more scrubbing to be done. Peter explained that this was not usual; but that such sickness and filth was not either. Today, he reckoned, they’d be at scrub and clean till dinner. But first there were hammocks to stow and breakfast to be had.
In all his time on board, Thomas had not yet attempted to sleep in a hammock, far less to lash one ready for stowing. In his time below he had been in the sick-bay, or too tired and ill to know or care where he slept. When the order to lash up came, Grandfather Fulman and Peter took him under their wings. The long unwieldy canvas with its nettles and lines was like a self-willed animal to him. But Peter’s dexterity was amazing, and Fulman promised he would teach him more slowly when the occasion arose. Thomas was anxious to learn; to learn anything, because he feared the consequences of making a mistake, however small.
Despite Peter’s dexterity, despite the bent old man’s encouragement, Thomas was afraid he would never get the hang of it. His fingers had always been a countryman’s – clumsy and blunt. Only in making and playing musical instruments did they work delicately and well. He was afraid.
At the order ‘Up hammocks and stow!’ there was a mad dash for the ladders. He was jostled, punched and kicked, although Peter kept close to him and held his arm; a strange bodyguard, more than a foot shorter than his charge. But Peter was a sailor born, of a different breed from Thomas. He would bite, kick, punch with the worst of them if need be. Or wield steel, Thomas guessed. He reminded him of a small ginger stoat, and he was glad to be in his ‘family’ and not against it.
William Bentley watched the outpouring of men from his position on the quarterdeck. They reminded him of so many cattle, blundering about, jostling each other as they sought their places at the hammock nettings. One big, dark man stopped and looked about him. William shouted to a boatswain’s mate.
‘Ahoy! Boatswain’s mate there! Start that dog, if you please!’
The mate obligingly swung his rope’s end, a knobbly affair of Turk’s heads and fancy work. The sailor yelped, and jumped towards the nettings. William turned his attention to the others. Stragglers must be punished. Discipline must be instilled. He glanced at the first lieutenant, who had the watch, but Hagan was studying the set of the canvas, not apparently interested in the demeanour of the men. It irritated him; Hagan was too easy-going. He wondered why his uncle, who was a stickler for discipline, had landed himself with such a weak sort of fellow. At that moment,
Hagan dropped his eyes from the sails. They met William’s, and the first lieutenant smiled. William looked away, although not as abruptly as he would have liked to. The first lieutenant was, after all, still the first lieutenant.
‘Set fair at last, Mr Bentley, I should think,’ he remarked. ‘I think we can perhaps have the people scrub out their hammocks this afternoon.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ William replied smartly. He made a mental note of it. The first lieutenant was, after all, still the first lieutenant.
Shortly afterwards, William was aware that the sentry of marines on ship-time duty had approached him from behind. He knew the time to the minute, but he let the soldier wait for some seconds before he turned. He said nothing, raising his eyebrows in enquiry. Everything must be deliberate; everything must be correct. That way the Welfare would become a taut ship.
The marine, stiff to attention despite the still considerable movement of the ship, told him that it was fifteen minutes past seven a.m. William, the midshipman of the watch, acknowledged with a nod. As the sentry returned to the hatchway, he stepped up to the first lieutenant and inclined his head.
‘The quarter, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bentley.’
William repeated his half-bow and withdrew. The first lieutenant raised his eyebrows at the boatswain. Mr Allgood, also without speaking, passed on the order. The calls shrilled; hands were piped to breakfast.
Thomas went with Peter, who had been designated mess cook that week, to the galley up forward. As they reached it, he realised how hungry he was. As they stood with the crowds of other men, one from each mess, his knees went weak at the smell of the hot oatmeal broth, and it occurred to him that he had not eaten for days. His hands shook as they carried back the messkid, and the burgoo was split up amongst them. He could not wait to fill his mouth with the scalding, soupy food, and his friends behaved much as he did. Within a couple of minutes the platters were licked clean. They sat about for a while, belching noisily, drinking deep draughts of beer. Peter was watching Thomas’s face with his button eyes shining.
‘Well well, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Ain’t you going to have a sup?’ Thomas was. He had been savouring it, for he liked beer. But when he filled his mouth he almost gagged. The others laughed.
‘Not like mother brews ’un, I’ll warrant me,’ said Grandfather Fulman. ‘That’s purser’s ale, young Thomas, and bad already. And it gets worse as we gets further from land!’
Peter looked eagerly at him.
‘If you finds him too sour, Tommy,’ he said, ‘I’ll finish him for you. For I’ve a stomach of iron, and can drink beer that’s stood three month or more!’
Everyone laughed again. Thomas closed his eyes and gulped. It was sour and thin. But it was beer.
‘Beg pardon, Peter,’ he said. ‘But I’ll manage by myself, thankee.’
After their half-hour was up, it was hands to scrubbing once more. At the end of another two, even Peter was silenced. Thomas felt as though his arms would drop off, and his knees were both bleeding. Many other men’s knees left bloody blotches – you could tell the old hands by the thickness of the calluses on knees and elbows – so the oldsters who walked ahead with the buckets took a turn behind every so often to mop up the new stains. It was deadly work.
Broad was busy too, but he considered himself luckier than his messmates, except Matthews, who was at least as useful in some of the finer details of the seaman’s craft. They and the other able men were set to overhauling cordage, and sails that had strained or carried away. The mizzen topsail had torn along a reef band during the night, so the first main job after the fore topgallant mast, was to get it off her and bend a new one on. As before, the normal divisions were ignored. The boatswain and the sailmaker worked in unison, directing the gangs of men to each new task, whether on ‘their’ mast or not.
Far out along the mizzen topsail yard, Jesse struggled with a feeling that was almost joy. It frightened him that he should feel it, despite the end of all hopes for salvation, but he could not deny it. His ears were filled with a musical, deep-toned thrumming. The ship, under a heavy press of canvas, was flying along, each rope and spar trembling, alive. His eyes were filled with a world of sparkling brilliance, exceeded in beauty only by the Welfare herself. She reminded him of a bird, a great, beautiful, vibrant bird. The cold wind seemed to clear all the degradation and unpleasantness of the past days away from him. His tiredness had vanished. He was a seaman at sea; God help me, he thought ruefully, it is my life.
Down below him the sailors on the bright deck looked small and insignificant. They were scrubbing hammocks and clothes in the afternoon sunshine. What a strange gang, so many old men, so many boys. He tried to crush the feeling that he was better, but in truth he felt it. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, here was life, up here, in control, in command, of cord and canvas. Aft he could see the man at the wheel; and envied only him.