I also have other chores, like helpin' with the morning scrubbin' of the decks, which is almost fun, all of us grindin' down the decks with the holystones and sand and makin' them gleam all white and new, and cleanin' the head, which ain't fun at all. Then, too, Benjy and I, being smallest, got to crawl down in the big cooking cauldrons after the feedings to clean them out with scrapers and it's powerful suffocatin' work, since we're headin' south and it gets warmer every day. But we manage to pick up a bit of extra grub from the cook for our trouble, so it ain't so bad.
If we Beat to Quarters, which means we're gettin' ready to fight or practice at it, then I've got to do the beatin'. On the drum, that is, which I keep in the kip, and which I must run to as fast as I can when I hear the alarm. The other boys are all powder monkeys, which means they run back and forth durin' a battle carrying heavy sacks of gunpowder to the guns. Being the smallest, I get the drum, which is fine with me. I put on the drum with leather straps what go 'round my shoulders so that the drum hangs at my waist and then beat upon it with these two sticks, which sets up a fine rum-tum-tum and tells all the men to get to their battle stations. The Bo'sun Mate's pipin' and his club help get them there, too. Whilst I'm doin' all this whackin' at the drum, I'm headin' for the quarterdeck where the Captain and First Mate and Master stand bellowin' out orders. Then I'm to stand in front of the Captain and, though I dread bein' so close to such awful majesty, I've got to look up at his face, and if he says, "Fire!" I've got to beat on the drum again as loud as I can so's the gunners'll know. Dreadful scary stuff, but I like it, in a way. There's a show-off part of my nature that comes out when I'm in the center of things, and I know I must try to control it for the sake of The Deception, but sometimes it runs away with me.
In all the other special happenin's, like pullin' up the anchor and gettin' the ship under way, I stay on the bridge, but when the call, "Away, the Boarding Party!" goes out, I'm to drop the drum and with every other man on the ship, 'cept for the Captain, wheelman, and Master, grab a cutlass from the rack and get ready to jump across to the enemy ship that we're pullin' up next to and take her by force of arms.
I'm hopin' we meets a timid sort of enemy.
In addition to everyone's daily duties, we stand watches, one in three, which means that one third of the entire crew—officers and men and boys—is up on deck throughout the day and night, ready to fight or handle what else might come along till the rest of the crew is rousted out of their hammocks or from their daily work to help 'em. I don't mean people like Tilly or the doctor or the deacon, no, they get to sleep through the night, the sods, I mean the regular officers and seamen. And ship's boys.
The Captain don't stand watches, neither, but his cabin's right below the quarterdeck and there's a shiny brass speakin' tube right next to the wheel that goes down to above his sleepin' head, and if the Officer of the Watch calls down to him with somethin' on his mind, the Captain is up on the deck in a moment, his nightgown and nightcap blowin' in the wind. The Officer of the Watch had better have a good reason to call him, though, as the Captain's mood don't improve with bein' awakened out of a sound sleep, I've noticed.
The watches rotate, like one night I'll have the Evenin' Watch, which is eight o'clock in the evenin' to midnight, and the next night I'll have the Midwatch, which is midnight to four in the mornin', and the next night it'll be the Four to Eight in the mornin'. I stand my watches back by the quarterdeck and my job is usually fetchin' coffee and food for the Officer of the Watch and wakin' up people and runnin' any errands that need to be run.
Jaimy and I are in the same watch section, I made sure of that with a little cajolin' of the Master-at-Arms who's in charge of who's in what watches, and sometimes we meet and talk and sometimes we just sit there and watch the stars wheeling about the heavens. I like that a lot, I do.
The midshipmen are a sorry lot. There are ten of them and they are some of them the sons of Royal Navy officers that the Captain has taken on as a favor to teach them the ways of the Service and the sea, and they are some of them the sons of rich men who have bought their sons a place aboard. One such is Midshipman Bliffil, and he is the reason they are a sorry lot, as from the first day out he has bullied them without mercy, and their spirits suffer. He is the oldest of them and he's big and not bad to look upon, handsome even, if not for the cruelty in his eyes and the sneer that's always on his lips except when he's toadyin' up to the officers. He is brutal as a sledgehammer, and I'm afraid of him and I try to steer clear of him. Bliffil rides them all, but he 'specially torments Mr. Jenkins, the one next senior to him. Poor Mr. Jenkins seems helpless before him.
To us, though—ship's boy or Able-bodied Seaman—the midshipmen are officers and they command divisions throughout the ship, and we must knuckle our brows to them and obey their every command, even though some of them are not yet twelve. If they hit us, we must take it, and not even raise a hand in our own defense.
All the ship's boys and all the midshipmen get with an experienced sailor to teach them the things they need to know, like how to splice a line (Davy didn't know, the liar) and how to tie the knots and how to sew and mend and row and sail the small boats we have aboard. These sailors ain't exactly told to do this teachin', it's more chancy than that. Like if a man is the sort that likes to teach what he knows, well, us young ones can sense that and we drift together. The Royal Navy smiles on this way of teachin' 'cause it figures that if we're around long enough we might grow up into Able-bodied Seamen and be able to replace the poor sod what's just had his head blown off and ain't able bodied no more.
In my usual connivin' way, I seeks out Liam, the sailor from Ireland who was nice to me that first day, and he seems willin'.
"Liam Delaney, a name that won't shame me," he sings as he guides my clumsy fingers over the rough rope—"Line, Jacky, line. It's line when it's runnin' loose, it's rope when it's coiled up and put away. Makes perfect sense"—showin' me how to separate the strands with a marlinespike and how to weave them together in a splice or a bight. I get it, but I'm better with the needle and thread.
Liam is tall and strong and he has a lilty way of talkin'. His hair is as black as the coal. He plays the pennywhistle and has given me one and is teachin' me to play it, but I'll never be able to play it as good as him.
"Black Irish, I am," he says proudly. "My ancestor was some poor Spanish sailor, one of the many what washed ashore after the Armada was beat and wrecked and our Irish girls took them to their hearts and their beds, bless 'em, and here I am today." Some of the sailors hangin' about smirk, like they'd like to offer a comment on Irish girls and their beds, but a look from Liam warns them off. He's known as a willin' and fearsome fighter.
"Ah, yes," he says wistfully, "we Irish have always been kind to strangers, we have, and not always for the better for us."
The Captain is Captain Locke and the First Mate is Lieutenant Haywood and the Second Mate is Lieutenant Lawrence. The Sailing Master is Mr. Greenshaw and the Gunner's Mate is Mr. Stanford. Beyond that I don't know right now as there are many more officers and mates but I can't even name them as they have very little to do with me. We've even got Marines with their grand bright red uniforms, who stand about stiffly guardin' things and sweatin' in the heat in their high collars.