A Shot Rolling Ship Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: David Donachie
familiar pattern learned in only a week aboard HMS Brilliant , reminding John Pearce just how much such custom was one of the tools by which authority dulled thoughts of liberty in men who were not sailors by trade. The naval day was fixed by the tasks they had to perform, the naval week by the irritation of repetitive food and the odd ceremony like Divine Service. The other method of control was exhaustion, for moving any sailing vessel from one place to another was hard physical work, made worse aboard this ship because no amount of habit could inure a man to sleeping in the cramped circumstances which pertained aboard an armed cutter, a state of crowding that made life aboard a frigate, with twenty-eight inches of space and the odd bump into a nearby body, seem like slumber paradise.
Proximity to his sleeping neighbours had forced up thesides of his hammock, so that Pearce had felt himself to be in something like a tomb. He could feel the effect that ran down both sides of his body, which had been crushed between two others as the ship pitched, rolled and snubbed on every wave, the groaning of the timbers almost human in their tone of complaint. His neighbours, judging by the muffled cursing which occasionally emanated from their hammocks, had suffered as much as he. Pipes blew at the opening of the naval day, in darkness, to rouse the watch off duty to quit their hammocks and stow them. A ship of war in a time of conflict stood to every morning before dawn, boats over the side, ports open and guns run out as the light increased sufficiently to allow the captain to ‘see a grey goose at a quarter mile’; really to ensure that no enemy had snuck up close to them during the hours of darkness to gain an advantage that could see the ship taken.
Sure of an empty sea the guns were housed, flintlocks removed, the shot replaced in their garlands, cartridges and priming quills returned by scampering powder monkeys to the gunner sat behind his thick, canvas fearnought screen, the standby slowmatch doused and the crew set to commence the cleaning of the decks, a task carried out eagerly because only on completion could they be piped to breakfast. Food was another tool of authority, for if it was, to many, unpalatable stuff it was regular, plentiful and in the case of HMS Griffin , reasonably fresh, got up by a cook that had to work on a jury-rigged stove that could not be set up until the captain was sure the ship was safe,the planking underneath his pitch the first to be cleaned. Such regular food was not gainsaid to a toiling labourer ashore, a fact of which sailors were wont to remind each other, as though somehow just having a square meal was a blessing.
For the Pelicans the comfort of their own table, which they had enjoyed aboard the frigate, was not vouchsafed to them on Griffin . Littlejohn, allotted to them as the leader of their mess, tallied off a pair to take the mess-kids and fetch the grub, but it was eaten where a space could be found, some choosing even on a calm but chill morning to take their victuals on deck rather than squeeze into the stifling hutch that passed for the crew’s quarters. At the rear of that, guarded outside mealtimes and sleep by a marine, a canvas screen cut off a space roughly one third of the whole lower deck for the two mids and the captain. Pearce, looking along the deck beams above his head, calculated that while there was more space per body, there was no luxury aboard for officers either.
‘Gunner’s coop is in there’n all,’ said Latimer, when Pearce asked about it. ‘Berths opposite where the mids and the captain’s steward squeeze in, afore Colbourne’s screened off bothy, and he don’t half come it high an mighty ’cause he has his private space, jeering at the others warrants. Puts a plank o’er his powder barrels and calls it a bed, ’cause there ain’t the room to sling a hammock. He’s a squat arse, is the gunner, have to be to get a wink.’
‘I don’t know
Proximity to his sleeping neighbours had forced up thesides of his hammock, so that Pearce had felt himself to be in something like a tomb. He could feel the effect that ran down both sides of his body, which had been crushed between two others as the ship pitched, rolled and snubbed on every wave, the groaning of the timbers almost human in their tone of complaint. His neighbours, judging by the muffled cursing which occasionally emanated from their hammocks, had suffered as much as he. Pipes blew at the opening of the naval day, in darkness, to rouse the watch off duty to quit their hammocks and stow them. A ship of war in a time of conflict stood to every morning before dawn, boats over the side, ports open and guns run out as the light increased sufficiently to allow the captain to ‘see a grey goose at a quarter mile’; really to ensure that no enemy had snuck up close to them during the hours of darkness to gain an advantage that could see the ship taken.
Sure of an empty sea the guns were housed, flintlocks removed, the shot replaced in their garlands, cartridges and priming quills returned by scampering powder monkeys to the gunner sat behind his thick, canvas fearnought screen, the standby slowmatch doused and the crew set to commence the cleaning of the decks, a task carried out eagerly because only on completion could they be piped to breakfast. Food was another tool of authority, for if it was, to many, unpalatable stuff it was regular, plentiful and in the case of HMS Griffin , reasonably fresh, got up by a cook that had to work on a jury-rigged stove that could not be set up until the captain was sure the ship was safe,the planking underneath his pitch the first to be cleaned. Such regular food was not gainsaid to a toiling labourer ashore, a fact of which sailors were wont to remind each other, as though somehow just having a square meal was a blessing.
For the Pelicans the comfort of their own table, which they had enjoyed aboard the frigate, was not vouchsafed to them on Griffin . Littlejohn, allotted to them as the leader of their mess, tallied off a pair to take the mess-kids and fetch the grub, but it was eaten where a space could be found, some choosing even on a calm but chill morning to take their victuals on deck rather than squeeze into the stifling hutch that passed for the crew’s quarters. At the rear of that, guarded outside mealtimes and sleep by a marine, a canvas screen cut off a space roughly one third of the whole lower deck for the two mids and the captain. Pearce, looking along the deck beams above his head, calculated that while there was more space per body, there was no luxury aboard for officers either.
‘Gunner’s coop is in there’n all,’ said Latimer, when Pearce asked about it. ‘Berths opposite where the mids and the captain’s steward squeeze in, afore Colbourne’s screened off bothy, and he don’t half come it high an mighty ’cause he has his private space, jeering at the others warrants. Puts a plank o’er his powder barrels and calls it a bed, ’cause there ain’t the room to sling a hammock. He’s a squat arse, is the gunner, have to be to get a wink.’
‘I don’t know