Being banished, after a fashion at least, to parole the
My ship is called the Maria; she was a prize of the last war that the Admiralty then commissioned to carry dispatches. Now that she is getting older and slower she isn’t any use at that anymore. Now they are using her as a fine place to throw everyone they don’t want, including her commander, me. That means the disobedient, the stupid, the diseased, the crazy, and of course other people who got on the wrong side of someone with influence.
My ship is the last to get new supplies, and when we do get new supplies they are always the worst quality. I don’t have enough power to sway the all powerful dockyards, or the money to. When I get kegs of water it has already been in the barrel long enough to go rancid, the same goes for our cheese and meat as well. Our biscuits have more then one ship’s share of weevils in them. Our spirits have always been watered down, undoubtedly earning someone a couple extra shillings on the side. Dockyard corruption is famous and my ship is one of their favorite targets.
Normally I, as the commander of the ship, would have my own food to eat that would be well above what the common sailors have but I have the misfortune of being poor. This means that I have to eat the same poor slop that all of the common sailors eat, including the spirits rations, I am unable to even afford wine on my meager pay. The sailor who acts as my steward has commented on the fact that I should get captains stores but he has never told me how I am supposed to get the money to do so. I don’t think he knows how poor I am and it wouldn’t befit my dignity to tell him.
The Admiralty expects nothing of my ship and I know it. We are charged with the duty of making sure that no ship leaves Ferrol but since the port in question is obviously not equipped to supply any ships with goods or supplies it seems like a pointless exercise. Spanish ships might of course take refuge there, under the guns of the fort, if a British ship was chasing them but in that case the other British ship would be there to take over the whole operation. I may not be at the bottom of the Admiralty list of commanders, therefore I might be superior to any new comer, but the new comer would probably be aware of my statues in the navy and give me orders anyway. I have resigned myself to my lot over the last year of this life, if you couldn’t tell by my tone, and it isn’t all bad.
Even though no one expects anything of me I still keep my ship in fighting order, mostly as something to do. I could probably relax ship discipline a little without anyone complaining but I have observed that increases the problems that one has with the crew. There is no way for them to desert out here in the middle of the ocean, on a foreign coast, especially since most of them can’t swim or speak Spanish, but there are still fights and disobedience that have to be worried about. The main concession that I make is that you will never see a starter on my deck. The ropes end that many petty officers use to make men work faster have been officially outlawed on my deck as being pointless.
Other then that one concession I keep my crew in normal order. We have gun drills regularly, more then on a normal ship in fact, since we lack anything better to do. My crew was soon clearing for action and running out the cannons about as fast as I figured the admirals crew could manage. I quickly learned that even the total landsmen that made up a fair portion of my crew, dredged up from farms and prisons, could be taught anything about a ship provided you had enough time to teach them, I had a lot of time. The Admiralty of course discouraged cannon practice with real charges because they said it was a waste of ammunition, which was expensive. That meant that while a lot of crews could be fast at running out guns and going through the movements few of them could aim properly and gage the distance when they had to. Having nothing to lose, already being out of favor, and little chance of real engagement I squandered our powder on target practice recklessly.
We also had sail drills, even my one armed cook, who had once been a great topsail man participated in those. It became a race between the Starboard and Port watches who could be faster at shaking out a reef or taking in sail. I encouraged competition like that since it made the men happier and God new that they needed something to be happy about.
Sunday morning I woke up late, no one bothered to wake me since my lofty position, on the ship anyway, made it so that I didn’t have to stand watch. Unless there was a dire emergency that my junior officers couldn’t take care of, I was able to sleep until the noon if that was what I cared to do. I got up and got dressed just the same, it being the first Sunday of the month I was obliged to read the Articles of War by navy regulations. It was an occasion that demanded I dress in proper uniform out of respect for the document that we all lived and died by. In many respects it got a lot more respect on board ship then the bible.
I had only just finished reading the final article and the men were breaking up from their assembled positions to return to whatever they should be doing, when the lookout called out. At first I couldn’t hear him, he was a young midshipman, only about twelve, and his shrill voice didn’t carry well over the wind. Finally I could make it out.
“A sail Sir, by God,” said my first Lieutenant. I could understand his excitement, there were only two possibilities as to what a sail could mean, it could mean an enemy or it could be a friendly supply ship. In either case there would be excitement. An enemy ship hadn’t ventured near in months, they liked to sneak around even my pathetically weak ship then endanger their precious stores. A friendly supply ship would bring news of home and the war, as well as food to eke out our dwindling store.
“What do you make of her?” I called up to the boy far above. It wasn’t very becoming my dignity to shout like a junior officer but the excitement was enough through the whole ship that I doubted anyone would care.
“I can’t tell yet, Sir,” the boy yelled back.
“Go take a look and tell me what you think,” I told Engels. He was one of my more experienced able bodied seamen. His main problem was his drunken habits, which had made him driven from every other ship he had ever been on. Drinking is common enough in the navy and many sailors would drink to excess but few are able to get their hands on drink as often as Engels was. I could never figure out how he would manage it, I could have the spirit store locked in my cabins and he would still show up on duty dead drunk and reeling.
To be continued...
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