Beaky's Blather

Meeting One

Stepping from his cabin into the gale, the Captain paused, expressionless. The ship shivered beneath him as a green sea shunted the blunt bow and collapsed on board. It swept the wooden deck, folding over itself as it rose up the few shallow steps onto the quarterdeck where it swirled around his stocking’d ankles.  He turned, his glance, taking in the men straining against the kick of the helm, and focused on the torn wake. The wind shrieked in the rigging. 

‘Report, Mr Ginger!’ The Captain bellowed, without looking round. 

After a pause, the young midshipman stepped from the shelter of the companionway.

‘It’s wild sir…. but she’s wearing well’. The young officer’s glance flicked towards his captain.

‘And the pumps? Mr Ginger,’ the iron senior growled. ‘N’ the set of sail? Complete your report Mr!’ he emphasised with a rising tone.

He moved away before the boy could answer and glared into the rigging. His stare dropped to the ship’s waist and the unmanned pump handles before he snapped down onto the flooded deck and waded the few paces to the foc’s’le doorway. He ducked inside. At his bellow, men tumbled into the weather, the first few manned the pump handles, those slower to respond – recognising that they must climb into the gale-torn rigging – swayed unsteadily as they reached  for the ropes and climbed barefooted, waves sucking at their legs. 

The Captain took a position in the centre of the well deck from where – rock-still in the rush of water that swept around him – he watched high above, the men shuffle along the yards, hang over the boom and reach down to shorten the straining sail. Mainsail reefed, and better trimmed, the small craft began to respond to the helm and hold a steady bearing.  

The captain remained in the waist of the ship as the men, returning to the deck, passed him sheepishly. Those with experience knew that they had been slow to ‘man-up’ to the needs of their ship.

The Captain gauged his step up onto the quarterdeck, turned and – with his hands behind his back and legs planted firmly apart – faced the bow, the weather and his men.  

‘Where should I stand sir?’ inquired the young midshipman of his captain. 

Without altering his stare, the Captain replied,

‘On the beach, Mr Ginger…. should your resilience ever again neglect your duty’.

**** 

Meeting two – The making of the man    As night fell, the vessel sagged and thumped into the battering seas. Solid wave following wave, butted against the blunt bow and burst into freezing shards that flew the length of the deck, finding the helmsmen and the midshipman exposed on the quarterdeck. The young officer shivered uncontrollably as the blast stripped water from his drooling uniform.  He longed for shelter and his bunk, relief from this misery.  

To his rear he heard the helmsmen curse as once more the bucking wheel was wrenched from their grip and span out of control. He felt the ship veer and held his breath, waiting as they fought to latch once more onto the spokes. In time the ship heeled and swung back on course. he prayed that the captain from his cabin might not detect when they lost and regained their bearing. His fear of the Master exceeded his concern for rocks and the wrecking that might befall a poorly conned vessel. 

He turned from his post at the quarterdeck rail and once more surveyed the helmsmen. Emaciated creatures in rags that offered scant protection; they were sustained in the cold by dint of their effort demanded in controlling the wrenching helm.  He would change them soon for fresh crew.   

‘Stick to it lads. I’ll replace you soon,’ he called above the gale to the two men, each of whom, he was keenly aware, were older than his parents.  At fourteen, he was three years into his apprenticeship as a Naval officer. He and his fellow midshipman – ‘poor Ginger,’ as he always thought of him – shared the watches and lived in fear of the prospect of encountering the Captain, whose cabin on this tiny warship let directly onto the quarterdeck. The Master was a remote presence who observed the ship, spoke almost exclusively with the first officer and rarely acknowledged their existence. 

The boy grabbed a handhold on the corner of the cabin as a sustained squall rolled the lee rail under, briefly holding the ship in thrall with the fat main sail lolloped to the side, straining and spilling wind until a sheeting rope snapped.  Unleashed, one side of the heavy canvas sail whipped and cracked. 

Glancing briefly rearwards to check the helmsmen, the young officer lunged down onto the well-deck, steadied and, weaving, waded forward, to the foc’s’le, calling for the men inside to stand-to and tend the rigging.  Reluctantly they responded; several pushed past him, peering up towards the flapping sail.  They climbed aloft and, feet sawing in the foot-ropes, leaned over the cross-spar and together heaved at the sail until they had sheeted the unruly material into a fat canvas log beneath the boom. 

The young midshipman returned unsteadily to his post on the quarterdeck and – ignoring the Captain, standing silent in his cabin doorway – turned, placed his hands behind his back, planted his feet firmly astride and faced the bow, the weather and his men.