Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 4 - Shit

Pugh's death did not upset the crew as I assumed it would.  Surprisingly - to me at least - the Welshman's literal passing brought the crew together. Not even the tale that spread around the gundeck like a powder trail hissing toward a keg could upset the men.  Apparently, as the poor man passed along the side of the ship, the officers cast biscuits at him from the wardroom's stern windows, wagering one another as to who could strike him, or get their biscuit closest.  The Gunner won, his hard tack bouncing off Pugh's pate as the poor man bobbed down one last time in the waves before his final plunge into the next world.

As The Betsy forged her way south, so the crew were hammered into shape too.  There were not many new hands like me but there were enough landsmen escaping drear life ashore that our incompetent presence soon made itself felt.  With the lesson of Pugh still fresh within us we kept our heads low to avoid the wrath of Mr Jones, or that of Captain Morgan.  The work was hard and continuous, but we were fed well and would have every Sunday off as a make and mend day.  Despite the looming threat of imminent and painful death, it was a pleasant life.

We became brisk about our work, the sobriety I was experiencing for long periods was clearing my thoughts of drink's foggy embrace, and my limbs lost their cadaverous lustre, taking on a rather more pleasing burnished glow.  However, in the short hours between watches I found it difficult to take my rest in the close packed confines of the gundeck as the men of my watch gently swung in their hammocks, the occasional cry speaking of some unfortunate soul's unsettled dreams.   I would escape from the stinking miasma of sweat, salt and semen - many hands would be busy in their own hammock, or another - and creep about the lower decks, exploring the bowels of The Betsy, a shuttered lantern in hand.

I was careful to keep out of the way of the watch above, busy about their duties, and also Mr Mandrake, the ship's purser.  He was a curious cove, light-fingered and choleric, stomping about The Betsy on a leg carved from the tusk of some great sea beast.  He had lost the one God had supplied him with in the service of His Brittanic Majesty and had been cast out from the Navy as unfit to serve.  Embittered by this rejection, he had soon found a berth with Morgan on another ship - since sunk.  Morgan was never too picky about who he took on to the ship's roll.  I had almost run into him on another journey into the hold.  Or should I say I almost stumbled headfirst into his quivering buttocks as he rogered the purser's mate.  I had quickly backed away before he realised that he had been discovered and gutted me with the antique dagger that he always carried with him.

Blessed was the night, strangely calm in the Bay of Biscay, wind steady from the South East, that I discovered the one thing that would make this cruise a paradise.  I had found the spirit locker.

I have many talents.  I have studied at Oxford, charmed money from lords, and made use of my strangely nerveless skin for the purposes of boxing.  I can write, read, declaim the philosophical ideas of Socrates and I can dissect a hanged man.  However, in one of the low drinking houses that had punctuated my journey through life, I had learned to pick locks and then won my teacher's toolkit from him in a wager.  

With shaking hands, fearful of discovery yet also full of anticipation, I set about my work.  I directed my attention to the two picks in my hands, twisting them, trying to grip the tumblers of the locks, their brass gleaming in the barest illumination from my lantern.  Apart from the lantern, I worked in darkness, listening carefully for  the slow, thumping step of the purser.  Apart from my own breathing, the constant creaking of the ships timbers and the scratching of rats, all was quiet.  

Click.  The locker was open.  I swung back the door and stepped into nirvana. My lantern shone on kegs, bottles and demi-johns, the light casting strangley exciting shadows as the heavenly liquid sloshed about with the ship's motion.  I chose one smaller bottle and unstoppered it.  French brandy!  Sweetest nectar!  Removing it, I swiftly closed up the locker and made my way back along the hold to my hiding place in the orlop.