A Sea Unto Itself by Jay Worrall Page B

turned over directly from one ship to another, while a common enough practice, would add to their discontent. Some among them wouldn’t have set foot on their native soil or visited families and loved ones since the war began six years before. All of this a seaman might adjust to—life in the British navy was known to be harsh—but to be deprived of their wages at the end of a long commission was beyond any excuse. Small wonder there were no whores aboard; the men had no money. For those with wives and families to support it would be intolerable. “You’ve been to the clerk of the cheque about their pay? What do they say?”
    “A lot of rigmarole about the crew being turned over from one ship to another, in which case they aren’t due to be paid off as they would be at the end of a commission. I think this is sheer evasiveness on their part; it’s possible there isn’t enough cash on hand to do it. A number of seventy-fours have come into the yard for refits. I expect they’ll be settled first.”
    “What about tickets?” Charles asked. To his mind this was not an acceptable alternative, but it was something. Tickets were vouchers normally issued to seamen transferring from one ship to another. They were no more than paper promises for payment of wages, sometimes years in arrears, with stoppages and purser’s charges, and the last six months earnings withheld to discourage desertion. They could not be cashed at Chatham and only promised a specified sum at some future date. In order for them to be drawn up, their previous ship’s muster book and purser’s accountings would have to be sent to the clerks of the navy board for the sums to be calculated. This, itself, could take months before the paperwork was done and the vouchers issued. And even then there was nothing the men could do except sell them to brokers at discounts of thirty percent or more.
    Bevan scratched at his chin uncomfortably. “They allowed that tickets might be issued, eventually. They wouldn’t say when.”
    “Wonderful,” Charles said.“Have you disciplined anyone since you’ve been on board?”
    “No, I haven’t. It isn’t like I haven’t considered it. I thought it best to wait until you arrived.”
    “Good,” Charles said. He disliked public whippings with the nine-tailed cat, each strand knotted at close intervals so as to tear the flesh off a recipient’s back. Thus far in his career he had never ordered one of his crew to be flogged—which Bevan well knew—relying on withholding spirits, disratings, or unpopular duties instead; he did not think that imitating Captain Bittington was the solution to his problems. Punishments that were too severe did more harm than good.
    “You can’t go easy on this,” Bevan insisted. “Once they get it into their heads that they can do as they please, there’ll be no end to it. You should take them firmly in hand now to put a stop to this nonsense.”
    “Do you mean that I should pick out a few of the leaders and have them flogged to set an example?”
    Bevan nodded. “I’d do it.”
    Charles expelled his breath in frustration. “Well I won’t, Daniel. Not right at the start. I want to go easy with the punishments for a time.”
    Bevan looked at his friend with a dubious frown. “You know, Charlie, sometimes you trust people too much. You don’t want to see trouble when it’s coming.”
    “If something happens, we’ll deal with it,” Charles said firmly. “In the meantime, I don’t want to make life aboard any harsher than it has to be. You know my feelings on this.”
    “Aye, I do. You’re as soft as warm butter. I will admit that it’s a hell of a thing for the Admiralty to put this on your plate as soon as you come aboard, though.”
    “I doubt the Admiralty is aware of our problems,” Charles answered. “They probably assume that we’ve been given a ship and a crew and we’ll go merrily on our way in blissful contentment.” With the tightest of smiles, he