Middlewych wanted my details for the muster book – the ship’s records. Where was I born? What age was I? How long had I been at sea? All these questions I answered truthfully, but then he asked my parents’ names and where they lived. ‘We’ll need to know where to look for you if you run away,’ he said. I gave the right names, but on an impulse I blurted out a fictitious address in Norwich – a house in Chantry Road – a street my father and I passed through on our trips to the town. I was certain I was going to escape, and I’d be damned if I was going to help them find me.

  Then I was rated – Boy Second Class. ‘Behave yourself and you’ll move up a rate before too long,’ smiled the Lieutenant.

  The doctor spoke then. He was a stout man in early middle age, with a broad Scottish accent. ‘Remove all y’ clothes and stand just here.’ There followed an unpleasant minute of prodding and poking, while I stood naked and burning with humiliation. I felt like a horse being examined on market day. ‘He’s in good health,’ said the doctor. ‘No evidence of disease. Now go and wash in that bucket over there.’

  I washed quickly, then they gave me some fresh clothes – canvas trousers, short jacket and chequered shirt, all too big. ‘You can scrub your own clothes clean tomorrow,’ said the Lieutenant, ‘and use these as a second set. The cost will be deducted from your wages. Now wait below, and we’ll find you a berth.’ I heard him call over a marine, and order him to find someone or other.

  By now it was late in the evening and I was sick and dizzy with exhaustion. A tall, stocky man with a bald head came up to me. He looked around my father’s age.

  ‘Crikey – they’ve sent us a babee!’ he said. ‘Next thing we know, we’ll be getting wenches to work with!’

  I looked at him with baffled irritation. He ignored my ill manners and smiled, then put out a hand for me to shake.

  ‘So you’re Sam, aren’t you? Bad luck, lad, getting yerself landed in this blasted palaver. My name’s Ben Lovett. Lieutenant Middlewych tells me I’m to be your Sea Daddy. D’you know what that is?’

  I shook my head. I was so wrapped up in my own misery, I could barely bring myself to speak.

  ‘I’m to look after you while you get to know the ship,’ he went on. ‘I’ll be telling you what to do and how to carry out your duties. Where to sleep, where to eat, where to take a leak . . . Come and sit down and we’ll have a chat.’

  Ben had a friendly face and I liked him immediately. His accent was one I didn’t recognise, so I asked him where he was from.

  ‘I’m from Birmingham, me,’ he said. ‘Not many sailors from Birmingham. It’s all foundries, coal mines and canals.’ He stopped and sighed. ‘Lord knows how I ended up goin’ to sea. Should have gone on a canal boat. Y’ don’t get many storms in a canal. Or French frigates, for that matter.

  ‘Did you take the bounty?’ he asked. By now I felt quite stupid for not taking the five pounds I had been offered, and was embarrassed to tell him I didn’t. But he whispered, ‘Good for you. I didn’t take it either, when they got me. Just because they’ve got your body doesn’t mean you have to sell them your soul! I think we’re going to get on, you and me.’

  His unexpected kindness in this frightening world almost brought me to tears. He noticed, and spoke to me sternly. ‘C’mon now, Sam. We’ll have none o’ that crying. This is not a good place for tears.’

  Ben took me to the steward’s room, where I was issued with two hammocks and a blanket. I had to pay for the blanket too – thirteen shillings to be taken from my wages. By now most of the ship was asleep, and we picked our way through a forest of sleeping men on the mess deck, to a space near the bow.

  ‘I’m not going to show you how to do this now,’ whispered Ben. ‘I’ll show you when there’s more light and you’re not so tired.’ He swiftly undid the ropes that tied my hammock together, and slung it on hooks between two beams. ‘I’ll show you gettin’ in tomorrow, as well,’ he said with a wink, and quickly lifted me under the armpits, and swung me into the hammock. I had never been in a hammock before. On the Franklyn we had slept in wooden bunks. The hammock felt comfortable and even quite snug, when I had wrapped the blankets around me. Ben slung his hammock next to mine. Right leg up, left hand holding the top, a jump up, twist round, and he was in.

  I was so tired I could have slept on a marble floor. But barely had my head touched the pillow, it seemed, than I woke next morning with a bosun’s mate howling ‘Out or down’ in my ear. I sat straight upright in surprise and lost my balance, plummeting to the deck. Tears sprang to my eyes, and Ben came swiftly to my aid.

  ‘Quick, now,’ he said. ‘In the morning you need to get out of that hammock at double speed. Stay in there and they’ll cut you down. Now, watch this . . .’ With that, he rolled up his hammock and bedding, and roped it tight together. I followed the best I could, but I was groggy with sleep and had a thick headache. ‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Ben, but undid the lot and did it again himself. ‘Now come and eat your breakfast.’

  Ben beckoned me to sit down with him at one of the long wooden tables on the mess deck. As we began to eat our oatmeal we were joined by his friend Colm, an Irishman who had been pressed three years ago. He made no secret of his dislike of the Royal Navy, but he told me, ‘We all have our cross to bear here on the Miranda. I reckon if I keep my head down and do as I’m told, I’ll come out of this life in the Navy without being flogged or killed.’

  There was something about Colm that made me trust him, so I told him and Ben I’d given Lieutenant Middlewych a false address for his muster book. I felt proud of my deception, and wanted to impress my new shipmates. But they weren’t impressed.

  ‘Aren’t you the clever article, Sam,’ scoffed Colm. ‘How are you going to change that now? You could be flogged for it.’

  My mouth went completely dry and I began to feel faint.

  ‘Flogged?’ I blurted out.

  Ben butted in. ‘Don’t scare the lad, Colm. I doubt they’d flog him for that.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Colm went on, ‘but how’re you going to write to your family without some sharp-eyed busybody of an officer noticing the address is different from the one in the muster book?’

  That was it. I had to get away as soon as I could. ‘I’ll be gone before that happens,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘Sam, you haven’t got an ounce of sense in your bonce,’ chided Ben. He obviously didn’t take me seriously. ‘I’ve never known a man get off this ship. They were killed trying, or ended up getting flogged or hung from a yardarm.’

  I cursed myself for not keeping my own counsel. ‘There’s nothing to it then, I suppose. I’ll just have to confess . . .’ I said.

  Ben spoke. ‘No, mate. Just keep quiet for now and see what happens. Right now there’s too many other things for you to worry about. When we’re done here I’ve to take you to see the Captain. He’s going to tell you what you’re going to be doing.’

  So after breakfast he led me up to the Captain’s cabin. It took up the entire rear end of the gun deck, with a set of windows that ran over the width of the stern. Light streamed in, catching on silver candlesticks and polished mahogany. Lieutenant Middlewych was there, sat behind a table. Next to him was a slightly older man. Judging by the lavish amount of gold braid around his hat and coat, and the immaculate look of his clothing, there was no doubt this was the Captain. He looked at me with something between a sneer and a smirk, his pointy nose wrinkling with distaste. Middlewych’s manner was now quite different, too. He was sitting stiffly upright and greeted me with cold eyes, and no nod of recognition. I stood before them waiting for someone to speak, wishing I could sit down, not least to steady my trembling legs. Ben was curtly dismissed.

  They waited for him to leave before either spoke. ‘Good morning, Master Witchall,’ said the Captain, in a brusque, well-spoken voice. ‘I am Captain Mandeville. I understand you were pressed yesterday evening. You are now under Navy regulations, and subject to the full Articles of War. That, to be perfectly clear, means you can be flogged for neglect of duty, insubordination, drunkenness and anything else I think fit. If you desert, or strike an officer, you will be hung from the yardarm. Lovett will instruct you further in the Articles of War. I advise you most strongly to pay heed. Your friend Mr Warandel can tell you what it’s like to be flogged, so try not to cross me.’ He gave a beady, humourless smile, then continued. ‘Lieutenant Middlewych here tells me you’re nimble in the rigging. We may yet call upon your services in that area, but for the moment we’ve no need for topmen on the Miranda. What we need is a powder boy for the gun crews. The last boy we had failed to put the top on his powder canister when we attacked a French brig. A stray spark floated down and blew him to a pink mist. AND it made a dreadful mess of my ship. You look fast on your feet, so I’m sure you’ll fit the bill.’ Then he turned to the Lieutenant and nodded for him to continue.

  Middlewych gave a nervous cough. ‘You’ve been placed in the larboard watch,’ he said, ‘in the afterguard. Your duties will include pulling and hauling the sails and whatever else is demanded of you, but your chief concern will be gunnery. When called “To Quarters” you’ll supply powder for the gun just aft of the larboard main hatch. Pay attention, learn your trade, and try not to get yourself blown up. You will join Lovett’s crew, and he will train you in all these duties. He’s a good, kind man –’

  ‘A kind man?’ interrupted the Captain. ‘I’ve little use for kind men on this ship.’

  Middlewych looked uncomfortable, and I almost felt sorry for him. He waited a moment, to see if the Captain had anything more to say. ‘. . . And I’m sure you won’t disappoint him and us. That is all.’

  This I took to be my signal to leave, and I nodded in what I hoped was a respectful manner. As I turned to go, the Captain called out, ‘Witchall. Next time I see you, you’d better have learned how to salute.’

  I spent the morning scrubbing out the hold with four other newly pressed men. They were all much older than me and none seemed keen to talk. Whistles blew just after noon, and I turned to a ratty-looking man with ginger bristles on his chin and asked what this meant.

  ‘That’s the signal to go to the mess deck for dinner, lad,’ he said as we trooped up the stairs. ‘I’ve been in this pickle before. Y’ life’s ruled by that bosun’s whistle – breakfast, dinner, hauling yourself up to the yards, weighing the anchor. You obey that whistle just as a soldier obeys a bugle.’

  I spotted Ben seated at a table in the corner and picked my way towards him, avoiding the curious stares of the older seamen.

  ‘So – you’re to be a powder monkey!’ he said.

  ‘Why do they call us that?’ I said. It sounded insulting.

  Ben laughed. ‘Don’t get on your high horse, Sam! Monkeys are nimble creatures. That’s what you need to be, so that’s what you ought to become.’

  ‘And what’s the afterguard?’ I said.

  ‘The afterguard’s the division that’s stationed on the quarterdeck – y’ know, that bit at the stern where the Captain stands.’

  I realised Ben liked to tease me by pretending I knew nothing about life at sea. He went on, ‘The larboard watch take turns with the starboard watch. Your duties there probably won’t be a great deal different from what you had to do on the Franklyn – cleaning the ship, operating the sails and the like.’

  ‘What about climbing the rigging?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘A bit o’ that, for sure. But the topmen do most of that work.’

  I was pleased I would not have to regularly climb the rigging. I felt confident up in the sails of the Franklyn, but the masts on the Miranda were much higher. I feared the letting down and furling of the sails would be done with a speed that took little account of safety.

  ‘Your chief duty, though,’ said Ben, ‘is to assist in the firing of the guns.’

  Ben took great pride in his work as a gunner. It was obvious the moment he spoke about it. ‘The British gunner is the best in the world, Sam. That’s why Britannia rules the waves!’ I didn’t doubt it. After all, I’d grown up hearing about the Royal Navy’s famous victories. Ben went on, ‘It’s not the captains, it’s not the ships, it’s us that win the battles. We train and we train, until we can load and fire those guns blindfold – not that we’ve ever tried, mind, but we’ve sometimes had to fight at night. And when we fight we can get our guns to fire one shot a minute. The Frenchies and the Spanish can’t do that to save their lives. We’re twice as fast as they are. And that’s why we’re the best.’

  Before the meal was over I remembered to ask Ben to show me how to do a Navy salute.

  ‘You need to salute with your right hand every time you see an officer,’ he told me. ‘And turn your palm away from the man you salute, so he can’t see your mucky hands. You practise a few times. And don’t forget, you can be flogged for insubordination if you don’t salute.’

  Ben took me up to the gun deck to look at the ship’s guns. Daylight streamed in through the main gangways of the ship. Posted by each was a marine standing to attention in his bright red coat. On the starboard side, where the ship faced the quay, a gangplank led down to the harbour. I looked out, beyond the guard, to the quayside behind him. If I chose my moment, surely I could run past him?

  Ben could read my thoughts, and spoke quietly. ‘You’d be dead by the time you got halfway down the gangplank, Sam, if you hadn’t been run through with a bayonet before you even got out the ship. There’s a marine at every hatchway. And one by every mooring rope.

  ‘You’ll find the marines keep themselves well apart from the sailors. It’s no wonder. They’re supposed to keep order. And they’re expected to kill any one of us who tries to escape.’

  The marine standing guard sensed we were talking about him. ‘State your business,’ he barked.

  Ben gave him a quick smile. ‘It’s none of yours, my friend. I’m here to show our new powder monkey the guns.’

  I wondered how many of his previous powder monkeys had heard this speech, but thought it wise not to ask.

  ‘There’s thirty-two big guns on this ship, which is why it’s called a “32”. There’s ten either side of the gun deck, and another six either side of the forecastle and quarterdeck. I’m captain of the crew of this gun here, next to the larboard hatchway.’

  Ben pointed to his gun.

  ‘These big guns are called 18 pounders, because they fire 18lb shot.’ He nodded towards a line of black metal cannonballs placed underneath the gun ports. I went to pick one up. It was slightly above the width of a man’s hand, and almost more than I could lift.

  ‘You try to move that gun,’ he instructed. I placed my back against the wooden carriage and shoved with all my might. It didn’t budge an inch. I may as well have been pushing at a huge tree trunk. ‘These guns and carriages are nearly two tons apiece. We keep the guns loaded once we go out to sea, so they’re ready to fire if we’re attacked. Once the first broadside is fired, we need to reload as soon as possible. That’s why your job is so important. Gunpowder’s too dangerous to be kept by the guns, so you need to run to the magazine and fetch it. We’re close to the magazine here, so you won’t have far to run. I’ll show you.’

  We walked down the ladder nearest to Ben’s gun, to the mess deck and then down another stairway which led to the after magazine. Here in the dark belly of the ship was one of the two chambers where gunpowder was kept. Another marine was standing guard beside it. Ben gave him a curt nod.

  ‘This is where you come to fetch the gunpowder cartridges. They’re made of linen bags and you carry them in a leather container, which we call a cartridge box. You make sure the lid’s on good and proper, Sam, and you’ll be all right.’

  Even now, in port and far from battle, the magazine was an unsettling place to be. The few dim lanterns in the hold cast a faint glow, creating an atmosphere of demonic menace. Here, I supposed, there was enough gunpowder to blow the entire ship, and everyone on it, into fragments of wood, flesh and bone.

  As the crew gathered in the mess for supper that evening I spotted Silas.

  ‘What have they been making you do today, Mr Warandel?’ I asked.

  ‘Call me Silas, Sam. We’re in this hornet’s nest together. I’ve just spent four hours in the forecastle repairing the ship’s rigging. I had a chat with that Mandeville this morning too. Have you met him yet?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Beady-eyed bastard. Tells me he’s got his eye on me.’

  I smiled, but could think of nothing useful to say. I was pleased to see Silas, but he made me feel uneasy and I wondered what he might do that would land me in trouble.

  ‘I’m joining you in the larboard afterguard, Sam. I’ve been put in with Ben Lovett’s gun crew. Have you met him yet? Can’t say I care much for Brummies, especially that one. Being gun captain’s probably the first bit of power he’s had in his life, and he’s keen to let everyone know he’s the boss.’

  I thought Silas sounded a little jealous. ‘He’s all right, is Ben. He’s my Sea Daddy.’

  Before I could say more, Ben came over to join us. He smiled at me, but gave Silas more of a curt nod. I sensed the two of them had not hit it off.

  Ben took us over to a table where he usually sat. This time he introduced us to his mess mates.

  ‘This is Silas Warandel. He’s from London. And the lad here is Samuel Witchall. You’re from Norfolk, aren’t you? They’ll be replacing Henry and Stephen.’ The men all nodded indifferently.

  Silas asked the question I had not dared to. ‘What happened to Henry and Stephen?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Horrible business. Henry was crushed by the gun. Stephen was blown to pieces by his cartridge box.’

  There was a brief pause as some of the men took off their hats and whispered a silent prayer. Ben turned directly to us. ‘You’ll have to get used to this lot, Sam, and you too, Mr Warandel. They’re my gun crew, and we all eat together every mealtime. You can see they’re a fine cross section of the Royal Navy.’

  We ate our bread and cheese as Ben carried on talking. ‘In training and combat, we’re all called by a number, rather than a name. I’m Number One, and you, Sam, are Number Twelve. My job’s to oversee the loading and aiming of the gun, and fire the flintlock that sets it off. Then there’s Tom Shepherd here.’ He pointed to a solid, bespectacled young man. ‘He’s a Londoner and he’s my Number Two. He cleans out the gun, then reloads it. After me, he’s the most important man in the crew. If he does it wrong, the powder could explode whilst the gun’s being loaded. It’s a job for a steady man, and we all trust Tom to do it well.’