Chapter 8 #2
Laurence obeyed, but the Zealous was now pitching as well. He swallowed hard, once, twice. The taste of bile was sharp in his mouth.
Langley gave a sudden gasp and was violently ill over the lee side. Hammond, who had been sitting bolt upright, now leaned forward with his head between his knees, breathing in short, desperate gasps.
Taylor clutched Laurence’s sleeve. “I do not think I can—oh God—”
He retched miserably. Laurence turned his face away, but the sound and the smell assailed him.
His own stomach convulsed. He fought it for perhaps half a minute, teeth clenched, then surrendered with a groan and was sick over the gunwale, the breakfast he had eaten so confidently at the tavern now lost to the sea.
The boat’s crew rowed on without comment, their faces carefully blank. One of the older hands murmured, just loud enough to be heard, “Gentlemen always take it hard the first time.”
Harris remained unmoved. “It passes, sirs. Or it does not. The ship will not wait either way.”
They came alongside the Zealous at last. A Jacob’s ladder was lowered, its wooden rungs slapping wetly against the ship’s side. The subalterns were expected to climb.
Finch went first, moving like a man in a dream.
He reached the deck, took two steps, and dropped to his knees.
Taylor followed, pausing twice to retch, his face the colour of old cheese.
Merton required the assistance of two sailors to reach the top, where he immediately collapsed against a carronade.
Laurence’s turn came. He seized the ladder, set his foot upon the first rung, and began to climb.
The ship’s side rose and fell beneath him; the ladder swung; spray stung his face, and halfway up his stomach rebelled again.
He clung, retching helplessly, until a sailor above called down, “Steady, sir! One hand for the ship, one for yourself!”
Somehow, he reached the deck. The planks heaved beneath his boots. He staggered, caught at the bulwark, and was sick once more, this time upon the spotless holystoned deck. A marine stepped smartly aside.
A lieutenant of Marines—Mr. Reynolds, a brisk young man with a fresh complexion and a voice accustomed to command, surveyed the six wretched figures with polite forbearance.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “welcome aboard. We shall begin with the manual exercise on the quarter-deck. Shoulder—arms!”
Laurence attempted to obey. His musket swung wildly; he overbalanced and nearly fell.
Taylor dropped his weapon entirely. Finch presented his bayonet at an angle that would have skewered no one but himself.
Langley leaned against the mizzen mast and closed his eyes.
Merton was already being led away by a marine to the lee gangway, where the sounds of his misery could be heard with painful clarity.
Hammond stood rigid, refusing to move, his face grey.
Mr. Reynolds regarded them without surprise. “We shall begin more slowly. Present—arms.”
The drill continued. Each command required fresh effort.
The deck pitched; the muskets grew heavier; the sun, now higher, beat down upon them.
Laurence’s arms trembled as he brought the firelock to his shoulder.
The bayonet flashed in the light, then dipped as another wave rolled the ship.
He corrected, over-corrected, and the butt struck the deck with a hollow thud.
“Elbows in, Mr. Bennet,” Harris said quietly. “The sea will not wait upon your convenience any more than the French will.”
“I am endeavouring, Colour-Sergeant,” Laurence managed between clenched teeth.
“Endeavour is not enough upon a ship of war, sir. Steady now. Recover—arms!”
They repeated the movements again and again.
Finch was sick where he stood. Taylor wept silently between commands.
Laurence felt the world narrow to the musket in his hands and the desperate need to remain upright.
At one point, he missed the word of command entirely and remained with his musket at the present while the others had recovered.
Harris corrected him with a single tap of his cane upon the barrel.
“Eyes on the horizon, sir. Not on your boots.”
After what seemed an eternity Mr. Reynolds called a halt. “Enough for today, gentlemen. The surgeon has ginger and ship’s biscuit in the cockpit for those who can keep anything down. You may return to the boat when you are able.”
The six subalterns were helped into a small, airless cabin below. There they lay or sat upon the deck, coats discarded, faces damp with sweat and misery. No one spoke for a long while.
Taylor was the first to break the silence, his voice weak. “I shall never complain of a march again. Never.”
Finch gave a hollow laugh that turned into a groan. “I thought the army would make me a hero. Instead, it has made me a spectacle.”
Laurence lay with one arm across his eyes. “I begin to think the sea has no respect for purchased commissions.”
Harris, who had followed them below and now stood in the doorway, allowed himself the faintest smile. “The sea respects no man, sir. Not the admiral, not the captain, and certainly not six young gentlemen who have never felt her temper before. You will mend. Most do.”
Merton, still pale, lifted his head. “And those who do not?”
“They find another profession,” Harris replied calmly. “The army has room for landsmen. The navy does not.”
The return journey in the cutter was mercifully shorter, though no less wretched. When at last the boat grated against the Dover quay, Laurence stepped ashore on legs that still felt the roll of the sea. The solid ground seemed almost miraculous.
Taylor clapped him weakly upon the shoulder as they walked back toward the billets. “Well, Mr. Bennet. We have survived our first naval engagement. And lost most decidedly.”
Laurence managed a faint smile. “I shall write no triumphant letters home tonight.”
That evening, he sat once more at the small table in his chamber, the candle burning low. He took up his pen, then set it down again. There were no words that could convey the day’s indignity with dignity. Instead, he wrote only four lines, sealed them, and laid the letter aside.
Outside, the night picket passed beneath his window with measured tread. Laurence listened, and for the first time the sound brought neither resentment nor longing—only the quiet knowledge that the next day’s drill upon firm ground would feel, by comparison, almost like mercy.
He extinguished the candle and lay down. Sleep came slowly, but it came. And in the darkness, he understood, however dimly, that the army he had purchased was teaching him lessons he had never expected to learn.