‘The Nile? As I thought. You’re not to berth with the reefers, it’s the gunroom for you, m’ friend. I’ll square it later with the bo’sun.’
The largest ship Bowden had been in had been the old sixty-four-gun
The gunroom was on the lower deck, occupying the entire after end of the ship under the massive twenty-five- foot tiller. Far more capacious than any Bowden had seen, it was home for the warrant officers, boatswain, gunner and other senior men, together with the master’s mates and privileged senior midshipmen.
‘We sling our micks here. The bo’sun and so on have their cabins but we all mess at table in the gunroom.’
His sea-chest was given to the care of the gunroom servant and Bowden tried to thank his American friend, who brushed it aside. ‘We’ve a right taut ship, Charles, an’ under the eye of His Nibs at any time. Just be sure you measure up.’
Bowden nodded. ‘I’ve heard Our Nel can be short with those who cross his hawse.’
‘And he can be as nice as pie to those who try hard,’ Bulkeley came back instantly. ‘Now, I think it a wise thing right now to make your number with the first luff. This way . . .’
In his cabin the first lieutenant looked up from his work. ‘Mr Bowden to join, sir. I have him ready berthed in the gunroom. Charles, this is Mr Quilliam.’
He looked up with a lop-sided smile. ‘The sooner you’ve sheeted in the essentials the better. I rather think the best use of your time at this moment would be for Mr Bulkeley t’ show you the ropes until we need not fear to trip over you.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bulkeley said, and the pair left together.
‘I rather think this must be one quick tour, Charles. Evening quarters are taken seriously and we don’t want you adrift on your first day. Now, the fo’c’sle . . .’
Right forward, a hundred feet of bowsprit with its headsails soaring up speared out, the elaborate beakhead just below. The roar and swash of the bow-wave made conversation difficult.
‘You’ll never see a main-mast s’ taunt,’ Bulkeley said, pointing up as they passed the tack of the fore-course. It was an awe-inspiring sight, mounting up beyond the fighting tops and cross-trees to the very heavens. ‘Higher even than Westminster Abbey – should you fall afoul of the officer-of-the-watch and find yourself mastheaded.’
On past the big launches and barge and then Bowden saw a knot of officers on the quarterdeck deep in earnest conversation – and in the centre, unmistakable with his four stars and gold lace, was Lord Nelson.
They walked by respectfully, Bowden doffing his hat and taking his first look at the most famous admiral in the Royal Navy. There was an immediate impression of crushing care and worry, the lines in his face deep and set, but in the uncompromising quarterdeck brace there was resolute pugnacity.
‘We carry nine lootenants,’ Bulkeley said, breaking the spell, ‘and a company of eight hundred and fifty – being short about thirty o’ that.’
Getting on for a thousand men within the confines of one ship. ‘Er, how many decks does she have?’ Bowden asked, for something to say, as they mounted the poop ladder.
‘Well, three gun-decks, o’ course – twelves, twenty-fours and thirty-two-pounders – but if you’re counting there’s seven under us, including the hold platform.’
He went on to explain the layout of the carronades on the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle, and signal handling on the after end. Moving to the break of the poop, he leaned over to point out
Bowden said in wonder, ‘She’s a grand lady, Richard – must be a few years old now?’
‘Yes,’ chuckled Bulkeley. ‘Laid down for the Seven Years’ War in ’fifty-nine. Seen a few admirals too since then – Keppel in your American war, poor old Kempenfelt later and, o’ course, Jervis at St Vincent.’
Bowden blinked. She had started life in a very different age: halfway through the last century, before Captain Cook had charted the unknown regions, before Harrison’s chronometers, before even copper bottoms for warships. And now she was the most famous flagship in the world.
They went below to discover vast gun-decks, the gloomy orlop and forward, giant bitts for the anchor cable. ‘Twenty-four-inch cables, no less, so at a hundred and fifty pounds in every fathom and a four-ton anchor on the end, pity the capstan crew!’
Then it was up through the decks once more to the winter sky and dark complexity of rigging. The vast bellying main-course was the largest sail Bowden had ever seen – fully a hundred feet across and with an area on its own much the same as a respectable London townhouse. There were others and more, three masts in a towering pyramid of sea-darkened canvas, urgently drawing.
‘Everything’s on quite another scale,’ Bulkeley admitted, ‘and those grand sails are why we have near a thousand ton o’ ballast – that’s the weight of a whole frigate in our guts just to hold us upright.’
Pleased with Bowden’s expression, he continued, ‘The bo’sun says there’s twenty-six miles of rigging and a thousand pulley-blocks to go with it. She’s a hull nearly three feet thick at the waterline yet she’s the sweetest sailer on a bowline, eight or nine knots and I’ve seen eleven going large. Why, when the fleet’s at exercise—’
The visceral thunder of drums and the flat bray of a trumpet interrupted him.
‘Quarters!’ he said abruptly. ‘You’d better go.’
Bowden flew down the broad stairways among racing men to find his place in the lower gun-deck. Already the
