Post by larien on Sept 14, 2005 19:56:50 GMT -5
Summary -- Kidnapped by press gangs sent out by the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars, one man tries to fit into this new, alien lifestyle, and prays that he'll come out of the ordeal alive. Rated T, but only because there's a bit of gore. Not even that much. I really shouldn't rate it that . . . deal with it.
Author's Note -- This isn't all authentic. I don't really know how pressed men were treated when they first made it onto the ship, but this is following as much as I know as closely as I can. Set during the Napoleonic Wars.
Without further ado, I present *trumpets*
[glow=red,2,300]H.M.S. Lively[/glow]
He had known that staying out late at the tavern could be dangerous. After all, H.M.S. Lively had just come in, in need of fresh men to work its decks. He had known that to stay out late tonight was to risk being stopped by the press gangs, taken and shipped off to fight in the war. A poor man, he had known that he wouldn’t be able to bribe the officers into letting him stay onshore.
And so he lay between decks, doing his best to stay in the cramped hammock they had assigned him. His head still ached where they had struck him when he had refused to come. All around him, pressed men lay trying their best to keep their heaving stomachs under control.
Through his seasickness, he wondered if anyone would tell his wife what had become of him, or if she would be left to wonder if he had left her.
~~~
He was barely able to walk when they were called up on deck later that day. The newly pressed “sailors” stood huddled on the deck, faces tinged green, as they waited to be divided into watches. He worried that he would be sent up into the shrouds, that he would lose his footing among the ratlines, and fall from that great height, down onto the deck.
His watch was assigned to the guns during battle. Veteran sailors came forward to teach the new men what commands meant, how to sail the ship, and safely climb the ratlines. After that, they were on their own.
~~~
They were put through paces, practicing shooting of broadsides, again and again, until he felt that his ears would never stop rnging from the sound of the blasts. He left the lower deck for the mess, smelling of hot metal and gunpowder, his hands singed from the heat of the gun.
He looked ruefully down at his supper, wishing once more that he were at home, where the food was good and warm. Already, the ship’s biscuit was full of weevils, and even though the man beside him showed him how to tap it so that the maggots came out, he felt that he wouldn’t be able to live off of this.
Already, men were half drunk from the beer portioned out to drink. A fight was being picked in the corner behind him, and a loud man not far away was being reprimanded by a midshipman half his size.
Looking around at the seeming chaos about him, he wondered how the British Navy could possibly be such a dangerous opponent. It seemed unlikely that boys like that midshipman could keep order in such a hell as this.
~~~
Slowly, he learned how to keep his fumbling fingers holding onto the ratlines, what he was supposed to do when they furled and unfurled the sails, how to wear ship, and how to stay in his hammock on a stormy night. Soon, the motions of loading a cannon were so familiar that he felt he could do them in his sleep. And the weeks passed, out of sight of land or sail.
Sometimes, he would wonder what had become of his wife; if she had been able to continue paying their rent, if she had given him up for dead. But the thoughts came fewer and farther between as he fell into the ship’s life.
~~~
He was asleep when the French ship was spotted. It was the beat to quarters that roused him, sending him stumbling to his position beside the cannon. The midshipman was already there, looking pale and worried, no doubt realizing that very soon he could be a corpse, his brains and gore splashed over the men crouched beside him.
Up above them, there was the shrilling of the pipes, and the pounding of feet as the ships sailed closer. The midshipman ordered the cannons rolled out, his voice cracking under the strain.
The first rumble of cannon fire came from the other ship, still well out of range. One of the men shook his head.
“Waste of powder, that was,” he mumbled.
~~~
When the order came to fire, he was waiting, ready to plunge the rod and sponge back down into the cannon’s muzzle, then reload the great gun. All around him, there were sudden crashes as cannonballs came crashing through the walls that enclosed and trapped them. There were screams from all around him, and above it all, the voice of the midshipman, shouting for them to fire again.
Once again there was the thunder of the guns, all about him, and once more, French cannnballs raked the lower deck. It seemed as if it would never end, the shooting, sponging, and praying that he wouldn’t be hit.
It was over abruptly, the din dying away to a few last shots. Then suddenly, there was an explosion of pain as he could never have imagined. He lay where he had fallen on the deck, his vision clouded in red. He could feel his life’s blood running out between his fingers, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. For a moment, he wished he were home in Portsmouth, with his wife to cook him a solid breakfast in the morning.
~~~
He died in the morning, and they buried him at noon, with the others that had been shot or killed by the flying splinters that had filled the air. They sewed him up in the hammock that had been his for the weeks he had spent there, a ball of cannon shot at his feet. And when he slipped out from under the Union Jack and splashed into the water, the ship’s company breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been them.
Author's Note -- This isn't all authentic. I don't really know how pressed men were treated when they first made it onto the ship, but this is following as much as I know as closely as I can. Set during the Napoleonic Wars.
Without further ado, I present *trumpets*
[glow=red,2,300]H.M.S. Lively[/glow]
He had known that staying out late at the tavern could be dangerous. After all, H.M.S. Lively had just come in, in need of fresh men to work its decks. He had known that to stay out late tonight was to risk being stopped by the press gangs, taken and shipped off to fight in the war. A poor man, he had known that he wouldn’t be able to bribe the officers into letting him stay onshore.
And so he lay between decks, doing his best to stay in the cramped hammock they had assigned him. His head still ached where they had struck him when he had refused to come. All around him, pressed men lay trying their best to keep their heaving stomachs under control.
Through his seasickness, he wondered if anyone would tell his wife what had become of him, or if she would be left to wonder if he had left her.
~~~
He was barely able to walk when they were called up on deck later that day. The newly pressed “sailors” stood huddled on the deck, faces tinged green, as they waited to be divided into watches. He worried that he would be sent up into the shrouds, that he would lose his footing among the ratlines, and fall from that great height, down onto the deck.
His watch was assigned to the guns during battle. Veteran sailors came forward to teach the new men what commands meant, how to sail the ship, and safely climb the ratlines. After that, they were on their own.
~~~
They were put through paces, practicing shooting of broadsides, again and again, until he felt that his ears would never stop rnging from the sound of the blasts. He left the lower deck for the mess, smelling of hot metal and gunpowder, his hands singed from the heat of the gun.
He looked ruefully down at his supper, wishing once more that he were at home, where the food was good and warm. Already, the ship’s biscuit was full of weevils, and even though the man beside him showed him how to tap it so that the maggots came out, he felt that he wouldn’t be able to live off of this.
Already, men were half drunk from the beer portioned out to drink. A fight was being picked in the corner behind him, and a loud man not far away was being reprimanded by a midshipman half his size.
Looking around at the seeming chaos about him, he wondered how the British Navy could possibly be such a dangerous opponent. It seemed unlikely that boys like that midshipman could keep order in such a hell as this.
~~~
Slowly, he learned how to keep his fumbling fingers holding onto the ratlines, what he was supposed to do when they furled and unfurled the sails, how to wear ship, and how to stay in his hammock on a stormy night. Soon, the motions of loading a cannon were so familiar that he felt he could do them in his sleep. And the weeks passed, out of sight of land or sail.
Sometimes, he would wonder what had become of his wife; if she had been able to continue paying their rent, if she had given him up for dead. But the thoughts came fewer and farther between as he fell into the ship’s life.
~~~
He was asleep when the French ship was spotted. It was the beat to quarters that roused him, sending him stumbling to his position beside the cannon. The midshipman was already there, looking pale and worried, no doubt realizing that very soon he could be a corpse, his brains and gore splashed over the men crouched beside him.
Up above them, there was the shrilling of the pipes, and the pounding of feet as the ships sailed closer. The midshipman ordered the cannons rolled out, his voice cracking under the strain.
The first rumble of cannon fire came from the other ship, still well out of range. One of the men shook his head.
“Waste of powder, that was,” he mumbled.
~~~
When the order came to fire, he was waiting, ready to plunge the rod and sponge back down into the cannon’s muzzle, then reload the great gun. All around him, there were sudden crashes as cannonballs came crashing through the walls that enclosed and trapped them. There were screams from all around him, and above it all, the voice of the midshipman, shouting for them to fire again.
Once again there was the thunder of the guns, all about him, and once more, French cannnballs raked the lower deck. It seemed as if it would never end, the shooting, sponging, and praying that he wouldn’t be hit.
It was over abruptly, the din dying away to a few last shots. Then suddenly, there was an explosion of pain as he could never have imagined. He lay where he had fallen on the deck, his vision clouded in red. He could feel his life’s blood running out between his fingers, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. For a moment, he wished he were home in Portsmouth, with his wife to cook him a solid breakfast in the morning.
~~~
He died in the morning, and they buried him at noon, with the others that had been shot or killed by the flying splinters that had filled the air. They sewed him up in the hammock that had been his for the weeks he had spent there, a ball of cannon shot at his feet. And when he slipped out from under the Union Jack and splashed into the water, the ship’s company breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been them.
