Free His Majesty's Ship by Alaric Bond Page A

ports had been opened; odd because it was not a Saturday, and the deck had only been vented the day before. The quickening of his heart gave him the idea before he had even thought of it himself, and after stowing the day's dry provisions in the pewter containers, he stepped back and looked furtively along the deck.
           A minimal number of men were about and the only officer, a midshipman, seemed more interested in berating two hands who appeared to have spilt something on the deck outside the wardroom. They were to the stern, whereas Simpson's mess was amidships. Silently he stole towards the bows, trying not to attract attention or look behind him as he went.
           Luck was with him, he passed the manger, where the only hand was the simpleton who tended the animals. The forward ports were cut deep so that their angle of fire almost covered the bows and were ideal. They also sat in the lee of the manger, so that he was all but hidden from the causal glance. It was slack water, the first of the flood not being due for ten minutes. He would be passing directly under the heads which were currently in use, but that consideration meant little to Simpson. He began to breathe deeply, both from excitement, and in preparation for what was to come. He peered through the port, pulling his red pigtail tight against his head. The bulwarks were thick and the port ledges deep enough for a man to kneel on. Looking up and back he could see the forechannel where the marine sentry would be on duty. The channel jutted out by well over a foot, and he guessed that he would be shielded. But it was only a guess, a chance he would take, one of many, but worth it, if he wanted to end the dreadful monotony.
           Silently he eased himself out of the port, until he was facing the side of the ship, his forearms out straight and his hands gripping the inside edge. His feet were touching the water; once he straightened his arms most of his legs would be under. A distant report of a gun echoed about the anchorage making him start with fright, and almost sending him into the water. From above the drumming stopped, and he heard the whistle of the boatswain's pipes as Vigilant raised her colours. He smiled to himself as the tension left him. It was as good a time as any; Simpson relaxed his arms, feeling the crisp seas creep up his legs. His hands released their grip and he allowed himself to slip into the water.
           This was the hardest part; a sentry on any one of the other ships at anchor might have spotted him climbing from the port. He had to gather his breath as quickly as possible; the hunt could be raised against him at any time. The water was cold and heavily tainted, as he had expected. Two breaths, three, and hold: without a ripple he pressed himself under, diving down and seeking safety in the depths.
           He opened his eyes, and immediately saw the single anchor cable that stretched down to the sea bed. It made an excellent guide and he swam on, hoping that he was far enough under to be invisible to the watching marine guard. On, and past the cable, now it was more difficult. He had to surface within the next few seconds, or his lungs would burst. With luck he would be under the shadow of the bowsprit, if not he could expect to be fired upon.
           On his way up to the surface he expelled what was left in his lungs, so that when he finally broke into clean air he just gasped a breath, before descending once more. He carried on, not knowing what had been noticed above, only conscious of the need to put as much distance between him and the ship as he could. In an anchorage like Spithead he would have to continue this porpoise-like progress until he could be sure of swimming without detection. It only needed one man, one bright sentry on his, or another ship and the alarm would be raised. Men from every available vessel would be drafted into finding and bringing him back. And should it happen,