Free His Majesty's Ship by Alaric Bond Page B

should he be unlucky and caught, there was little he could hope for; the Navy had a way of treating deserters, one that served not only to punish the crime, but to dissuade any who might be harbouring similar ideas. But then the world had a habit of getting even; his thoughts came back to mock him as he swam on, teeth set in grim determination.  
     
    *****
     
           Flint was aware that something was wrong when Simpson failed to return. They finished their portion of the quarterdeck, just as “up hammocks” was piped, and he engineered a place next to Jenkins on his way back to the lower gundeck.
           “Simpson's not back from cook's duty.”
           Jenkins hardly moved his head, but Flint knew he had heard.
           “Don't think he might be back at 'is old tricks, do yer?” he continued.
           This time he got a faint grimace and a nod of the head in reply. Flint was not surprised, in fact of all in his mess, Simpson would have been the first he would have picked as a likely runner.
           “Better lash up his hammock, for ‘im, eh?”
           That triggered a definite reaction; Jenkins was not the kind who took to doing other men's chores.
           “Lash 'is 'ammock?” he looked at Flint as if he had just suggested something immoral. “You wants me to lash 'is 'ammock?”
           “It’s up to you; you're his mate.”
           Jenkins mused; clearly the bonds of friendship had strict limitations.
           “Otherwise he'll be missed,” Flint continued. “You want that?”
           “Daft booby shod've run after'ds,” Jenkins muttered, but Flint knew he could be relied on for that much at least.  
     
    *****
     
           Breakfast was burgoo, a dish based on oatmeal, served out of a pewter tub by O'Conner, who had been detailed by Flint as the new mess cook. Matthew took his wooden bowl and held it up. As boy of the mess he had the last of everything, although the burgoo was served in generous measure and there was more than enough to fill his bowl. The other men were eating, some using wooden spoons, others their hands, a couple adding vinegar or salt to the mash after tasting. Matthew cautiously dipped a finger into the stuff and was pleasantly surprised. It was porridge, different to any he had tasted before, but the oatmeal had a certain flavour; sour, but not hopelessly so. He scooped out a handful and another after that. It wasn't what he would have chosen to eat, but at his age he wasn't fussy.
           “Taste's all right wit' molasses,” O'Conner, the friendly Irishman, informed him. “Otherwise a drop o'rum spices up nice.” Matthew smiled; he would have liked to make small talk, but had learned that his stammer could turn light conversation into an ordeal for both parties.
           “You're one man short, Flint!” The men continued to eat, but there was a noticeable wariness about the table, and all conversation ceased.
           “What's that yer sayin', sir?” Flint looked up at Lieutenant Gregory as if he had been simply passing the time of day.
           “You're one man short,” Gregory persisted, looking down at his watch bill for confirmation.
           “Two men joined us yesterday, sir.” Flint did not normally like to play the fool, but a man's life was worth the indignity.
           “I'm accounting for that, an' there's still one man short,” Gregory cleared his throat. “Where's your divisional midshipman?”
           “Mr Pite? He's not been to us yet, sir.”
           “I see, well, I'd better check.” The divisional inspection was not for a good half hour; Simpson was unlucky that his absence had been noted that much earlier. “Answer your names as I call, Flint I know, O'Conner?”
           “Sir!”
           “Simpson?” The silence was emphasised by men at the other tables who, guessing that something was up, had stopped eating