III. Georgie Porgie
Summer, 1596
On a gloomy London morning, I breathed in the cooling air from the River Thames. I had been dreaming of this moment for years, and now, I finally had the opportunity to sail with the famed Captain Christopher Newport: the sea dog known for plundering Spanish and Portuguese fleets for their riches from the Mediterranean to the Caribbean.
"Your name, age and residence?" Asked a dark blond-haired male, about two decades older, at the sign-in sheet.
"John Smith, age sixteen, of Willoughby, Lincolnshire, Sir."
"I'm afraid you're not on the list, I can't—"
"Let 'im aboard, Martin," another man's voice called out. "It can't 'urt to 'ave ano'er set o' arms on this crew." It belonged to a tall, somewhat muscular, black-bearded male, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with one hook for a hand.
"Very well—climb aboard." John Martin was the Second Mate. He was a watch stander, (or someone who supervised the deck crew during certain shifts), and was the chief navigator.
"Captain Christopher Newport of the one hand," I whispered. Newport was, of course, the Captain, having complete control during battle.
I climbed aboard with my few belongings: the few clothes that fit me, leftover bread, a skin filled with water, in addition to a sword, helmet, and musket which once belonged to this man.
The Neptune left the dock moments later. Out on the River Thames to the English Channel we went.
There was an unusual bunch of men already on deck. Some lanky or pudgy, as well as some burly. While some were average or decent in appearance, many more were homely. Most were much older than I was. One group was carousing with their tankards full of ale. Some men were chewing a tarred, leafy, substance that stained their teeth, and spat in all directions; Others were smoking from pipes. Quite a few hadn't seemed to bathe in weeks, as the dirt on their hands and clothes suggested; The stench similar to vomit and manure was also apparent. These men were surly and unruly characters, grunting out curses as if it were regular speech; far different from my strong Catholic upbringing. I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into, as this shocked me at first. Admittedly, I secretly appreciated how carefree they were, with no rules of etiquette but their own.
"Are you Smith?" A light brown-haired man about five years older than me, interrupted my thoughts.
"Yes, Sir."
"Archer," he informed me. Gabriel Archer was the Boatswain. He supervised the crew and ship maintenance, occasionally standing watch. "I've been asked by Newport to show you around." I had the impression he did this out of obligation and thought it was a waste of his time.
This rather well-dressed young man gave me a quick once-over. For the first time, I was embarrassed by my faded tunic and well-worn breeches, compared to his well-tailored clothing, of good quality material.
After I found my place below deck, a black-haired fellow about my age, with a large nose and leaner build, kept eying me closely, which rather annoyed me. I turned to his direction. "Can I help you?"
"Are you from Willoughby?"
"I am. And you are...?"
"George Percy. Son of the late Earl Henry VIII, and brother of the present Earl Henry IX of Northumberland," he replied matter-of-factly. "My late noble father was amicable with Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughby. His son, Robert, whom you may have known, is actually a good friend of mine, who's told me a great deal about you."
The name "Percy" stood out to me, for some reason. It was then I recalled that family had a longstanding noble background. Apparently he was familiar with my late father's landlord, and son. While we played together as children, his father separated us as we grew older, feeling "blue bloods" should not be in the same company as "peasants." Now that he mentioned him, I wondered about his whereabouts... ? Nevertheless, since that time, I haven't been fond of blue bloods. He, decidedly, would be no exception.
"A farmer's boy are you?"
"And what if I am?" As much as I desired to leave such a lifestyle, I wouldn't deny my humble roots.
"I simply question why someone would leave the simple country life for the dangers of the sea? I'm certain you'd hate to get a few scrapes and bruises on that pretty face of yours."
"I would also question why a nobleman would concern himself with the interests of commoners; leaving said lifestyle for such 'dangers' himself?"
"This from a former mercenary that was kicked out of the French Army as a 'poor excuse for a soldier.'" I wondered how he knew this as he laughed in my face.
"So says the son of the late Earl of Northumberland, who was known to have a less than honorable reputation, with his repeated imprisonments to the Tower. Perhaps you should put your profound, meddling, conk to better use rather than judge others."
He angrily pressed me against a wall. "You knew nothing of my late father, you arse!"
"And you know nothing of my life. Out of my way, 'Georgie Porgie!'" I shoved my way past him, not wanting to escalate the situation more than need be.
"Certainly, 'Goldilocks.'" Some of the other men whistled at this response.
I turned back to knock him, but Archer held me back.
"No fighting aboard!" He warned. "The last thing I need is... . D— it! Too late." He muttered. A tall, long black-haired, burly man was coming down the ladder. "Here comes Sicklemore."
"Trouble below deck?" John Sicklemore was the First Mate. He stood watch, was in charge of cargo, and took over Captain's duties when not available.
"No trouble Sir—'twas merely a misunderstanding." Archer explained. He looked embarrassed and annoyed at the same time.
"You ought to be doing a better job at keeping the lads in line, Archer."
"Certainly, Sir."
He glanced at Percy, then later at me. "If I were you, I'd be looking to make a better impression, especially considering your reputation with the French Army. Tales from other sailors travel rather quickly with the tide, you see." I became gravely pale. He stared me down with his beady eyes. "I'll be keeping a close eye on you, Smith." Sicklemore motioned such and walked up the ladder.
Archer turned back to us. "If you don't wish to be idle, Smith, you can start by swabbing the deck."
I was a bit irritated that Percy wasn't even scolded, but nevertheless I started swabbing.
I hadn't seen much of Newport since my arrival. He was over by a barrel, carousing with Martin, and others over by a table. I stopped scrubbing for a moment to watch.
"Paint a picture, swabbie—'twould last far long'r."
I recollected myself to find Newport and a group of men bursting into laughter. They appeared to be having a belching contest of sorts, seeing who was the loudest. One let out a rather loud noise, unlike a belch, causing the crew to fan themselves in disgust. On a farm, I was accustomed to the smell of manure, but this was worse. I pinched my nose from the smell, losing interest in their festivities, and went back to scrubbing. If he remembered me, he didn't act like it.
While I resumed scrubbing, Percy, had decided to walk past me and spit an area I just cleaned. "You missed a spot. Perhaps you can mop it clean with that angel hair of yours."
"You watch your step," I warned, as he walked past, smirking. I moved the mop underneath him causing him to trip and fall. Laughter was heard elsewhere on deck. As he got up, he gave me the finger. I smirked right back at him. "I tried to warn you."
"Perhaps Percy, would also wish to share swabbing duties?" I turned around to see a tall, dark-haired, distinguished man, of medium build, perhaps in his mid-twenties. Percy muttered something about not doing this at home, before finding another swab and bucket. The man turned to me. "Are you John Smith?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Bart Gosnold. Welcome aboard." He shook my hand. Bartholomew Gosnold was the Quartermaster. He was the overseer of the Boatswain, supplied equipment, rationed the riches, disciplined, and worked alongside the Captain. Men would go to him, except during battle, when the Captain was in charge. "I must warn you both. Quarrelsome behavior will not be tolerated here—not by me nor anyone else. Make haste, men. Supper is being served." He whispered, "I can assure you—it certainly doesn't taste any better when cold."
I took my hard tackle and gruel and filled a tankard with ale. I hadn't had an ale since my sixteenth birthday, as the drink brought back the memories of that day...but there were few options save the seawater, which wouldn't be any better.
I didn't feel comfortable sitting with Archer or the other men at his table—especially since Percy was joining him. I could see based on their attire they all appeared to be "gentleman," or from some highly esteemed noble background. Some of the men who weren't of gentry, at the other tables, were either much older than me, weren't welcoming, or weren't otherwise what I considered "good company." I decidedly sat down by myself. No worries. I was used to holding my own by now.
A man of a tall, medium build, with long, dark hair, roughly ten years older than I, uncorked a barrel, while everyone including him, filled their tankards. "Good thing the ol' windbag is fast asleep." He drank and slipped into a chair beside Archer. "He'd kill me if he knew I was drinking with you all instead of charting the course."
"Come now, Kendall," spoke up Archer. "That's no manner in which to speak of Sicklemore, even if he's not present."
"Oh, humor me for a bit, Arch. That bugger has more control over you than you do your own bloody self!" George Kendall was the Third Mate. He was another watch stander, and was the safety officer. He pushed back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, and placed his feet on the table. I smiled slightly, seeing how at ease he was, wishing I could be the same. He saw me staring and turned to me. "And what do you want?"
"Nothing, Sir." I replied sheepishly—"I merely lost my train of thought." I vaguely heard and saw Archer whispering something that sounded like my name, and something else, which made him laugh.
"Anyone for Twenty-One?" Kendall whispered, now pulling out a deck of cards.
"Look who's coming!" Archer whispered.
The expression on Kendall's face said it all. "S—!" He quickly put them away.
Even I looked over in that direction. Who could they be referring to... ?