The Gull’s Corvette

thethemeis: An Impulse

theauthoris: Luke Stephenson

One

   This is a story about a hat. Quite the elaborate hat - to be sure - but a hat all the same. It wasn’t my hat. It is true to say I had much in common with the man who owned the hat; we were both sailors, we were both men, we were both loyal to our Captain and our King. But ownership of a very fine navy hat was not an attribute we embraced in concert. That may not seem like a particularly pertinent distinction at this stage, but we’ll get to it. I assure you, the entire story hinges largely upon the nature of the man to whom this hat belonged.

Two

   I’m uncertain how the hat began its life, although given the fineness of the hat I imagine it was crafted with care. Not with love, mind you - there is something distinctively, intangibly hollow about an Officer’s hat. It is tailored not to be worn, but displayed; an expression not of fashion and preference, but of power. Certainly one could never call the garment pretty, but it was still an impressive work of craftsmanship. The embroidery – especially along the brim – was elaborate yet neat; the yellow thread standing out against the darker cloth.

Three

   My first acquaintance with the hat coincided – albeit causally – with my first day as an Able Seaman aboard the HMS Berwick. Captain Westley welcomed us, an intake of near twenty freshly reassigned sailors, aboard as the deckhands scuttled about. There was little time before Berwick cast off, and there were supplies to be stowed, rigging to check and men to be directed. The Captain had his hat tucked under his arm as he spoke to us, a simple informality that put us at ease. Unfortunately there was no such warmth from the straight-backed Lieutenant scowling at us from beside the mainmast. His very fine hat cast his face into shadow against the heat of the late-morning sun. He reached to the brim to straighten it as he met my eyes – and his scowl deepened.

Four

   I had volunteered on a whim, and here I was – on one of the newest ships in the fleet. Below decks life was similar to the sloops I had served on previously; Berwick may have been a frigate half as large again as Westminster, but it was not the way of the Royal Navy to build ships with personal comforts in mind - certainly not when that space could be filled with another man, gun or crate of hard bread. So the slings were packed tightly, the quarters smelled of sweat and sometimes vomit – just the way I like. After a hard day’s labour on the waves, familiarity was a man’s comfort. Stable land, fresh air, clean blankets – these were what kept a sailor away from his dreams.

Five

   Never on a boat have I encountered a man so singularly obsessed towards rank and status as Lieutenant Runnings. An officer of the Royal Navy is expected to wear his finery on occasions of ceremony, but as we are hard at work - rolling over the waves and weathering the waves rolling over us – such pomp is abandoned. Not so for Mister Runnings. If nothing else I admire how steadfast and resolute he remained against all reason. It was with intense reluctance that the distinctive Officer’s bicorn left his brow.

Six

   The hat itself regarded me with cold indifference. As an experienced sailor I oft found myself working abaft the helm, nearby the Quarterdeck. Mister Runnings had taken the occasion to glare at me as I worked. I do not believe the man harboured any personal resentment against me (at least, not yet), rather it was a general disdain for all men of my rank. Menial workers, feeding off their master’s table scraps; a far cry from the ambition driven gentlemen the Lieutenant respected. As he glared, I would sometimes take a moment to show my obeisance by saluting. I did it more often than was required. Mister Runnings’ expression seldom changed, but the hat was unimpressed by my attitude. It just had that air about it.

Seven

   All the officers’ hats were clean; far more so than they were upon Berwick’s arrival in Portsmouth a week prior. We all had had a little time ashore to visit our families as the Boatswains saw to the ship’s refit and resupply, and upon our return there was a surprise in store as the Captain led the applause for the appointment of a new Midshipman – who was now the proud owner of his very own fine officer’s hat. The appointment of a Midshipman was not in itself a cause for much celebration; there are many such officer candidates aboard a large frigate like Berwick, mostly twelve year old lords whose father’s wanted them to have a command one day. This particular appointment, however, was of note because the Midshipman in question was none other than our Leading Seaman – Mister Harrow. He had been a sailor for nearly twenty years, and now he was an officer. I applauded with the others. Lieutenant Runnings smiled warmly and tipped his very fine hat as Midshipman Harrow shook his hand. It must be said that I give that man too little credit – the respect he showed towards a sailor who had scrubbed decks for two decades before fashioning himself into an officer was laudable.

Eight

   The hat was very nearly a casualty of war. Mister Runnings didn’t board the enemy ship with his bicorn on; he left it below – as all the officers did – rather than draw enemy attention to any particular targets. Keeping your nice hat in your Mess and Berthing also has the happy advantage of protecting it from musket-fire, but much to the Lieutenant’s dismay there is little to be done when a cannon ball or twelve comes crashing through your vessel’s hull. The battle was not my first aboard the Berwick, but it was my first against another craft in our class. Chalice was a French privateer with twenty four guns; four less than us, but she was fast, agile and had a similar crew count. My time was divided between fighting to keep our sails taut and hugging the deck as artillery fire splintered my home around me. After a few broadside exchanges our gun crews managed to cripple the Chalice’s rudder, and we moved alongside to board. One of the Acting Lieutenants handed me a blade, but I never had the opportunity to cross to the French ship and attempt to take her a Prize; both ships kept exchanging cannon fire even as we threw our ropes across, and in the end they took too much water and began to sink.

Nine

   I could tell the Lieutenant was in a bad mood. It was the way he kept fiddling with his hat; smoothing out the creases, tugging on it, poking at the seams of the numerous patches he had felt compelled to sew on after he had removed the giant oak splinter that had impaled his precious garment. At least none of the cannonballs had squished it. The other clue as to his less than agreeable demeanour was all the shouting. Also: the overwork. In fact he was working us twice as hard as usual. It was a particularly hot afternoon, and I was sat on a small wooden seat that had been lowered over the side of the hull. I had, in a moment of cunning, tied a spare plank to the deck railing which provided a little shade as I hung underneath, happily and efficiently patching up one of the worse holes penetrating our gun deck. Suddenly there was brightness and heat, soon followed by a splash. Looking up, I saw my shade plank gone – a smiling, smug, bitter, patchwork Lieutenant in its place. I saluted pointedly.

Ten

   It was just one moment, but it felt like an hour. We faced each other in mutual resentment – eyes narrow and brim curled. In the heat, most of the crew had abandoned their shirts, and even the officers did not have the constitution to bear their coats and hats. In a rare moment of complacency, Lieutenant Runnings had left his precious bicorn on the deck railing briefly as he left to speak with Captain Westley, who had called him over to the Quarterdeck. The weather deck was quieter than was typical – the crew that remained were trying not to use too much energy under the midday sun, but many had disembarked to trade with the locals, so were rowing towards the beach a short distance from our anchorage. That left me and the hat, staring each other down. It was daring me to make a move. The Lieutenant was on his way back when the impulse overwhelmed me, and he froze in rage as I knocked that very fine hat off the side of the ship.

Eleven

   A seagull flew down and perched on the Lieutenant’s pride and joy as if the hat were his very own ship. It was a light craft, bobbing over the small waves and picking up speed as the current dragged it out to open sea; a tiny Corvette crewed by a worthy mariner determined to make the most of his first command. Runnings watched Captain Gull float away for a short time, his face still frozen in shock. It was a brief moment of petty triumph for my part, but unfortunately it was not to last long. Captain Westley was the first to shout for the Master-at-Arms, and the Lieutenant recovered his meagre wits soon enough to strike me hard before I was put in irons. And once afterwards for good measure.

Twelve

   Despite the relentless heat, the Captain looked very fine in his best uniform. His waistcoat was clean, his overcoat creaseless, buttons polished and fastened. He was a Post-Captain, so he wore an epaulette on each shoulder, although they looked surprisingly dull in conjunction with his coat buttons which gleamed as they caught the sun. His hat was especially neat. Like a Lieutenant’s hat, a Captain’s hat was bicorn, but unlike a Lieutenant’s hat it was worn sideways and had a golden rosette adorning it for decoration. Also - unlike a Lieutenant’s hat - it was not currently touring the West Atlantic with an intrepid gull as its helmsman. The Master-at-Arms removed my irons and I took note of the straight-backed Lieutenant Runnings as he stood next to the Captain on the Quarterdeck. He was scowling at me. It was hard to say if it was due to contempt or the lack of a very fine hat to cast his face into shadow. I presumed both as he put his hand up to shield his view from the sun’s glare. He met my eyes – and his scowl deepened. I was turned and my hands bound to the rack on the weather deck. The crew were silent; for a few moments the only sounds were that of rope being bound and waves sloshing against our hull. Finally the Captain read my name and charges aloud. I was surprised how many there were given that I had only transgressed a single time, although most had the word ‘insubordination’ in there somewhere. The formality ended as my sentence was read. It would be brutal, and I had earned the ire of a commissioned officer for a lifetime, but I hoped as I braced myself for the Captain’s words that my story of the Gull’s Corvette would keep the seamen’s spirits up during the colder, hungrier nights.

   “...hereby sentenced to flogging,” the Captain said. “Twelve lashes. Begin.”