Page 21 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
T he sailor’s name was Eli Dawson, and Hero interviewed him that afternoon near the Grand Surrey Docks in Rotherhithe.
He was a tall man with sun-bronzed, weathered features and thick dark hair he still wore in a seafaring man’s pigtails. But his tattered blue jacket and long trousers hung on his frame in a way that suggested he’d recently lost considerable weight, and he was missing most of his left arm.
“They impressed me off a merchant ship,” he told Hero, his face expressionless as he stared out over the forest of masts beside them. “Back in 1805, it was. I’ll never be able t’ understand how ole John Bull can pride himself on being a ‘free man’ when any one of us can be kidnapped and forced to serve in the bloody Navy whether we want to or not. If I’d wanted to join the bloody Navy, I’d ’ave joined the bloody Navy—beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, fer the language. But nobody in his right mind joins the bloody Navy. They feed ye rotten food, if ye look at an officer sideways they peel the hide off yer back with a cat-o’-nine-tails, and even if ye want to, ye can’t quit. If ye ask me, a naval ship’s a floating prison, that’s what it is. Prison, with the chance of drowning.”
“Do you receive a pension?”
He huffed a laugh. “Me? No, ma’am. Ye’d be hard-pressed t’ find a sailor who does. They say we don’t need one—that, unlike soldiers, we have what they like t’ call ‘marketable skills.’ Me, I say, Where’s this danged market? Half the Navy’s ships are in ordinary—if not more—and a goodly chunk of the ones that are left are set to be broken up. Built in too much of a hurry, ye know, with green wood, so they’re falling apart. The East India Company’s sending a bunch of their ships to the breakers, too, on account of what Parliament’s done. And trade’s down just about everywhere, what with all the pirates drivin’ insurance rates up so high.”
Hero looked up from scribbling her notes. “Have the pirates truly become so bad?”
“Oh, aye. A bunch of ’em used to be privateers, so they’re just doin’ what they was doin’ before, only it ain’t legal no more so they’re sailin’ under a black flag and goin’ after any ship they can get. But there’s discharged sailors with ’em, too. They can’t find work on ships or in port, so they take their ‘marketable skills’ and use ’em the only way they can.”
“I’ve heard some British sailors are joining various South American navies.”
“Aye, I know more ’n a few who’ve done that. There’s all sorts of recruiters around here, signing up lads and hiring ships to transport ’em down there. That wouldn’t be for me, though—even if I still had both me arms. I’ve seen all the fighting and godforsaken parts of the world I care to, thank ye very much.”
“Why weren’t you awarded a pension?” Hero asked quietly. Men who’d been left badly maimed were typically given something, even if it was only a pittance.
“I was listed as a runner in the muster books of one of me ships. I tried t’ tell the board I only left t’ go t’ me da’s funeral and that I’d come back right away. But I’d left without permission—that captain was a real prick, if ye’ll pardon me language, ma’am. Anyway, it was enough to queer things for me with the board. One of me messmates got turned down the same day, and you know why? Because he’s American! They impressed him off an American ship, and all he wanted was enough money to get back to Boston. But they wouldn’t give him even that.”
“Do you find you miss the service in any way?”
“Miss it? Nah. I miss the sea and me messmates. But the Navy?” He turned his head and spat. “Never. And I sure as hell don’t miss the war. I remember when we was gettin’ ready t’ come back from America, after they signed that peace treaty, the officers was all glum because they reckoned that with the wars over they was all goin’ home to be put on half pay and would probably never get another ship. Then we found out Boney’d come back, and ye should’ve heard those officers. They was all whoopin’ and cheerin’ like they’d just won the lottery or somethin’. Officers like war, ye see. For them it means full pay, promotions, prizes, and honors. But for men like me, all it means is another chance to die.” He lifted the stump of his left arm. “Or maybe lose an arm or a leg or somethin’ else a man really don’t want t’ lose. We just wanted to go home.”
“Where is home?” asked Hero.
“Penzance.”
“Have you thought about going back there?”
He was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he watched a wherryman ship his oars. “I reckon I’ve thought about it; I won’t deny that. But…what would I do there?”
What are you going to do here? thought Hero. But somehow she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask.