Nice having a level, steady deck underfoot isn't it? Know where you are. Mind you, not that it bothered me. I've been a seafarer all my life. Started out as a lad on one of the last ever square rigs. I worked my way up to boatswain on it. Just like my great-grandad. My ship carried cargo. His carried guns. His was a frigate you see, just like this one. So what with my experience before the mast, and my great-grandad's to hand so to speak, when I look around at a ship like this, I
can almost see what it was like on board, especially if I imagine the weather
getting a bit rough. Whether it's a warship or a clipper, what's really in charge is the weather and the waves. Obey their rules and you'll be all
right, disobey them and you'll be sent to the
bottom. Rules number one and rules number two and three is discipline. Discipline, discipline. Now that was true on my ship. Brutally true on a navy frigate with 300 crew. Just imagine. 300 men on board the Unicorn in a howling gale. 300 crew. Many of them felons, drunkards, ne'er-do-wells, press-ganged into the service. The only thing between survival and oblivion for the ship would have been discipline, or fear of punishment, like 50 lashes from the cat o' nine tails. Discipline begins and ends with the captain. A lonely task being a captain. With orders from the Admiralty in London, he is personally charged with defending Britain's strategic interest at sea, and
he does it from up here, in this little patch of deck. No one else is allowed up here, not even his officers without his express permission. He always chooses the patch of deck which is on the highest side. That's the side tilted up, as the wind tries to push the ship over. So the stronger the wind, the higher the deck. That way he can be sure he sees everything: masts, sails, officers, seamen, sea, weather, the enemy. And no small matter this, the men can see him. Behind him on the deck is the ship's wheel. Actually it's two wheels because, as the weather worsens, it's going to take at least four men to keep the ship under control. The slightest loss of control could mean the ship taking a wave full on, and going under. As the weather worsens, the captain will give the orders to take in sail. The men out in the deck, immediately below and forward of the quarterdeck, know that getting the job done fast and effectively, might be all that stands between them and the ship going down. So they run like lightning, and they're straight up the rigging like monkeys. I've done it myself. The ship's heeling over, the waves are
lifting and dropping the ship like a toy. The winds howling. The boatswain's whistle screaming. The sea passing through the gunwales. On and up you go. Main sail yard, 40 feet above the deck. Top sail yard, 80 feet up. Top gallant yard, 100 feet up, and don't look down. All you'll see is the billowing waves. And like a giant upended pendulum, the mast is swinging you and your mates out over the sea. As the hull plunges and corkscrews through the mountains and valleys of angry water, meanwhile all you've got between you and the deep is a thread of rope for your bare feet, and a yard arm for your frozen hands. As you clutch and haul at the sails, billowing and tugging beneath you like wild animals. Meanwhile down on the gun deck, the cooks of the day have given up trying to cobble something warm together for the
mess. Something, because the word food for navy fare is just a little too loose. The galley here is the only place in a frigate where a fire's allowed. But how do you cook on a stove that's constantly heaving about and trying to fling pots across the deck? Well, you have to give up, and fall back on the old trusty maggoty bread dipped in rum. Anyway, who wants to be down in the gun deck? Especially when the weather is getting so bad. This can be a dangerous place. It's not unknown for one of these mighty cast-iron guns to break loose, and come slithering across the deck towards you. There's only one man with a permanent and lonely home on the gun deck, and you've guessed it right first time - the captain. This is his cabin, which he shares with a clutch of 18-pounder guns and God help him. No matter how much he trusts his lieutenants , the safety of the ship is up to him, so he'll stick it out on the quarterdeck until he's ready to drop. Of course the gun deck is exactly that. No more, no less. A deck for guns. Basically the whole thing's like one
enormous gun turret. Humans only put in an appearance here when it's time to do battle. Mess times, what you would call meal times, are one of the few opportunities to relax. But with 30-foot waves, that makes it virtually impossible. Rough weather also badly effects some of the most important routines of a well-run navy ship, like cleaning, gun practice or morning punishment. And for most of the men, a ship corkscrewing all over the place can bring a welcome break from these chores, and a chance to escape the cat o' nine tails. It's different for officers and warrant officers like boatswain's, who have a cabin and wardroom of their own, for eating and relaxing in. Looks quite civilised doesn't it? Well don't forget, this is where the wounded will be laid out during the battle. That's why the floor's painted red. What you have to remember too, the mess deck can get crowded out with many different types of people. Like I said, half of them are petty thieves or miscreants of some kind. So we want officers and officers are separated, not only by bulkheads or partitions but by a contingent of fifty Royal Marines, all trained to kill at the drop of a hat. So you can see why the lower deck can be what you might call a lively sort of a place, especially when everybody wants to be down there, out of the foul weather. 200 or so seamen, 50 Royal Marines, 20 officers and warrant officers, all hugger-mugger and putting up with each other, and the discomfort of a corkscrewing deck. And what for? Well, what's a navy frigate for? Simple. Whether she's sticking with the fleet or sailing on a lone mission, the frigate's favourite way of doing business, to ferret out the enemy and send them to the bottom. Of course you never know when the enemy's ensign going to come drifting innocently over the horizon. The sea's a big place. There's no such thing as radio, or radar, or reconnaissance helicopters. A lone square-rigged frigate on the high seas is just that - alone and out of contact. But finally a distant ship is identified by the lookout as foe. The sea's just a little less wild and the signal goes out to prepare for battle. Each man knows exactly what his tasks are. Scatter sand across the gun deck for better grip underfoot. Prepare the guns. Wet the sails on the deck to slow the spread of fire. That's if the foul weather hasn't done that already. Lower the boats astern. Fit extra rigging. Take down the bulkheads. Yes clear the lot. Even the captain's cabin has to go. On a tightly run ship preparing for battle, these and thousands of other jobs have to be done in minutes. So one minute she's a well ordered home from home for 300 men, the next she's a fury, bristling with fire power and spoiling for a
fight. And even when the weather's not ideal for a fight, a frigate's ready more often than not. Unlike a ship-of-the-line, her guns are high enough above the sea to fire even when she's rolling. Each gun is attended by 9 men, so even with half the guns at the ready, they'll be well over 100 men in here, all stripped to the waist, barefoot, a bright coloured handkerchief tied round the head to help shut out the sharp explosions. As the guns go off in here, in this confined space, must have been almost impossible for the men to breathe or see or even hear orders with all the noise and the smoke. And that's when everything's going their way. When an enemy cannonball smashes its way through the hull, it sends out lethal oak splinters, the size of a fist or an arm, flying about in all directions. It may not be nice to be hit by a cannonball, but at least you're dead. Not so the oak splinters. As my grandad always said, you never forgot the screams of men cut open by splinters. Sometimes the screams were worse than the spurting blood. But the engagement has to continue. There can only be one winner. Salvo after salvo of cannon fire, from both sides, boom and echo across the sea as the ships make their lethal passes at each other. Sometimes the moment comes to board the enemy, to finish the crew off with a sword and take the ship captive. Booty of war that can benefit the whole
crew. Sometimes one or both ships on fire. The sails shot to tatters. Spars snapped like matchsticks. The hull holed below the waterline. Death by drowning, burning, decapitation,
splinters. Take your pick. So my hearties, the honour's yours.
