She sailed her last in forty-two, troop transport, the
Caulked and doubled in elm and deal, the whole boiling seemed quite sound
Surgeon Kelsall doubts the crew: lazy-backed master, chief mate new
She sailed in June from London Town
Sudden winders harooshed the Equator, shot the squat tub’s with water
All decks awash, hands rushed the pumps, sodden wretches scabbed by scurvy
Master Ager gave the order: Fresh greens, fruit, meat, we must procure!
Master Ager gave the order: Fresh greens, fruit, meat, we must procure!
At blust’ry Cape
Riding anchor in Table Bay , ‘twas no safe haven to belay
Gusting up a northerly gale, rods of rain bedevilled the darks
Top-gallant masts crashed away, high-running seas smashed her stays
The longboat lumbered with split spars, the mate’s lamps showed no spark
August, night of twenty-seven, bursts of thunder shook the cabins
Both anchors lost, the vessel drifts, blue lights distress, muskets fired
Abaft the mainmast, rockets burn, barrels tossed a hurricane
Aghast, the crew are stricken mad, heave on pumps but deadly tired
The bark was grinding ocean’s bed, driven on angry surf, staggered
Wives fall huddling in the cuddy, babes flurry milk and oft do choke
Knock off the irons! Kelsall magged – for old chums below still lagged
The gunwales gaped, the cuddy wrecked, two mizzen masts splintered broke
Up on deck the numbed naps hobbled, monkeyed rigging, jumped o’erboard
Pinch-guts scarce could swim or float in mountainous breakers toiling
As lags swore and cascades poured, kinchen wept and tars roared
Floundered she lay, broadside rolling, pounded in surf bubbling and boiling
The bulwarks from the hull a-sundering, the topsail yard smacked briny
Across strewn spars, Kelsall clambered, o’er bobbing mainmast slung
Dragged down by some dog drowning, sinking slow, fast repining
Holy Mary, the devil’s bung! How that blessed barnacle clung!
The Waterloo
Stiff hands that gripped his gams fell limp, up he burst with arms a-swishing
Hapless jacks groped tackle and ropes, throngs ashore sobbed and moped
Frantic few were wildly threshing, two hundred souls sent a-perishing
‘Twas a clinker, William Gardner, grabbed the Surgeon by the collar
Dead as mutton on mizzen shrouds, pulled him to the poop capsized
Cradled his head, inspired some air, stayed till dead limbs regained power
When the Surgeon opened his eyes . . . What the devil! What surprise!
That very lag he’d placed in irons, for thieving rum his punishment earned
Twixt storm’s teeth at break of day. Revoke that charge! Kelsall bade
Yer saved me life, strikin’ them irons. If you’d forgot this morn . . .
Egad, I freely tenders me own, good sir, to save a life as yourn!
Michael Small May 10-21, 2004
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