An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman

board and embraced her at the entry port amid the sentimental cheers of his messmates. No one had seen the sour look on the face of Mr Midshipman Morris who happened to be passing at the time. No one, that is, except Tregembo who, by another coincidence, was in search of Morris.
    As Sharples and his wife, clasped together, stepped over the prostrate, active bodies, oblivious of the parodies of love enactèd all about them, Tregembo stepped up to Morris and touched his forelock.
    â€˜Beg pardon, Mr Morris,’ said Tregembo with exaggerated politeness, ‘Lieutenant Keene’s orders and will ye take the launch over to flag for orders.’
    Morris snarled at Tregembo then a gleam of viciousness showed in his eyes. Calling a bosun’s mate known for ‘starting’ he strode forward. As he went he called men’s names. They were the least desirable of
Cyclops
’s company. A few, otherwise engaged, told him to go to the devil, one or two he let off, the rest he left to the bosun’s mate.
    At the forward end of the gun deck Morris ran his quarry to earth. Sharples and his wife lay on the deck. Her head was pillowed on his hammock and her face wore a look of unbelieving horror. Her man, father of her unborn child whose image she had cherished, lay sobbing in her arms. The whole foul story of Morris had poured out of him for there was no way he could be a man to her until he had unburdened himself. Sharples was unaware of the presence of Morris until the author of his misfortune had been standing over the pair for a whole minute.
    â€˜Sharples!’ called Morris in a voice which cut through the unhappy man’s monologue. ‘You are required for duty.’
    The girl knew instinctively the identity of the intruder and struggled to her knees, ‘No! No!’ she protested.
    Morris grinned. ‘Are you questioning my orders?’
    The girl faced Morris, biting her lip.
    â€˜I can report you for obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty. The punishment is a flogging . . . your husband is already guilty of disobeying orders in having a hammock out of the nettings . . .’ He spat the words in her face. This threat to his wife revived Sharples who pulled his wife gently aside.
    â€˜W-what orders, Mr Morris?’
    â€˜Man the launch.’
    The topman hesitated. He was not in the boat’s crew. ‘Aye, aye;’ then turning to his wife he whispered ‘I’ll be back.’
    The girl collapsed sobbing on the deck and one of the older women, to whom midshipmen were small fry, put an arm around her. A stream of filth followed Morris down the deck.
    The launch was absent three hours. After a while the girl, disgusted with the scenes on the gun deck, sought fresh air and light on deck. Finding her way to the forward companionway she groped her way to the starboard side where she made a little bright patch against the coils of black hemp belayed and hung upon the pinrail.
    Staring out over the bright waters of Spithead she touchedthe life quickening within her. Her heart was full to bursting with her misery. The horrors of her week-long journey rose again before her at a time when she had thought to be burying them in happiness. Shame for her man and for herself, shame for the unborn child and for the depths of degradation to which one human could subject another welled up within her. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
    Her eyes stared out unseeing at the ships lying to the tide. She was a small, broken piece of the price Britain paid for its naval puissance.
    It was some time before old Blackmore noticed the lonely figure forward. He had relieved Keene of the deck and soon sent Drinkwater to turn the woman below again. Blackmore, trained in the merchant service, retained his civilian prejudice for refusing women leave to come on board. He sighed. In the merchant service a master gave his crew shore leave. If they wished to visit a brothel that was