May 4th Boy mariner
There was a
time, a few years before,
When he
would have skipped.
Arms
balancing at his sides, toes pointing
Jumping over
ropes, nets and boxes
Along the
quayside;
Humming a
simple tune,
Completely
at one with his world.
There would
have been a jest, a prank,
Cussing,
chasing between young friends at play.
But today,
Was a different
day.
It was 1823.
And a sailor
he would be.
His breeches
and waiscot were clean.
The buckles
on his shoes a-gleam.
And he
walked upright, confident, assured,
The walk of
a young man who was about to grab,
With both
hands, the future that surely awaited him.
He was
growed up.
No longer a
child,
No frivolousness,
no silly games, no more.
Francis knew
all the ships in the Portsea dock
He could
tell them from their lines, from the shape of the bow
The masts,
the sails, the beam and keel
The bowsprit,
the boom, the number of guns..
He could
tell them all at a glance.
He knew the
configuration, the muster of crew
The history,
the battles fought
The wins and
losses, the glory wrought.
Over his 13
years, walking and playing on the dock
He had seen
them come and go
The navy
ships of war
Who had fought
at Cadiz and Trafalgar
Who was captain
and commander,
He knew them
all.
This was to
be his life.
There would
be battles more
And glory
for him for sure.
The excitement
was tangible.
He couldn’t wait.
Francis was
named after a famous admiral.
Named in
honour of a man, a captain
Who alongside
him, in battle’s height
Had saved
his father’s skin, by right
On the HMS
Wizard at war.
His father
William had served in the navy
As his
father had before him and more.
Young
Francis knew,
One day he
would be famous too
He was sure
of it.
It was in
his blood.
The sea
The
adventure.
The Queen
Charlotte was magnificent.
He could see
her in the distance,
As he walked
toward
It would be
his home now
For a year
or more.
Volunteer, signed
up. Soon to be at sail.
It had been
his birthday
Only the
week before and now he was
To be gone.
Adventure
awaiting.
The quayside
was busy
It was
early, not yet 5 am
Loading and
unloading.
Shouting,
calling, heaving, hauling,
All at work.
Francis
marched, eyes ahead
His bag
hanging casually over his shoulder.
He had no doubts
His career
would be hard.
He would
miss his home, his friends, his life would change.
Right now,
change forever.
But his Ma,
bless her in heaven
Would watch
over him.
The work
would test him
But he was a
Strong, it would not best him.
He would
scrub,
Till his
hands were raw.
He would run
and scamper
Fetch and
carry, climb the rig.
His legs and
arms would ache.
But he was
born to it, was he
A mariner he
would be.
“Name?”
“Francis
Fairfax, sir. Reporting for…”
“Strong.” He
said, looking at the sheet of paper in front of him.
“Aye sir.”
“You need to
be, boy.” With a twinkle of the man’s eye,
He squinted,
looked down at the boy.
Noted the
muscles, the sturdy legs,
And the
confident set of the jaw.
“Aye, you’ll
do”
No comments:
Post a Comment