Journal of Midshipman Ezra Frood
Aboard Her Majesty’s Ship Elysium
This evening, before sailing from Dublin
I set pen to paper this evening with a mind heavy with anticipation and no small measure of nervousness. The Elysium lies at anchor in the harbor, her decks abustle with activity as Marines and artillerymen having been marched aboard in Liverpool, their kit clattering as though to remind us of the seriousness of our mission. I have never seen so many soldiers crammed upon a ship at once, and though their presence is meant to guard and strengthen, I cannot help but think that they are also a burden upon our timbers and upon the patience of sailors who must share their space.
Captain Doyle watched all with that calm and steady bearing that gives me hope and courage. I had feared him stern beyond measure, yet I see in his gaze not only command but thought, as though every movement of ship and man were accounted for in his mind. Lieutenant Culver, ever sharp of tongue, voiced doubts regarding the Marine commander, one Lieutenant Harburne—a man whose posture is all starch and whose voice rings with a confidence I should like to borrow. Yet the Captain rebuked Culver and myself with words mild but sure: that an officer of Marines does not gain his commission by quill alone. I was chastened, though grateful, for it reminded me that loose talk is no virtue in Her Majesty’s service.
My thoughts, however, are not fixed only upon discipline. I confess, I feel the pull of the sea with equal parts dread and wonder. Beyond Dublin, we shall press into the Atlantic, and once there we leave behind the safety of English waters. The Captain and others speak in low tones of French and Spanish frigates, of Dutch captains too eager for prize money, of storms that may rise sudden and cruel. It all sets my stomach to knots, and yet—this is what I wished for, is it not? To stand upon the deck of a Queen’s ship, to prove myself a man of courage and seamanship?
I think of St. Albion, that distant speck in the Caribbean where we are bound. They say the garrison is poorly supplied, the town ill-prepared, and the men there nearly starved of all comforts. To bring them relief is our charge, and if I can play but the smallest part in that, I shall feel I have begun my service with honor. Hence why we are here in Dublin, to gather up the last of the supplies and men we are to be issued and tasked to carry to that distant outpost of our Empire.
Many of the sailors and marines and such have been allowed a few hours of leave time to get some last hot tavern meals, or drinks, or perhaps a tumble with an Irish girl or some such. Lieutenant Harburne has made it specifically clear to his marines that if any are to return drunken or in a sodden shape, then they should be prepared for five lashes. "Drunkeness makes you weak in spirit and ill prepared for what awaits us." He says. "A drink or two is fine if you can handle your matters. However if your eyes are so blurred and your gait so unsteady and your hands so fumbled that you cannot hold and work your musket, you are of no use to the rest of the troops, to myself, nor to the Crown." I could see the looks in his men's eyes. The older ones for the most part nodded grimly in agreement. They knew they had been given permission to go relax and have a bit of a good time, but not to make fools of themselves and besmirch the name of the marines nor the reputation of the Lieutenant and the ship, officers, and crew.
Still, I am young, and I feel it keenly. As the lanterns swing in my small berth, I cannot help but wonder if my nerves will steady once we leave the sight of land, or whether they shall betray me before all hands. I pray the voyage is swift and uneventful, though something in my heart tells me the sea rarely allows such ease.
So let it come. I shall do my duty, come what may.
—Ezra Frood, Midshipman
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