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Ye Olde Oaken Barrel

OBITUARIES

SMYTHE, John (Salty). Peacefully at home Feb. 10th 2006. Born in Plymouth March 13th 1934 and a long time resident of the village of Crayford, John served in the Royal Navy for seven years and then took up farming. He was known as a recluse but was an avid supporter of Plymouth Argyle Football Club. There are no known next of kin. His ashes are to be scattered at sea.

Extracts from the journals of Able Seaman John Smythe, Royal Navy, retired.

* * *

Feb. 9th 2006

The old Devonshire pub still served its warm beer. Tucked away in a rural setting a few miles out of Plymouth, it was almost deserted when I walked in at nine o’clock last Saturday evening.

The exterior showed a typical sixteenth-century pub with a sagging thatched roof. The outside step was worn from centuries of customers crossing the threshold to slake their thirst.

I asked myself what I thought I was doing coming here. Was I looking for answers, trying to put to rest a secret I had kept to myself for fifty years? Could I put a halt to the haunting thoughts I carried for such a long time? My head whirled and I felt faint as I walked into the dark interior of Ye Olde Oaken Barrel.

The man behind the bar seemed familiar, yet I felt sure he was not the same man who served me on my first visit: he was not old enough. Stop lying to yourself, John, I thought, you know all about this family and its history. Face the facts and get your dark secrets out in the open. Good advice, but I instinctively knew I would carry my past to the grave.

I walked to the bar across worn flagstones, ordered a beer and sipped it slowly, glancing around the place. I could discern no major changes, in fact everything seemed exactly as I remembered it. Oak beams supported the sagging ceiling, hundreds of old tankards and bric-a-brac adorned the many shelves. Pictures of seamen in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century uniforms hung on the peeling walls. The lights still looked as dim and a general air of mustiness and decay seemed evident.

Several stained glass windows admitted light during daylight. It was too dark now to ascertain what their designs were. Row upon row of glasses, as stained as the windows, lined two shelves over the bar.

Striking up a conversation with the bartender I elicited from him that his father must have served me. He explained that the pub had been owned by the Smith family for centuries. His nose was slightly hooked and his complexion can only be described as ruddy. Small in stature, he had an authoritative air about him; a born leader, I surmised. He seemed too familiar; something suggested to me we had met before. I shook my head in bewilderment. Perhaps he was like his father. Was it the beer playing tricks on me? No. I looked at my pint and the glass was still more than half full.

I almost left, but I curbed the tendency to run because I wanted to purge myself from my inner turmoil. I needed to know the answers and I felt sure I could find a solution in this out of the way inn. This is where everything had started.

Two elderly men were the only other customers and, as I took stock of the room, I realized why this place was so deserted. The bar held the barest of essentials. There was no television, no radio; not even a dartboard. Video games and computers had no place in this establishment.

This was a pub of last resort. Young patrons without cash were unable to buy anything here or entertain themselves. I could see no machine to use credit or debit cards; the old-fashioned till supported only cash payment, and there was no evidence of bags of peanuts or potato chips. No meals or any dining arrangements graced the small public area. Even the postage-stamp sized parking space precluded any bus or coach stopping here.

I sat there till closing time and bought my last beer just as the landlord called, “Time Gentlemen, please.”

He moved away to serve the two other customers and I was left with my thoughts. My first and only other visit came vividly back in my memory, triggered by his uttering, ‘Time’.

* * *

March 13th 1955

A boisterous crowd yelled and screamed that Saturday night in the Public Bar of Ye Olde Oaken Barrel, a seventeenth-century inn on the outskirts of Plymouth. It was a Saturday night and the football season was almost through, and Argyle had managed to win a game at home.

It was in the mid nineteen-fifties on my first visit to this pub, and Plymouth Argyle was supporting most of the other clubs in the league from near the bottom of the table. Pathetic, useless, a shower of crap and many more descriptive words were used to describe the players this season. But not today. Argyle, promoted to division two a couple of years before, had not fared well since then. This particular evening, however, they were almost heroes.

“Did you see the goal Jimmy scored? What a shot!”

“And Jerry got away with a nasty tackle, too. Bet he broke the man’s ankle.”

Patrons sang and cheered as if they had won the FA cup. Points for Argyle were as rare as hen’s teeth.

Smoke and the sour smell of vomit from the unventilated one-hole toilet mingled with beery breath from the crowded bar; a stifling atmosphere. Smoke from countless cigarettes produced a thick, blue haze.

The City’s watering holes were full to overflowing this night and many Plymouth supporters were forced to visit pubs away from the city centre to celebrate. The very location of Ye Olde Oaken Bucket, in a quiet rural area, generally meant there were few customers. Very little traffic passed along the narrow lane and the mid nineteen-fifties supported much less traffic than the bumper to bumper chaos of the present day.

We sat there until the landlord called, “Time, gentlemen, please.”

Above the roar of the crowd, that call appeared to be aimed straight at me. Call it a trick of acoustics, there was a personal summons for me about those words. I felt queasy and I wondered what was up. No-one else appeared to have heard that cry, but to me it sounded like a siren’s song luring me to some devilish location. The phrase repeated itself in my brain all the way home.

I enlisted in the Royal Navy following this visit. I was celebrating my twenty-first birthday, and I drank too many pints in this bar that day. I over-indulged in hard liquor at home to celebrate my coming of age, and my friends called around after lunch to take me to the Oak. Several beers later I had reached the state of incoherence and fell in with the other drunken louts’ idea of signing on in the navy.

An advert in the paper stated that the Royal Navy was seeking men of strong character for a life in the silent service. The end of the Second World War had diminished recruitment severely for several years, but now there was room for a few stalwart souls to replace the old-timers who had completed their service.

The next morning I felt ill and had no memory about what had occurred. Needless to say, I was very surprised when my chums told me three of us were going to the RN recruiting office. Hung-over, I accompanied them and signed the forms without too much thought. I was conversant with the old service adage, never volunteer, but now it was too late, I was in!

I found the life tough and demanding, but several weeks later I had achieved my status as a trained Ordinary Seaman, fit and spry, ready for life ‘on the ocean wave’. Unfortunately, I wound up in a shore establishment, where discipline was firm and life boring and tedious.

Eventually I was sent to a frigate fresh out of refit. Bunks had replaced hammocks in the mess-decks and, apart from monotonous sea watches, life was fairly comfortable and I swiftly learned the way of the sea.

In the spring of the next year, three frigates set out from Plymouth on a visit to the United States. I was an able seaman by then and considered myself an old salt. I spun many a tall yarn that earned me the nickname, Salty.

We sailed across a fairly calm Atlantic, stopped in New York and Boston, worked out with units of the United States and Canadian Navies and headed for Florida, where my nightmare began.

The ships entered what is known as the Bermuda Triangle. Strange events had transpired in this area; ships and flights of aircraft had mysteriously disappeared over the years. Hurricanes and mountainous seas were often encountered, and today the weather was no exception. It was strange.

I appeared on deck for the morning watch and was assigned as lookout in the bows of the ship. Visibility was poor on this day, as I looked ahead at my world for the next little while. The entire sky was covered in unrelenting cloud. The horizon seemed to have disappeared completely. The glassy sea showed small swells that passed slowly under our keel from starboard to port; lazy unending waves with barely a ripple showing. It seemed that the ship was floating in an immense grey ball. It was eerie. We appeared to be alone; the frigates had gone separate ways to different destinations and nothing broke the surface of that oily ocean.

I wore a headset to pass my observations to the bridge, but I had nothing to report and I felt completely alone in my own small world. Grey skies, grey seas and a grey outlook. I felt menaced by some unseen danger. The atmosphere felt like it was ready to explode

I had witnessed a phenomenon like St. Elmo’s fire and watched schools of flying fish crossing our bow. Now, I gazed back astern to get comfort from the sight of my ship. I noted an albatross flying astern swooping over the rollers, gliding effortlessly. An albatross is a graceful bird aloft, but is particularly clumsy when landing, where they turn into ungainly gooney birds. I fervently wished this bird a long life. Tales of seafarers’ bad luck were uppermost in my thoughts. Never kill an albatross.

Following my turn as lookout I took a turn at the wheel. I felt relieved. There was something menacing about that morning I have never forgotten. Noon came and I went below to retrieve my tot mug. Today was again my birthday and, as is the custom, my messmates topped my mug up with ‘sippers’ from their own tots.

I drank a lot of the rum and saved the rest for later that evening before I turned in. Needless to say, I felt wobbly from the effects of too much grog and a shipmate stood a dog watch for me. I finished off the spirit and turned in. I fell into a sound sleep, lulled by the gentle swells and the usual shipboard noises.

* * *

Spring 1795

“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine” A strange voice disturbed me the next morning. I stumbled out of my bunk, stark naked and rubbed my eyes, wishing my head didn’t ache like it did. I was suddenly fully awakened as a heavy blow struck my bare back. Startled, I turned around and saw a strange apparition with a big, dark beard and a fierce scowl glaring at me.

“Come on, ye lubbers, lively now or I’ll scar yer backs for the rest of yer lives.”

It was deathly quiet. Just the many creaks as the ship rolled. The power is out, I thought. There were no sounds of any machinery or ventilation fans. Perhaps the power cut and its ensuing silence had awakened me. It had happened before.

I was in a strange mess. Gone were the bunks and lockers, and the only light came in from a solitary scuttle. The space had decks covered in flotsam and a low deck-head, featuring supporting timbers and wood planks, caulked between the seams. I could not stand upright; the deck-head seemed too low.

Where was I? Confused thoughts flashed through my mind. Then I noticed my shipmates: as scurvy a lot of brigands I had ever set eyes on. Most of them were as nude as I while others sported garments of old-fashioned clothing.

This is crazy, I thought. What is going on? Where am I? Suddenly, two seamen threw a pile of old clothing down the hatch.

“Pick out yer clothes and get on deck.” Swinging his starter, our tormenter cast his gaze around the motley group and left. A mad scramble ensued as people sought the best clothing. I managed to fend off two skinny under-nourished wretches and picked out some verminous looking trousers and a shirt. A poor quality down-at-heel pair of ill-fitting shoes completed my wardrobe.

Very few blows had been struck during the melee to obtain garments, but the fittest appeared better dressed than the others when we made our way up the hatch and appeared on deck.

“My name is Hoskins and I’m now your mother.” The big apparition now had a name. “Ye have all been press-ganged and you are now impressed as crew aboard here.”

A time warp, I thought, I’ve gone through a bloody time warp. I recognized this new vessel as a fourth-rated frigate of over two centuries ago. It was under full sail and heeling to port. Make that larboard, I corrected myself. Terminology had changed little in sailing terms but ‘port’ wasn’t in use at this time.

We were mustered amidships in a ragged group and told to keep our mouths shut. Hoskins moved forward and raised his knuckles to his brow as he saluted an officer wearing a tri-corn cap. Returning the salute the officer, a Lieutenant, made his way in our direction accompanied by Hoskins.

“You are now seamen in the King’s Navy,” he informed us, needlessly, “You will be paid and fed and eventually released. Until that time comes, I suggest you quickly learn your job and obey all orders you are given.”

The Lieutenant mopped his brow. “Failure to comply with the navy’s regulations will require punishment. You will soon become familiar with discipline aboard HMS Penelope. If you don’t obey orders immediately, I’ll see your raw backs. Carry on, Hoskins.”

Hoskins saluted and Lieutenant Moore, as was his name, walked back to the position he had left. I noticed members of the crew, who had turned to at a fast pace when Moore was in their vicinity, slacken off to a degree and I guessed that he would be one officer to steer clear of.

I suppose I spent about three months aboard Penelope. She was a good ship with an experienced crew and discipline, although harsh and severe, was meted out only when required.

The Captain, Commander Hubert Smith, was related in some way to the landlord of Ye Olde Oaken Barrel, as the facial features and bearing reminded me of that individual. He must be the captain’s great-great grandson, I thought. Seldom seen by the lower deck seamen, he instilled fear when he came in sight. Usually some individual would soon be punished on his rare sightings.

My basic training and the seamanship I had learned in the Royal Navy helped me establish myself as superior to most of the pressed seamen. I was careful not to show off my skills, because there were a number of tasks I was unfamiliar with. I soon mastered the art of setting sails, climbing the ratlines as nimbly as any on board.

I fell in with the speech and mannerisms of that era and never once mentioned I had spent time in the future. There were too many superstitious individuals among the low class seamen and I felt I would be cast out as a rank outsider, so I kept my mouth shut.

Four long months marred only by the rotten food and bad water. Maggots and weevils abounded in hard tack biscuits and green, slimy barrels. The meat was tough, hard and stringy until it rotted enough to soften.

“Eat with yer eyes closed and you won’t notice the maggots.” An elderly seaman passed this advice on to me, but it didn’t work.

We sailed across the Atlantic in both fair and foul weather. Hot food was provided when the passage was smooth, but foul weather meant the galley fires had to be extinguished until the seas abated.

After a month aboard I received punishment. Four days of heavy seas and gale force winds kept the entire crew awake and busy. I was exhausted and I suffered from the effects of foul victuals. I turned in one evening, sweating heavily and fell into a fitful sleep. Next morning I lay completely helpless in my hammock and I was charged with being absent from my place of duty.

The ship’s surgeon arrived and dosed me with an evil mixture of some foul medicine. It helped a little, and I was working an hour later.

I was summoned on deck after my watch and duly charged with my crime by Lieutenant Moore, who as the First Officer remanded me for the Captain’s table.

The Captain seemed eager to hear my case. Rarely did he award punishment, but when he did he seemed to relish his task. I knew I would earn a flogging, but how many and could I take it like a man?

Beady eyes stared into mine and a scar on his temple stood out throbbing slowly.

The charge was read out and I was asked for my excuse. All I could say was I had been ill and tried my best to appear on deck and found I was too weak to do so.

It mattered nothing to Captain Smith. I did not muster at my station and I was guilty of an offence. His hooked nose had a small drop hanging down and his nostrils flared as he pronounced my punishment. “Six lashes of the cat.”

That was it! Unable to work was no excuse. I was supposed to stay fit or suffer the consequences. I learned to hate Captain Smith that day and vowed I’d get even if I could.

A grating was lashed to the ratlines and my shirt removed as I was lashed to the grating. The entire crew mustered, save for a few essential seamen, to observe punishment.

Lieutenant Moore read the charges so all could hear my crime. He turned and saluted saying, “Ready for punishment, Sir.”

“Carry on.” With those two words from the captain, the first blow landed on my back.

Prior to this, I had watched as Hoskins brought from below a red bag that he laid reverently on a water cask. Opening the bag, he removed the cat-o’ nine tails and shook it out full length.

Someone had stuffed an article in my mouth and told me to clamp down tight. Nine tails at a time struck me across my unprotected back. The first almost brought an agonized scream, but I clamped down harder on what I believe was rawhide. Pain erupted like fire and my entire back cringed.

Strangely, the following five seemed less painful and I managed to survive this terrible ordeal with only a few tears and a low series of moans.

Hoskins knuckled his forehead, “Punishment complete, Sir.”

“Carry on. Dismiss the crew.” Smith turned and went below to his cabin.

A bucket of brine that stung was poured over my back. Rough, but tender hands cut my bonds and willing arms carried me below. A tankard of neat rum was thrust towards me and I downed the contents gratefully.

I slept soundly that night lulled, into unconsciousness with the effects of the rum. My sickness passed during the night and I rose the next morning sore, but exhilarated. I had taken punishment like a man and my messmates treated me with greater respect from that day. The surgeon lathered salve over my wounds and it didn’t take too long before the pain lessened and the cuts began to heal.

We received victuals from a port in the Americas and cleaned and refilled our water casks. Better food and water improved our lot considerably and life became bearable. The weather turned favourable; light winds and moderate seas.

Then, one day, we hit the doldrums. The seas were smooth and no breeze was evident. Sails hung slack and conditions below became unbearable. The hot sun beat down on Penelope and turned it into an oven. Men slept on deck that night, but there was no respite from the humidity.

Early the next day, the weather changed. A light breeze arose and we adjusted all sail to take advantage of it. There was no respite from the heat, however. The sun disappeared in the haze and light fog. Late in the morning watch I was sent forward to the bows as a lookout.

Reaching my station I took my first real look ahead. A familiar knot of fear gripped my stomach. It was there; the grey bowl! I could have been on my first ship again, except, when I fearfully turned to look back, I was still on the Penelope. How I managed to survive that part of my watch I do not know. I shook with fear and my legs felt like jelly.

And, as I expected, a lone albatross floated astern. Was it the same one? I was happy to see my relief arrive and I rushed below to fetch my tot mug for my issue of grog.

The seas began to mount after noon had passed and strong winds required us to climb aloft to shorten sail. Waves broke over the bow and we were soaked before we reached the deck. That storm increased in its fury over the next several hours and anything not lashed securely broke loose and tumbled about.

We managed to secure most of the loose gear below, and then made our way to the upper deck to ensure the ship was in reasonable condition. We had to tie ourselves to safety lines to ensure we were not swept overboard.

As we were ordered below a scream, whipped by the wind, but unmistakable in the fear it induced caused us to stare ahead.

Agitated seaman shouted at the monstrous wave that bore down on us, racing at breakneck speed.

Could we survive this wave? I doubted it. I craned my neck back, mesmerized as that huge mountain struck us. The entire ship shuddered and plunged into a wall of water and I felt her going down.

There was no way she could ever recover. Masts, broken off at deck level, crashed heavily down and were swept back like wisps of straw. Rigging folded around me, trapping my body to the ship’s rail, already bent and twisted out of shape. The Penelope was doomed.

Water buffeted me and I felt ribs cracking. Then I disappeared below the surface, my lungs filling and I knew I was about to die. The horrific banshee noise abated and I heard the rush of water passing by my ears. Blackness engulfed me and I allowed the sea to take me.

* * *

Spring 1956

“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine. Come on, you loafers, the sun’s burning your eyeballs out.”

That wasn’t Hoskin’s voice!

Where was I? Swiftly I opened my eyes and bright lights made me squint. I looked around and I saw I was back in my mess aboard the frigate. Lights were shining from the deck-head fixtures and I heard the sound of the public address system as it squelched from a test.

My messmates hurried to beat the scramble for the heads, taking no notice of me. Nobody asked where I had been or what happened. Why I had been missing for three months. I decided not to say a word. My first days on Penelope taught me to hold my tongue, because my language would have sounded strange to the crew. I also remained uncommunicative for the rest of the time for the same reason.

At that moment I did not consider keeping my mouth closed, but I was so used to it, I became reticent for the remainder of my life.

I decided to keep my journey to myself. However, within minutes members of the crew noted something and it shook me to the core.

I put my time warp down to a nightmare and silently made my way to the washroom. It was crowded, full of steam and condensation and I waited for an unused basin to clean myself.

Within seconds I managed to elbow two other matelots out of the way and half filled the sink with water.

“What the hell happened to you, Salty? Christ yer back’s full of scars.”

Red-faced I plunged both hands into the basin and smothered my face with water. I wanted to hide. I could think of nothing to say.

“Bloody hell. He must have been in that brothel in Boston where they use whips and chains.”

Laughter ensued and I let them think about that suggestion. I neither denied nor admitted this sally. It was the only feasible explanation for my wounds.

I looked in the mirror and pale scars covered the entire skin on my back. It was obvious they were old. There was no sign that I had bled recently and there were no scabs, just the marks from that dreadful cat. I realized my nightmare was real. I had lived in a time warp.

My first drink of water tasted like nectar. Normally, the water drunk at sea is bland because it is freshly distilled. It made no difference to me as I slaked my thirst, delighting in the freshness. I ate every speck of food on my plate that day. After the months of foul meat and hard tack, everything I ate tasted great. I hadn’t noticed that before I was swept away in time.

The only commodity that saved me from utter starvation on Penelope had been the beer. There was lots of it. Weak and flat it may have been; it was far better than the water.

Happy to be back in familiar surroundings as I was, I could not allow myself to share my adventures with anyone. How can you describe three months at sea in another century when it only lasted one night?

For several days I enjoyed the change, but I became morose and kept apart from my shipmates. It was some form of depression and it has never left me.

* * *

Feb. 9th 2006 continued.

That is my story and I feel relieved, now it is out in the open at long last. It is written down for all to see, if I ever decide to publish. Failing that I will ensure the tale is with my effects, to be opened after I die.

I am past seventy now; the scars on my back are still visible, but faded. The emotional scars have yet to heal.

Another thought struck me like a clap of thunder. Thoughts scrambled my mind, but I was sure the Oak was where I had been impressed. I, Jonathon Smythe, farm boy, and obviously related to the innkeeper, celebrated his birthday in the Oak in the eighteenth century. The press gang, headed by none other than Hoskins, burst in and removed every able-bodied man present. No wonder I was nude when I was so rudely awakened. Even sailors, whose body odour would gag a maggot, rebelled at the stench of a manure-covered farm lad.

One other event happened that only added to the mystery. Before I left the Oak, I took a moment to study the faded, dirt encrusted portraits on the walls. One picture caused my heart to skip a beat, and then start pounding in fear. There, staring at me with belligerent eyes and a malevolent smile was none other than Hubert Smith, the captain of that ill-fated vessel, his face showing the familiar Smith family features. The inscription on a brass plate read:

I recoiled in terror and stumbled outside.

Nothing will allow me to venture back inside that building ever again. Now I am left with more questions and no real answers, but I am satisfied more than ever my adventure was not a dream. It was real.

I believe destiny forced me join the Royal Navy. Something in that pub had guided me towards that old frigate that sailed into oblivion so many years before.

Copyright © 2006 by Bewildering Stories
on behalf of the author

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