Vox Meditantis

The Solent, off the coast of Portsmouth, England – 19th July 1545

The pre-dawn air hung thick with salt and anticipation as Richard Gurney descended into the bowels of the Mary Rose, his weathered boots finding familiar purchase on the worn oak steps. Twenty-three years he had sailed in service to King Henry, and still the morning ritual called to him with the same insistence as the tide itself. In the gun deck below, shadows danced in the amber glow of hanging lanterns, and the familiar sound of bone striking timber already echoed through the cramped quarters.

“Seven!” called Ned Ashcombe, his young voice carrying a note of triumph. “A main of seven, Master Gunner. The bones favour us this morning.”

Richard smiled despite the weight that had settled in his chest since the French fleet had been sighted on the horizon. At forty-four, he had learned to trust his instincts, and something about this July morning felt different—heavier somehow, as though the very air conspired against them. Yet here, in the familiar confines of the gun deck, surrounded by his shipmates and the comforting ritual of their game, such dark thoughts seemed merely the product of an overwrought imagination.

“Aye, young Ned,” Richard replied, settling himself cross-legged upon the deck planking. “But let us see if your carved bones maintain their charity when the stakes grow higher.”

The game of Hazard had become their sacred morning rite over the past three voyages, a tradition that bound the gun crews together as surely as their shared loyalty to the Crown. Richard had played many games in his time—cards in Portsmouth taverns, chess with fellow officers, even the occasional bout of skittles when shore leave permitted—but none had claimed his affections quite like this ancient game of chance.

Captain George Carew emerged from the shadows, his commanding presence immediately felt despite the informal nature of their gathering. Unlike many commanders who maintained rigid distance from their men, Carew understood the value of shared ritual in maintaining morale before battle.

“Room for one more at your table, gentlemen?” The Captain’s voice carried easy authority mixed with genuine warmth.

“Always, Captain,” Richard replied, making space within their circle. “Though I warn you, Ashcombe’s dice seem blessed by providence itself this morning.”

Ned flushed with pleasure at the praise, carefully placing his hand-carved dice in the centre of their makeshift gaming circle. The young carpenter had fashioned these particular bones from a piece of whale ivory acquired during their last venture to Calais, spending countless evening watches perfecting their balance and weight. Each die bore six carefully drilled dots, filled with lampblack to ensure visibility in the dim conditions below deck.

“What stakes shall we play for?” asked Thomas Wythorne, the gun captain whose experience rivalled Richard’s own. “Though I suspect our purses may prove lighter than our spirits this morning.”

“The usual,” Captain Carew suggested with a knowing smile. “Tots of rum for the winners, and the losers stand the next watch.”

Brother Anselm approached their gathering with his characteristic mixture of disapproval and resigned acceptance. The ship’s chaplain had long since ceased his attempts to discourage gambling amongst the crew, recognising that such pursuits served a purpose beyond mere avarice. Instead, he had negotiated an uneasy truce: the men might play their games, but only in moderation and never on the Sabbath.

“Good morning, Brothers,” Anselm intoned, his voice carrying the soft burr of his Yorkshire origins. “I trust your devotions to Dame Fortune will not supersede your prayers to the Almighty?”

“Never fear, Brother,” Richard replied with genuine respect. “We ask for heaven’s blessing on both our games and our endeavours.”

This morning ritual had evolved over months of shared service, becoming something deeper than mere entertainment. For Richard, Hazard represented everything he had come to understand about life aboard ship and in service to the realm. Unlike chess, which rewarded only those blessed with quick minds and tactical thinking, or cards, which required memory and deception, Hazard demanded nothing more than courage to accept whatever fate the dice might decree.

“Shall I cast first?” Richard asked, taking up the ivory bones. They felt warm in his palm, smooth from countless previous throws, each die weighing perhaps two ounces and fitting comfortably within his weathered grip.

“Aye, Master Gunner,” Ned replied eagerly. “Set us a main to chase.”

Richard shook the dice gently, feeling their familiar weight shift within his closed fist. The mechanics of Hazard were elegantly simple: the caster would throw for a main—any number from five to nine—and then continue throwing until either matching that number again (winning) or rolling specific losing combinations that varied depending upon the main established.

“Come, bones,” Richard murmured, employing the traditional invocation. “Show us the way forward.”

The dice tumbled across the oak planking with satisfying clicks, coming to rest against the iron breech of the nearest cannon. Six and two—eight spots total.

“Eight for the main!” called Wythorne. “A noble beginning, Richard.”

With eight established as his main, Richard would need to throw eight again to win, whilst avoiding the losing combinations of seven or any three dice total. The mathematics of the game fascinated him less than its metaphorical richness. Here, in miniature, lay all the uncertainties of naval service: moments of triumph and disaster separated by the thinnest margins, success dependent upon equal measures of skill and providence.

“Why do you favour this game above all others, Master Gunner?” asked Ned as Richard prepared for his next throw. The question came innocently enough, yet it touched upon thoughts Richard had pondered during many long watches.

“Because it mirrors life itself, lad,” Richard replied, pausing with the dice poised in his palm. “Chess rewards the clever, cards the cunning, but Hazard? Hazard rewards those brave enough to cast their fate upon the winds and accept whatever follows.”

He threw again. The dice showed five and four—nine total, neither winning nor losing but requiring another cast. Around their circle, coins and rum tots changed hands as side bets were settled and new ones established.

“But surely skill matters naught if all depends upon chance?” pressed young Ashcombe, his carpenter’s mind struggling with the concept of craftsmanship rendered meaningless.

Captain Carew leaned forward, his weathered features thoughtful in the lantern light. “Ah, but there lies the deeper truth, Ned. Skill matters greatly, but not in the manner you might expect. The skill lies not in controlling the dice, but in knowing when to cast them.”

Richard nodded approvingly at his captain’s wisdom. “Precisely so. Any fool might throw dice, but wisdom lies in understanding the odds, reading your opponents, knowing when fortune favours boldness and when discretion serves better.”

Brother Anselm, despite his theological reservations, found himself drawn into the discussion. “There is something to be said for accepting God’s will with grace, whether in games or graver matters. Perhaps your Hazard teaches humility alongside excitement.”

“Aye, Brother,” Richard agreed, warming to his theme. “In battle, we prepare as thoroughly as possible—we sight our guns, check our powder, position our crews—but ultimately, we must trust that Providence will guide our efforts. Hazard teaches the same lesson in miniature.”

The conversation was interrupted by the distant sound of a horn echoing across the water. The French fleet had been spotted moving into position, and soon the Mary Rose would be called to action. Yet for now, in these precious final moments of peace, their game continued.

Richard cast again, and again the dice showed neither victory nor defeat—a six and a one, totalling seven. The losing number for a main of eight.

“Hard luck, Master Gunner,” Wythorne commiserated as Richard’s coins joined the growing pile in the centre of their circle.

“No matter,” Richard replied with genuine equanimity. “The bones have spoken, and we must accept their judgment with good grace.”

Captain Carew gathered the dice for his turn, but before casting he posed another question to their gathering. “Tell us, Richard—beyond its philosophical merits, what draws you personally to this particular game? Surely there are deeper reasons than mere acceptance of fate?”

Richard considered the question carefully, aware that his answer might well be the last such conversation they would share as friends rather than officers and crew facing battle. Around them, the ship creaked gently as she rode the morning swells, and the distant sounds of preparation echoed from the upper decks.

“If I am honest, gentlemen,” Richard began slowly, “Hazard reminds me most keenly of home. Not my childhood home in Devon, mind you, but the true home I have found aboard ship, amongst brothers such as yourselves.”

He gestured around their circle, taking in each familiar face. “Consider how we play: not in isolation, but together. Each man’s fortune affects the others, each cast creates new possibilities for all present. When Ned’s dice favour him, we celebrate his success. When fortune turns against Wythorne, we commiserate with his loss. The game binds us together in shared experience.”

Young Ashcombe nodded thoughtfully. “I had not considered that aspect, Master Gunner. You speak truly—the game loses much of its savour when played alone.”

“Exactly so, lad. And more than that, Hazard teaches us to face uncertainty with courage and good humour. How many times have we seen men grow grim and fearful when battle approaches? Yet here, casting dice in the face of unknown dangers, we laugh and jest and support one another. The game becomes practice for greater trials.”

Brother Anselm smiled despite himself. “Perhaps there is more godliness in your gaming than I had credited, Master Gunner. Community, courage in uncertainty, acceptance of God’s will—these are not ignoble virtues.”

Captain Carew cast his dice with practised flair, establishing a main of six and immediately following with another six to claim victory. As coins and rum tots were redistributed, he continued the philosophical discussion that had come to characterise their morning gatherings.

“There is another element to consider,” the Captain mused. “Hazard requires both individual courage and collective trust. Each man must be willing to cast his own dice, accept responsibility for his own choices, yet we all depend upon the others’ participation for the game to hold meaning.”

“Much like naval service itself,” observed Wythorne with a grim smile. “Each gunner must sight his own piece and make his own decisions, yet victory depends upon all working in concert.”

The horn sounded again, closer now and more urgent. Soon they would be called to quarters, their pleasant morning ritual replaced by the grim business of war. Yet Richard felt oddly comforted by their discussion, as though their words had crystallised something important about why this simple game had come to mean so much to him.

“One final cast,” he suggested, taking up the dice once more. “For luck, if nothing else.”

“For the Mary Rose,” added Ned solemnly.

“For King Harry,” contributed Wythorne.

“For all brave sailors,” concluded Captain Carew.

Richard shook the dice one last time, feeling their familiar weight and warmth. Around their circle, his shipmates leaned forward expectantly, their faces reflecting the golden glow of the hanging lanterns. Above their heads, the massive oak timbers of the gun deck creaked reassuringly, and the great bronze cannons stood ready for whatever the day might bring.

“Come, faithful bones,” Richard whispered, employing the ritual words one final time. “Show us fortune’s favour.”

The dice tumbled across the worn planking, clicking against each other before coming to rest in the shadow of the great cannon. Double sixes—twelve spots gleaming in the amber light.

A cheer went up from the assembled sailors, though it was quickly hushed lest it carry to the officers above. Twelve was neither winning nor losing cast—merely another number requiring additional throws to resolve—yet somehow it seemed appropriate. Not victory, not defeat, but continuation. The promise of additional chances, further opportunities to test courage against uncertainty.

“Well cast, Master Gunner!” Ned exclaimed, his young face bright with excitement. “Surely such a throw bodes well for the day ahead.”

Richard smiled as he gathered the dice for safekeeping, tucking them carefully into his leather purse. Whether or not the morning’s throws truly augured good fortune remained to be seen, but the ritual itself had served its deeper purpose. They had shared laughter and fellowship, confronted uncertainty with good humour, and reaffirmed the bonds that made their dangerous service bearable.

The third horn blast echoed across the water, and this time it was accompanied by the drummer’s urgent tattoo calling all hands to quarters. Their peaceful interlude had ended, and the grim business of war awaited.

As his shipmates dispersed to their various duties, Richard remained seated for a moment longer, contemplating the empty space where their gaming circle had been. The worn oak planking bore no mark of their morning’s entertainment, yet somehow the deck itself seemed different—blessed, perhaps, by the simple human ritual of friendship and shared courage.

Above his head, footsteps thundered as the crew prepared for battle. Soon these same planks would echo with the roar of cannon fire, the shouts of fighting men, and perhaps worse sounds besides. Yet for now, in these final quiet moments, Richard allowed himself to savour the memory of dice clicking against timber, of laughter shared amongst friends, of courage practised in miniature against the day’s greater challenges.

Rising stiffly to his feet, Master Gunner Richard Gurney made his way towards his battle station, the ivory dice safe in his purse and the morning’s wisdom warm in his heart. Whatever the day might bring, he had been reminded once again why Hazard remained his favourite game: not for its excitement or monetary rewards, but for its power to transform strangers into brothers, uncertainty into opportunity, and mere chance into something approaching grace.

The Mary Rose sailed onwards through the morning mist, her crew prepared for battle and her guns ready for whatever fate might decree.

The End

19th July 1545, during the Battle of the Solent, Henry VIII’s flagship Mary Rose capsized and sank within minutes, taking an estimated 400–500 of her 500-strong crew to the seabed just 1.2 km off Portsmouth. Launched in 1511, the carrack had recently been refitted to carry 78 guns—part of England’s expanding Tudor navy—when she foundered while engaging a 30-ship French invasion force. Repeated 16th-century salvage attempts failed, and the wreck lay undiscovered until 1971; after 11 years’ preparation, it was spectacularly raised in 1982 in a £27 million operation, then conserved and displayed in Portsmouth Historic Dockyard. Today the Mary Rose Project’s artefacts and hull offer unrivalled insights into everyday Tudor life, naval warfare and underwater conservation, making the loss a cornerstone of modern maritime archaeology and heritage education.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.