“I... yessir,” said Dex. “My name is Dexter Stockford and I...” The cook cut Dex off with an abrupt wave of a meaty hand. He pointed to several large pans on the back of the stove. “Start lugging that beef to the seaman's mess.” When Dex looked around blankly, Harnish grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through the door and faced him to the open area in which sailors were now seating themselves at large trestle tables made of planks set up on barrels.
For the next half-hour Dex carried pans of salt beef and turnip, platters of bread, plates of butter and cheese and pitchers of water to the hungry seamen. When that was done, the cook set a plate in front of him saying, “Eat and then we'll finish.” Dex was ravenous, but he nearly gagged at the first bite. The mix of boiled beef and mushy turnip was so salty that he could hardly swallow. After forcing down a couple of mouthfuls, he made do with a slab of stale bread slathered with butter and a slice of hard cheese. When he looked around for something to drink, he found a pitcher of water that tasted like mold, and a smaller one of warm beer that went down surprisingly well. For an hour after that he scrubbed the pots and pans in lukewarm, greasy water under the watchful eye of the cook. “Now go below and fetch firewood to fill the box for the next meal,” Harnish finally said.
After three trips to the firewood storeroom, the box was full and Dex was released with the stern admonition to return an hour before the next meal.
Suddenly exhausted, Dex had barely managed to stagger up to the weather deck when a sailor started beating a drum on the quarterdeck the cry rang out, “All hands. All hands on deck for gun drill.” He shrank back against the bulkhead as sailors came running from all directions. As he watched, groups of three and four men clustered around each of the sixteen cannons on deck and began loosening the ropes that held them tight against the wooden bulwarks. A bearded, red-headed man carrying a gleaming cutlass strode down the center of the deck bellowing orders. He was no more than five and a half feet tall wearing a muted red and green kilt and spoke with a gravelly voice that sounded like it came from a much larger man. Totally absorbed by the spectacle unfolding before of him, Dex jumped when Quill suddenly grabbed his shoulder from behind.
“Where have you been, lubber? You need to move faster or you'll feel a taste of the cat. You'll serve these first two guns on the port side.” Quill dragged Dex to the ladder and pushed him down to the orlop deck. Beside the Captain’s cabin, the door to the powder magazine now gaped ominously open and Dex stumbled as Quill bundled him down the ladder which led to a short, dark passageway with a heavy, iron-banded plank door open at the end. Saying, “Do as I do,” Quill brushed past Dex and stood in the doorway. “Two, eighteen-pounders,” he said to the shadowy figure inside. He accepted a pair of long, slender objects and sprinted for the ladder, calling, “Get your powder and follow me.”
“Two eight...eighteen pounders,” Dex stuttered at the door. He gripped narrow cotton bags that were thrust into his hands and ran to follow Quill up the ladder.
On deck, the action had settled down somewhat and all of the cannons had been pulled back from the side of the ship where Dex realized the gun crews were waiting for the powder bags he and several others were carrying. He saw Quill handing his bags to men at adjacent cannons on the right side of the deck, so he went to the two cannons Quill had pointed out before on the left side and held out the bags. Two men jumped to take the charges, unceremoniously brushing Dex back as they leaped to the muzzles of the great guns. He watched as the bags were rammed into the barrels, followed by a wad of cloth, a five inch round iron ball and then another cloth wad, all rammed tightly down the bore. No sooner had the final ramrod been removed then the men grabbed the cannons’ ropes off the deck and strained to pull them tightly back against the bulwark with the muzzles extending out past the side of the ship each through its own square gun port.
“Why are you standing about, boy.” Dex whirled and nearly lost his footing at a hard clout on the shoulder from the red-headed man he'd seen before. “Get your bloody next charges or I'll damn well see you lashed,” the man yelled. Dex looked around and saw Quill already running back onto the deck with a second set of powder bags and, suddenly understanding his responsibility, scrambled for the ladder down to the magazine.
The next hour passed in a confused kaleidoscope of the bright, airy, sunlit deck and the dark, cramped powder magazine; of the mad scramble of the cannon crews and the rapid yet careful transfer of the lethal bags below decks. As Dex was forcing his already rubbery legs up the ladder to the weather deck for the third time, the world was suddenly shattered by a thunderous, rolling bellow of sound and concussion that seemed to snatch the very air from his lungs. He staggered onto the deck to find himself enveloped in a dense reeking cloud of sulfurous smoke through which he could barely see the cannon crews in their frenzied dance. The great guns bellowed their deadly thunder five more times in the next half hour, and by the time they fell silent, Dex had begun to make sense of the rhythm of their begrimed crews. When a gun fired, it recoiled back toward the center of the deck and a man at the right side of the barrel quickly plunged a dripping wet swab on the end of a wooden ramrod down the bore. This was followed quickly by a second man placing the power bag followed by a wad of cloth into the muzzle, another dropping in the cannonball and then the second man returning with a second wad. After each item was placed in the barrel, the man on the right quickly leaned in with his ramrod and tamped the charge firmly in place. As soon as the final ramming was complete, all the men grabbed the ropes and hauled the heavy gun back into firing position and the third man, who Dex later learned was the gun captain, thrust a thin wire pick into a small hole in the top of the barrel at the rear and then poured a small amount of black powder into the hole. Up until now, the work had been done in frenzied silence, but as soon as the powder bag inside the bore had been pierced by his pick, the gun captain reached into a nearby wooden bucket, grabbed a short length of smoldering rope and bellowed, “Number eight ready.” at the top of his voice. As the other gun crews reported ready, the red-headed man stepped to each one and peered down the length of the barrel. On some of the guns he made an adjustment by tapping a wooden wedge under the rear of the barrel which moved the muzzle up or down. When he was satisfied, he tapped the gun captain on the shoulder and moved to the next cannon. When all the cannons had been loaded and adjusted, the red-headed man gave the command to fire and the cannons roared, either all at once or in sequence as he directed.
When the command finally came to end the gun drill, a final wet and then dry swab was run down the bores and leather caps were tied over the muzzles. The guns were then once again lashed tightly against the bulwarks. As the crews dispersed, Dex slumped tiredly against the mainmast only to be pulled to his feet by a sneering Quill. “We're not done yet, lubber,” he said. “We've still got to replace the fired shot.” Led by Quill, Dex stumbled once more down to the magazine where he was given a basket containing two of the eighteen pound cannon balls. He lugged it back to the weather deck and placed the balls in the rack attached to the bulwark by gun number eight and then did it again and again until the racks for his two cannons were full. Dex was leaning tiredly on the gunwale when he felt a jarring slap on the shoulder. He turned to see the red-headed man towering over him.
“I don't ken ye,” the man growled. “I be Ian Carmichael, master gunner. Who are you?”
“I'm Dexter Stockford,” Dex said. “I fell overboard from my ship and came here last night. Captain Campbell said I would be his clerk and help you and the cook.” Dex felt a little guilty about not telling the complete truth, but he understood that he couldn't tell everybody that he somehow came from the future. He still wasn't sure he believed it himself.”
“Well Mister Stockford, in battle the Captain requires my guns to fire a shot every two minutes and they will ne'er achieve that rate with powder monkeys as slow as you. I ken you've not done this chore before, but you will measure up by tomorrow or you will taste the flat of my cut
lass.” With a final scowl, Carmichael turned and strode away.
Dex was reeling from physical exhaustion and sensory overload. He stood, looking dully around through smoke-singed eyes then, suddenly realizing he was parched, headed forward to the water-butt lashed to the fore-mast for a drink. He'd just managed to swallow a mouthful of the disgusting water when Quill came up behind him. “Where have you been, Lubber; you're late for supper duty. Cook sent me to find you and I ain't got time to keep chasing you down.”
Chapter 6
When Quill finally pulled him from the galley, Dex had little recollection of the evening meal. Tired beyond caring and reeling as though sleepwalking, he allowed himself to be led along the passageway to their sleeping compartment.
The compartment was tiny; no more than eight feet deep and just wide enough for a pair of narrow double bunks against the side walls and the narrow aisle between them. Every visible surface was wood, raw and unfinished except where polished with use. There were a couple of shelves and a small wooden box at the end of each bunk and a tiny square table and two battered stools took up most of the central floor space. A single lantern hung from a ceiling so low that Dex could barely stand upright casting a feeble, yellow light that chased wavering shadows into the corners of the cramped quarters. Dex noticed several small carved wooden animals on a rough shelf among a tangle of short pieces of rope with complicated looking knots tied in them.
Quill folded himself into the lower bunk on the left side with a grunt saying, “You're on top, Lubber.” He nodded toward the other bunks. “That's Masters.”
Swaying in the doorway, Dex looked to the right and realized that there was a big form lying in the lower bunk. Large bare feet, then chocolate colored legs followed by a lean torso stretched out, and finally a tall, muscular black boy stood hunched in the aisle behind the table. He was dressed much the same as Dex and Quill but, unlike them, his clothes were clean and neat and his skin scrubbed clean. He looked appraisingly at Dex. “I heard rumors that we'd taken a witch aboard during the night,” he said. “Would that be you?” His voice was pleasingly low and his words came slowly and without malice.
Dex managed a small smile in response. “If I were a witch,” he said, “I'd conjure up a hot bath, some clean clothes and about ten hours of sleep.”
Masters laughed. “I can show you to a wash bucket for your face and a soak for your shirt and trousers and I'd wager you'll not have much trouble with the sleep, though, I fear, not the ten hours you desire.” He stepped around the table, hand outstretched. “Tobias Masters,” he said. “Welcome to the White Shark.”
Dex introduced himself and Masters led him toward the bow where several wooden buckets were scattered around a salt-water pump and a barrel of fresh water. “Soak your clothes in pump-water while you wash,” he said, “and here's a bit of soap for your face.”
Dex took the sticky sliver of gray soap and did as he was instructed. After scrubbing off as much of the grime as he could, he wrung out his clothing and padded back to the compartment in his underwear. Quill and Masters were asleep, so Dex hung his clothes over the foot of his bunk in the dark and was asleep himself as soon as he stretched out.
Dex dreamed that he was lost in a dark forest and running through a raging storm from some terrible danger. Crashing thunder deafened him and lightning stabbed his chest. In his hands he carried a cotton bag of gunpowder which he dare not drop, even as it turned into a large, hissing snake. He jerked awake to find himself lying on his back staring into a pair of malevolent, yellow eyes. The large gray cat on his chest arched its back and uttered a yowl that descended into a deep growl. As Dex started to raise a hand, the cat jumped from his chest with a final hiss, digging his ribs painfully with its claws as it scrambled for traction.
“It appears you are not to Oliver's liking.”
Dex turned his head to see a grinning Masters standing beside the bunk with a lantern in his hands. For a long moment he stared, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. “You're Masters,” he said finally.
“I am, although I would prefer to be Tobias.” Masters finished hanging the lantern. “You'd better be up and about,” he said, “the starboard watch is on deck and the Captain would have you join him in his cabin.”
Five minutes later Dex, his muscles tight from the previous day's unaccustomed labor and his clothes stiff and crusted from their saltwater wash, made his way painfully down the passageway to the Captain's door. As he passed the ladder leading to the weather deck, Dex heard the sound of heavy activity coming from above. He took a moment to climb up a step and stick his head out into the morning air. Although the sun was still low on the horizon, what appeared to be most of the crew was already hard at work in the chill morning air. Some of them were on their hands and knees, scrubbing the deck with flat, gray stones while others sluiced it down with seawater and still others worked overhead in the rigging or hauled on the long ropes along the gunwales to orders shouted from the quarterdeck. As Dex watched, the seaman named Miller who had been the first to see him on deck the day before glanced up and spotted him in the doorway. He glared at Dex and made a curious, gesture shaking his right fist at Dex with his index and pinky fingers extended, before hurrying off towards the bow. Shaking his head at Miller's odd behavior, Dex dropped back down the ladder and stepped to the Captain's door. A brisk “Come.” answered his knock, and he entered to find Captain Campbell and Alan Davis seated over breakfast. His squinted at the bright sunlight streaming through the stern windows. “Join us Mister Stockford,” said the Captain nodding at a stool at the side of his desk. “Perhaps you could do with some breakfast?”
Dex froze. “Breakfast, Mister, ah... the cook told me to be in the galley an hour before breakfast,” he gasped.
The Captain gestured at the stool again. “I've notified Mister Harnish that you will only be available to help with the evening meals from now on, “he said. “I think perhaps we can make better use of your time.”
Suddenly aware of the delicious aromas in the cabin, Dex sank onto the stool and accepted a plate piled high with ham, fresh fish and thick slabs of crusty bread. There was also butter, cheese and cold roast beef, with water and coffee to drink. Firmly focused on his meal, Dex did not notice the amused glances shared by the Captain and Mate. When he finally pushed away his plate, Captain Campbell rose and retrieved Dex's backpack from the chest at the side of the cabin. “I'd know more of your treasures,” he said sweeping breakfast dishes to the side and placing the knapsack on the desk, only to quickly pick it up and drop it to the floor behind the desk at a knock at the door. A moment later, Quill entered the cabin and began clearing the breakfast dishes into a large basket. He worked in silence, but the looks he shot Dex from beneath lowered brows were cold and unfriendly.
After Quill left, Captain Campbell once again put the backpack on the desk and pulled the zipper to open it. He tilted the contents out and singled out the chart and compass, saying, “We will be close to this area by midday and I would see how good your map is.”
Dex considered and then reached for the backpack. He opened a side compartment and took out the binoculars and handed them to the Captain. “These might help,” he said enjoying the puzzled look in the man's eyes. In moments, Captain Campbell had figured out how to unfold and use the binoculars, and while he and Davis stood at the stern windows taking turns looking through them at the ship's wake, Dex took the opportunity to remove the hunting knife from its compartment and hide it under his shirt.
Returning to the desk, Captain Campbell pushed the journal and pen toward Dex. “You will write down all that you can remember of what is to come,” he said. “Take your time and tell me of the wonders I can expect to see and of your world in the future. You will do that here, each morning, and you will not take that book from this cabin.” He gestured to the logbook on his desk. “From time to time, you will also make entries in the back of the ship's log as I direct. Do you have math?” At Dex's uncertain nod, he continued,
“Good, then you will also learn navigation. Whatever your duties, present yourself on the quarterdeck promptly before noon each day the sun shines. For now, Mister Davis and I have duties to see to, so we will leave you to begin your writing.”
As Captain Campbell and Davis made ready to leave the cabin, Dex took a deep breath and asked the question uppermost in his mind, “Uh, Sir, Quill told me this is a pirate ship,” he said. “Is that right? Is that why you have all the cannons?”
Captain Campbell hesitated. “Mayhap we are considered pirates by some,” he said evenly, “tho perhaps patriots by others. We do honest trade as we can and, as chance allows, right the wrongs the British do against us.” He looked hard at Dex. “And, none call us pirates to our face.” With that, he and Davis left the cabin.
Dex picked up his pen to begin his report and sat struggling to organize his thoughts, jotting down dates he remembered from history class and wondering how to describe a world more than two hundred years in the future in terms that Captain Campbell would understand. As he pondered, his thought turned to the question of if he would ever get home and see his family and friends again, and soon unnoticed tears glistened on his cheeks and stained the pages of his journal as he was overtaken by a tremendous wave of homesickness.
As Dex sat in the Captain's cabin, a small group of sailors huddled in the forecastle.
Bystander in Time Page 3