Bystander in Time

by Richard Stockford

  “I'm telling ye, he's a demon and this ship and all who sail her will be damned if he stays aboard.” Bint Miller had heard the story that Dex was a castaway, saved after two days afloat, but he instinctively knew it to be a lie. He had seen the difference in Dex's eyes and felt the strange fabric he wore. Miller, superstitious and afraid, spoke in low, urgent tones determined to make his point. Most of the men around him nodded their agreement, but a few were a little more restrained.

  “I seen him at the wash bucket last night” said Colin Small, one of the oldest seamen aboard. “He looked natural enough to me.”

  “He is not natural,” insisted Miller. “I tell you he's a Jonah-devil straight from the fires of Hell and we need to get him off this ship.” Another man spoke up. “Even if he ain't a demon, he damned sure ain’t a seaman and to me, he’s got the smell of a Jonah alright.”

  Weldon Quill was rodent-like in his furtive movements as well as his looks. Unnoticed by the seamen, he had stepped onto the forecastle ladder and stood quietly listening to their comments. When they finally spotted him they quickly broke up, leaving him to wonder how he could use their superstitious fear of Dex to his own advantage.

  Chapter 7

  After a couple of hours and two pages of disjointed historical notes, Dex pushed wearily away from Captain Campbell’s desk and went in search of some fresh air. When he reached the deck, a chill had replaced the warmth of the sun and the early morning's open vistas of sea and sky had been compressed by low lying gray clouds and banks of dense oily fog. The deck and bulwarks were wet to the touch and the normal ship sounds of creaking cordage, groaning timbers, shushing waves and fluttering sails were strangely hushed in the damp air as were the sounds of the men moving about the deck.

  Captain Campbell and Alan Davis were standing on the quarterdeck, and at the Captain's nod, Dex climbed to join them. He had just stepped off the ladder when he caught a brief, shadowy movement out of the corner of his eye. His startled, “Hey.” was drowned out by the loud simultaneous yells of “Sail Ho!” from the masthead lookout and several sailors on deck. Captain Campbell and Davis whirled to stare at the apparition that loomed suddenly beyond the starboard rail.

  The massive ship flickering silently through the edges of the fog appeared to be painted in shades of gray with the only splash of color provided by the British Union Jack flying at her masthead. A mountain of off-white sails on three impossibly tall masts towered over the White Shark and a gray-brown hull studded with three long lines of black cannon ports filled the near horizon. The massive ship was bearing down on them on an intercept course from the right rear quarter and was close enough that Dex could hear the sound of her bow wave and make out the surprised expressions on the faces of the men at her weather deck rail.

  Captain Campbell’s voice was calm as he said, “Fall off to larboard Mister Wills,” to the bosun on deck. “Reverse our course and bear to the west behind her. Once we're out of sight in the fog, we'll turn south.” Dex watched as sailors ran to man the lines that changed the set of the sails, and at the Captain's command, the wheel was spun and the great gaff sail boom swept across the quarterdeck bringing the nimble ship skidding around onto her new heading. After a momentary lull, the sails filled again with the sound of thunder and the White Shark heeled over on her starboard side.

  “She’s coming about to port,” said Davis who was watching the warship intently.

  “Aye,” answered Campbell. “Jack Tar's curious. Let’s have the topsl’s' and the rest of the jibs up and belay the turn to the south. If we run east, nor-east in this breeze, we should have the legs of her.” Sailors scrambled into the rigging and White Shark heeled further under the additional canvas she vanished into the billowing fog.

  For the next hour, White Shark ran to the north east in an impenetrable gray cocoon the crew tense and quiet. The wind that had been strong from the east became inconsistent and Dex could see concern on their faces as the White Shark’s speed rose and fell in the fitful air. As the midday meal was ending, the fog began to lift, becoming patchy with occasional bright shafts of sunlight playing across the sea. Captain Campbell ordered extra lookouts aloft and scarcely had done so when the cry came down, “Sail ho, astern and ten points to port.”

  A triangle of white sails had appeared out of the fog off the left stern of the White Shark. They were well back, but Dex could easily make out the hull beneath them when White Shark rose to the top of each wave. Captain Campbell handed him the binoculars. “She's a British man-o-war,” he said, “a seventy-four gun ship of the line, mayhap the Bedford. She's been aprowl in these waters of late. Climb up a bit and take a look.” He gestured to the rope ladder-like ratlines running from the starboard gunwale to the fighting top halfway up the mast. With the binocular strap around his neck, Dex pulled himself up onto the gunwale and apprehensively began to climb but, with the ship heeling hard to port, the climb proved not very steep and before he knew it, he had reached the small observation platform some forty feet above the deck. A large, brown hand reached down through a square opening in the wooden platform and a grinning Tobias Masters pulled Dex up. “Hold fast,” he said as Dex scrambled to the middle of the platform and wrapped his arms around the thick mast. Now that he was no longer climbing, he was acutely aware of the ship's motion, greatly exaggerated more than fifty-feet above the water. Although he was not ready to stand nonchalantly, one hand on the mast as Masters was, after a couple of minutes Dex felt a little less nervous and scooted over to sit with his legs sticking out through the low railing. From this vantage point, he could see the entire massive warship behind them and, with the binoculars, was even able to see individual sailors on the decks and men in blue uniforms at the stern.

  At a yell from the bosun below, Dex watched as sailors swarmed up the ratlines and out onto the horizontal spars to adjust the sails. They perched precariously on ropes that ran under the spars, seemingly unconcerned at the danger, and the White Shark's heel increased as additional sails were sheeted into place.

  Dex looked at Masters. “I don't get it,” he said. “Why are we running away? We're not at war with the British.” ‘Yet’ he added in his own mind.

  “There may not be a war on land, but at sea the British Navy does as it pleases. They stop and board American ships and press the best of their crews and, no doubt, that's what she intends to do with us.”

  “Press?” Dex asked

  “The Crown has a multitude of ships and far too few sailors to go around. It claims the right to impress seamen from American ships on the high sea and even from the streets of Boston. They do the same with their own men in England. They are forced to serve unless they can escape ashore and, if they do, then they are branded deserters.”

  Dex was stunned. “But...but, that's kidnapping. They can't do that.”

  Masters chuckled. “They can and they do. The Captain and Mister Davis, aye, and a good number of the crew, were pressed and are escaped from the royal navy and will run, or fight, as they must to remain free.” He sobered. “Aboard the White Shark there is special reason to avoid the crown's ships. This ship was once one of theirs…before the Captain stole it.”

  Before Masters could explain further, Captain Campbell pulled himself up onto the platform and held out his hand for the binoculars.

  “I did not mean for you to go aloft,” the Captain said mildly. “Perhaps you're to be a seaman after all.”

  For the next several hours, the British warship grew slowly but steadily closer until the binoculars were no longer necessary to make out her details. A large, creamy wave foamed at her bow and her masts seemed to tower higher and higher against the afternoon sky.

  Dex reluctantly climbed down from the masthead when Masters reminded him of his galley duties. He reported to Mister Harnish and worked steadily for two hours while the crew ate a meal of salt pork, peas, biscuit and hard cheese in shifts. After another hour of cleaning up in the galley, he made a huge sandwich of bread, butter and cheese, gr
abbed a withered apple and a mug of something called small beer and took it all up on deck to eat. He relaxed with his back to the bulwark between the cannons he had serviced in the gun drill and had just taken his first bite when he heard a distant heavy thud, followed seconds later by a second one, and then a raucous cheer from the men on deck. He stuffed the apple into his pocket and crammed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth as he ran aft and climbed unbidden onto the quarterdeck, where Captain Campbell and Alan Davis still stood at the rail, and looked astern to see deck of the British ship wreathed in tendrils of white smoke. While he watched, more smoke bloomed from the bow and again the double thuds sounded. This time, Dex saw two splashes in the water between the two ships and then two more as the cannonballs bounced on the surface of the sea well behind them like stones skipped on a pond. He felt a chill crawl down his back as he realized that the bigger ship was actually shooting at them.

  “Long nines, I'd judge,” said Davis who was holding a small telescope to his eye. “Shall we return the favor, Captain?”

  Campbell examined the sky and the sea around them. “Nay,” he said at last. “The breeze will die with the sun which will slow them. I think we might gain the favor of darkness before they close and I would neither waste the powder and ball nor give them further reason to pursue.”

  For the next couple of house, the White Shark maintained a tenuous lead over the British ship until with the darkness of a moonless night came more fog and a dying breeze which favored the smaller, lighter ship. The giant warship grew gradually dimmer in their wake until finally Dex could no longer make it out with the naked eye. At the Captain's orders, the White Shark showed no lights and the crew made no noise as the she slipped into the night.

  Chapter 8

  When Dex finally made his way below, the cabin was dark and reverberating with gurgling, guttural snores coming from Quill's bunk. The air inside was oppressive, heavy with the smells of unwashed bodies and lamp smoke. He went forward and scrubbed his hands and face at the water barrel and then climbed back to the deck through the forward hatch, made his way up onto the forecastle and curled up for a moment on large coil of rope in the bow. He looked up and marveled at the stars, brighter and more numerous than he had ever seen them, and felt a little touch of home when he spotted the constellation of Orion, an old friend of many camping trips. Another crushing wave of homesickness brought hot tears to his eyes as he finally slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  Dex awoke with the dawn, still curled up on the coil of rope and with the sounds of the crew starting their daily scrubbing of the White Shark's decks. Tobias Masters was standing beside him with a mop in hand. “The Captain's looking for you on the quarterdeck,” he said.

  “Thanks, Tobias.” Dex got to his feet and started for the ladder.

  “Uh, Dex,” said Masters quietly, casually glancing over his shoulder, “you might not want to be sleeping alone on deck until the crew gets to know you a little better.”

  Dex was puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Masters hesitated. “Sailors are a superstitious lot,” he said finally. “There're many that fear what they don't know, and maybe some on this ship that are afraid of you and some that wonder why the Captain allows you the freedom of his cabin and the quarterdeck that is denied to them. You best try not to be alone for a while.” With that, Masters moved off swiping his mop over an already spotless deck leaving Dex to ponder his remarks as he started for the stern.

  As he had the day before, Captain Campbell invited Dex to breakfast in his cabin along with Alan Davis. As they ate, the two men asked question after question about the coming war and the future of the colonies. Dex struggled to remember his American History, but could only answer in broad outlines. “Well, 'tis perhaps enough to know that we will prevail,” said Campbell finally. He thought for a moment. “From now on,” he said, “you will take your breakfast with the crew, but come to my cabin each day and continue to write down what you can tell us of the future, if you please.”

  Dex nodded. “Tobias Masters told me some of the crew might be afraid of me,” he said in a questioning tone, “or, maybe jealous because you talk to me and let me on the quarterdeck.”

  Campbell snorted. “He may have the truth of it,” he said. “Most of the crew has spent time in the Royal Navy where there are rigid rules and very stringent command structures. On a British warship, a sailor could be flogged for stepping onto the quarterdeck unbidden or speaking to an officer out of turn, and one getting away with it could be seen by the rest of the crew as a spy or worse.” He sighed. “Mayhap they need to see you feeling the sharp side of my tongue, lest they think I favor you too much.”

  In the next few days, Dex fell into the bewildering rhythm of shipboard life. He forced himself to sleep in the stifling confines of the below-decks cabin, rising each day with the crew, working the pump and lugging buckets of water as they scrubbed the decks before wolfing down a breakfast of salt pork or beef and biscuit. When he could think of something new to write, he spent some time with his journal in the Captain's cabin but more often he took his part in deck duties or followed Tobias Masters into the rigging for long talks during lookout shifts. Although Dex guessed he and Tobias were about the same age, he sensed a level of wisdom and maturity in the other boy that seemed far beyond his years. From their conversations, Dex learned that the White Shark was a British naval vessel that had been captured by the French in a sea battle and, badly damaged, had been taken to a small French navel depot on the English Channel and rebuilt. Jacob Campbell, then an impressed seaman on Devonshire, a British Man-o-war, was part of a daring raid to steal her back from the French. After being dropped off at the harbor mouth in longboats, the twenty-two man raiding party made its way in under cover of the predawn darkness and easily overwhelmed the sleepy skeleton crew aboard White Shark. Putting the defeated Frenchmen ashore, they cast loose, raised sail and made for the open sea to rendezvous with Devonshire, only to see her come under vicious attack by three French warships that had suddenly appeared to seaward out of the dawn mists. By the time White Shark could maneuver out of the harbor against the wind, the battle had moved up the coast and she was left alone on the sea. The raiding crew had consisted of nineteen sailors commanded by a Royal Navy Lieutenant and two midshipmen. Seeing an opportunity for freedom, Campbell had quickly organized nine other men who had also been impressed from both British and American merchant ships and together, they overcame the British officers and took control of the ship. Putting the five sailors who would not join them adrift in a small boat along with the British officers, Campbell and his small crew turned south and, for the next two weeks, raided small, undefended French fishing villages for food and supplies. Although severely shorthanded, the crew elected Campbell as Captain and voted to leave the war-torn European waters for home and the relative safety of colonies, and the White Shark sailed west to begin her new life as an American trading vessel and unofficial member of the fledgling colonial navy.

  Each day, just before noon, Dex, Tobias, and Quill, reported to the Captain on the quarterdeck for the noon sighting. When the sun stood directly overhead, Campbell and each boy used a sextant to measure its angle with the horizon. Dex was required to record the date and time of the sighting, along with the final angle as determined by the Captain, in the log. Quill seemed to be able to match the Captain's findings most of the time, but Tobias was often off by a fraction and, although Dex could manipulate the brass sextant, he was totally mystified by the theory and the math behind the process.

  After the noon meal, the crew usually trained in either ship maneuvering or cannon drills. Unlike the first day, the cannons were usually not actually fired, but the men were driven hard through the motions as though the ship were in actual combat. Except for the noontime navigation training and his duties in the galley and at gun drill, Dex found himself largely on his own and spent as much time as he could with Tobias Masters. During their free time, Masters taught Dex element
s of seamanship and also, at the direction of Captain Campbell, the use of the cutlass and boarding axe. “I’ll have no man aboard unable to defend himself in a deck action,” had been his words. As they practiced the rudiments of slash and parry, Weldon Quill missed no opportunity to mock Dex’s clumsy attempts at swordsmanship as he demonstrated his own finely honed skills.

  When their duties allowed, Tobias patiently answered Dex’s questions about shipboard society as he laboriously carved on pieces of scrap wood or bone with his sailor's knife. Although the blade was large and somewhat clumsy, Masters produced incredible likenesses of small animals and other artifacts which he traded with other crew members for clothing and the occasional piece of hard candy. Besides his knife, Tobias' other prized possession was a small battered ledger which he used as a journal, recording his thoughts and memories anytime he could borrow the use of quill and ink. Masters told Dex of his upbringing in the servants' quarters of a wealthy New England household. Although favored with schooling and in training as a clerk in his master's business, he had run away at the age of twelve following an argument with the son of his master and Captain Campbell had found him, cold and starving, on the Boston waterfront and offered him a job. Dex spoke only vaguely of his own background, and was always careful to disguise the true source of his nautical ignorance, but he could tell that Tobias sensed that there was more to his story than met the eye. Quill, who was supposed to be in charge of Dex's training, generally ignored Dex except to point out his nautical shortcomings and jeeringly call him 'lubber' at every opportunity. Several times Dex saw the older boy watching him with a mean calculating look on his pinched face and he sensed that Quill would never be his friend. When he mentioned Quill’s evident animosity, Tobias reminded him that Quill had temporarily escaped mess duty when Dex had become his replacement but was now back at the hated task.