by Sam Barone
The latest raids and shifting weather had caught the English by surprise. In a few days, enough English warships would be back on station and the pirates would once again disappear into the rivers and harbors across the channel, to bide their time until the next opportunity arose.
“You’re the one what helped with the new guns,” Durkin said, moving easily across the deck and grinning at Antonio. “A good lad he was, too, helping the men lay the bronze brutes.”
“Only three men to a gun today,” Biggsley said. “Captain said to put him in charge of one of the new guns. Make sure he gets plenty of practice. He and Grimes made up the cartridges last night.”
Antonio stared at the guns. This morning they looked different, more menacing, not just seven foot long tubes manufactured in Nicolo’s foundry. Yesterday, Antonio had made certain that every detail needed to turn more than a ton of bronze and oak into an effective weapon worked properly. Like the still-gleaming weight they supported, the sturdy wooden carriages looked fresh and unweathered. Today he might be firing one in a real sea battle.
“You take charge of this beauty,” Durkin said, smacking his hand on the last weapon on the starboard side. “We’re short experienced men, so I can only give you one man what’s worked a gun before. You’ll have to train the other one.”
Antonio nodded, then turned to the two men standing beside his gun. One, an older seaman, had a dirty gray pigtail hanging down his back. A hook nose jutted above a thin mustache, and smallpox scars marked his face. The other sailor, young and brawny, looked about the same age as Antonio, but stood several inches taller.
“It takes at least four men to work a gun this size. How can . . .”
“Three’s all you’ll get, so don’t be whining like a landlubber,” Durkin said. “At sea you’ll do what you’re told, or the captain will have the cat o’ nine tails on your back. Now, roll the gun up and back a few times, to get the feel of her.”
Durkin turned on his heel and walked forward to see to his other charges. Antonio bit his lip, and turned to his crew. “What’s your names?”
“I’m Smith,” the older man said, showing half-blackened teeth in a wide grin. “This ignorant Welshman here’s named Bert.”
“I’m Antonio.” Taking off his jacket, he threw it against the bulkhead. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the flapping sails and the rushing water. He took a moment to examine the loops of rope that secured the gun and prevented it from shifting with the roll of the ship. “Let’s get started.”
Smith first showed him how to make the proper knots to secure the weapon, and how to untie them quickly. Smith, Bert, either of them could be killed, and Antonio might need to secure the cannon.
After he understood how to use the ropes, the three of them, muscles straining, worked the gun, the screech of wooden wheels turning against the deck adding to the din, as every gun crew on the line got to work. Smith showed how to take advantage of the ship’s motion; it made no sense to struggle against the roll of the ship if they could avoid it.
They shoved the cannon away from the gun port and back again, each exerting all his strength to move the stubborn mass of wood and metal that seemed determined to resist their efforts. The wheels that had turned so smoothly on the flat frames at the foundry now dragged against the unsteady deck.
Bert had the muscles and long arms to work the ungainly swabber, a six-foot-pole swathed with rags at one end and covered with sheepskin. Smith lowered a bucket over the side, filled it with seawater, then placed it between guns seven and eight. After firing, the hot barrel would contain smoldering bits of heated metal or cotton wadding. Before a fresh powder charge could be safely inserted, the wet swab had to be forced completely down the barrel, to extinguish any hot residue.
They went through a practice run, where Antonio stepped through the motions of loading the power charge, shoving it as far down the barrel as he could reach, then Smith would stuff in the wadding, a bundle of cotton padding and rags meant to ensure the gunpowder was seated properly at the weapon’s breech.
Bert also took charge of the rammer, another pole with a round box at one end covered with canvas used to pack the wadding tight against the charge. After Smith shoved a 12 pound cannon ball down the muzzle, Antonio would push another wad of padding down the barrel, this one meant to insure that the cannon ball didn’t roll out the end of the barrel when the muzzle was level with or lower than the breech. Bert, using all his strength, would pack that down as well.
Meanwhile, Antonio practiced priming the weapon by pretending to pour an ounce of fine gunpowder into the touchhole. The three of them then rolled the cannon forward again, until the barrel extended through the gun port. Antonio gave the order to stand clear, then pressed an unlit match to the touchhole.
In action, the gunpowder would ignite and burn its way down the touchhole, setting off the main charge and blasting the 12 pound round shot out the muzzle. The recoil would shove the gun away from the gun port, until checked by the carriage ropes fastened to ring bolts in the deck and looped around the gun’s cascabel, the thick round knob at the breech.
The three of them went through the process again and again, without actually loading the gun. Antonio would have preferred to fire a few shots, but apparently both cannon balls and powder were in short supply, and the Captain intended to waste neither.
The firing sequence was simple enough, but Antonio had never fired a weapon in such a confined space, with another gun only a few feet away, its crew jostling against Antonio’s as they all strove to clean, reload, and fire their weapons. At the foundry, Nicolo never permitted working two guns at the same time, let alone both weapons barely two long paces apart. Here, powder charges and burning matches would be in close proximity, a dangerous environment for any gunner.
Nearly two hours passed before Antonio and the other gunners had mastered the procedure to Durkin’s satisfaction. By then the gun crews were exhausted. Despite the brisk breeze, sweat stained Antonio’s armpits from moving the heavy cannon, and grime covered his hands. Even Bert’s powerful frame sagged against the bulwark the moment Durkin gave the order to rest. Antonio leaned against the gun carriage and studied the men around him. He saw signs of seasickness on more than a few faces, landlubbers like him who had never been to sea. To his surprise, His own stomach had steadied.
Smith, squatting on the deck beside Antonio, followed his gaze. “More than twenty new hands on board,” he said. “Most have never been to sea or worked a gun. God help us if we have to fight the Frenchies.”
“Do you think we will?” The brief rest rekindled his interest for battle.
“They’re not likely to hang around waiting for our Captain Stukeley to hove into view,” Smith answered. “I’ll wager they’re back in Calais by now, counting their gold. Still, we might get a bit of luck. The saints know Captain Stukeley could use some prize money.”
Antonio sat up, curious in spite of his aching muscles. “Is the prize money so important?”
“Bless you, boy, of course it is. It’s the only reason our captain ever puts to sea. The Queen gave him the Pinnace for a good price, but she only advanced half the money needed to outfit her. Captain Stukeley sunk every penny he could raise into her, but if he don’t pay off his debt to the Crown, good Queen Bess will be taking the Pinnace back again, thank you very much, and our captain will be headed for debtor’s prison. So he needs all the prizes he can get.”
Apparently Stukeley’s two moderately successful cruises had not been enough to erase his royal debt, or to outfit the ship properly. All the artillery on board had been older, mis-matched and cast-off pieces purchased from other captains or captured as booty. According to Smith, if one of the old iron cannons hadn’t “blown itself and its crew to kingdom come” on the last voyage, the captain would never have visited Nicolo’s foundry and parted with some of his recent gains.
“He paid good money for these two guns,” Antonio said. “He could have got four or five iron gun
s instead.”
“Aye, but Captain Stukeley likes to boast to his high and mighty friends a bit about his ship, and it’s hard to brag about iron guns, even new ones.”
Captain Stukeley hadn’t mentioned that a gun had exploded. Older weapons had a high failure rate. Harsh conditions at sea put additional stresses not only on the iron but on its wooden carriage as well. Flaws and cracks inherent in the casting of the barrels grew in size with each use of the weapon. Poorly made or very old guns tended to explode, especially under heavy use, bursting the barrel and likely killing anyone attending the weapon. Bronze weapons were somewhat safer, but even they could burst if overloaded or under heavy usage.
To avoid that, cautious gunners used smaller powder charges, which lessened not only the range but the effectiveness of the weapon. Even more important, if the men serving the cannon grew nervous about their gun, they became too cautious, a trait opposed to the very nature of a fighting ship.
“All right, you men, off your lazy butts,” Durkin shouted as he strode along the deck. “Get below and get something to eat.”
Smith and Bert were on their feet in an instant. “Come on, Antonio, before the food’s all gone.”
To his surprise, Antonio had forgotten about his stomach, and now felt an emptiness there. He trotted after Smith across the deck and down the hatch. The cook’s assistant passed out a quarter-loaf of bread and a handful of dried meat as the men passed by. Each man took a cup, and a boy standing beside the cook poured it full of ale.
They sat shoulder to shoulder on benches around a long dirty table. There were no utensils, and Antonio, like the rest of the sailors, used his knife to cut off chunks of the dried beef. Although only loaded aboard yesterday, it tasted foul to his tongue, though Bert and Smith chewed away with relish. The bread tasted better, though a bit stale, and Antonio ate all of it. Still hungry, he forced himself to take another bite of the beef, but one mouthful was all he could force down.
“You’d better eat that jerky, Antonio,” Smith said. “You’ll get nothing else until the watch is over, and maybe not even then if there’s any fighting.”
One more bite, and he’d be sick again. “I can’t finish it, Smith. You take it.” He drained his ale, grateful for the chance to quench his thirst.
The sailor took the unfinished portion from Antonio’s hand and quickly wolfed it down. “You’ll get used to it. After a few months, you’ll think it’s as fine as any beef pie you’ve ever eaten.” Smith started to laugh, but a drum beat overhead cut him short.
“All hands.” Turner’s voice boomed out overhead. “All hands to your stations. Rig ship for action! Gun crews, man your guns!”
Chapter 6
At the first sound of the drum, most of the crew started moving, the experienced sailors dragging the suddenly fearful landlubbers with them. Antonio followed Smith, surprised at how fast the men moved up the ladder and across the crowded deck. In moments they’d returned to their station at the number eight gun.
Everyone rushed about, working the sails and clearing the decks, and Antonio’s gun crew had their own tasks to complete. Bert fastened the gun port open, while Smith loosened the ropes. They threw their weight against the gun carriage, rolling it back as far as the lashings permitted. Smith jerked out the quoin, the wedge used to adjust the barrel’s elevation, and Bert raised the muzzle to its maximum.
“Load your guns,” Durkin called out, echoing a command from the quarterdeck.
A boy no older than 10 worked his way toward them, struggling to carry one of the wooden trays Antonio had filled last night. He scooped up the last two serge cartridge bags from the tray, and the excited lad ran off.
Antonio checked the cartridges, to make sure they were the ones he’d loaded and marked for the new weapons. He pushed one down the barrel, and Bert rammed it home. Antonio lifted the heavy cannon ball from the rack and handed it to Smith, who dropped it down the barrel. Using the rammer, Bert shoved the shot all the way down the gun barrel, checking to see that the tar mark on the staff matched the muzzle of the cannon, to make certain the projectile stood flush against the charge. Smith added the wadding the instant Bert removed the ram, and the thick packing was also rammed home. Now the gun stood loaded.
They heaved the gleaming weapon back into position, and Antonio made sure the ropes were attached properly and the slack taken up. Satisfied, he used his knife to pierce the second cartridge bag, and despite the moving deck, carefully poured a handful of powder down the touchhole. Now the weapon needed only the touch of a flame to blast the projectile from the barrel.
At the foundry, everyone except the gunner now would have stood well off to the side. But on the Pinnace, there wasn’t enough space between the weapons for all the gun crews, so Antonio’s team moved to the rear of the gun, trusting that the ropes would stop the weapon’s backward recoil. Antonio reminded himself to watch his feet. If the carriage wheels rolled over his foot, he would probably never walk straight again.
“Gun number eight ready,” Antonio called out, remembering just in time the order to report. His voice sounded weak and thin in the brisk wind. Nevertheless, he felt satisfied that his was one of the first cannons to be readied.
“Gun number seven ready,” came from the next gun. Other voices called out down the starboard side.
Eager to see the pursuit, Antonio looked out over the ship’s rail. He could still see the English coast, but the Pinnace had changed course to intercept the privateer and now moved deeper into the channel. Waves struck the Pinnace’s bow as she thrashed her way southwest, fighting the wind and water. Spray from the bowsprit rose up higher than the ship’s deck.
Not satisfied, he stepped up on the gun carriage and leaned out to look ahead. A steady gust of wind pushed against his back, while sea spray struck his face and the waves rushed beneath him. Antonio felt as excited as if he were racing across the waves on his horse. He wondered how he would react when the fighting started.
“There they be,” Smith said. He’d moved beside Antonio, and pointed toward the west. Antonio could see two patches of white on the horizon, both moving at an angle to the Pinnace’s course. To Antonio, it appeared as though the three ships would converge at some point, but he wasn’t sure. Fascinated, he stared at the distant sails.
“A Frenchie and his prize, and we’re closing on ‘em,” Smith said, his teeth bared in anticipation. “We’ve got the wind behind us, while the Frenchie has to wait on that lubberly tub of a merchant.”
In a few moments, even Antonio could see that the Pinnace was closing on the two ships, decreasing the distance between them at an increasing rate. A shout from First Mate Turner lifted his head.
On the quarterdeck above him, Antonio saw Captain Stukeley, his eyes focused on the ships ahead. Stukeley had donned a breastplate of Spanish steel, with a steel morion on his head, and carried his sword fastened at his waist. The butt of a pistol protruded from his belt.
Antonio stepped back from the rail and moved to the rear of the gun. The cartridge boy returned carrying a lamp, the first time Durkin had permitted fire near the guns. Antonio hung the lamp from a hook on the quarterdeck wall, between guns seven and eight. Antonio selected a length of slow match from the storage tub and shoved it in his pocket. Meanwhile Durkin paced behind the four guns under his command, making sure every gun stood ready to fire.
“Relax, Antonio,” Durkin said. “At least a quarter of an hour before we meet up with ‘em.”
Antonio swallowed hard and nodded. A sailor carrying an armload of cutlasses arrived, and passed one out to each man. Another seaman struggled to balance half a dozen boat hooks over his shoulder, handing them off to the gun crews as he moved his way down the line.
Working the cannon, Antonio realized, might not be the only task facing him. The Pinnace’s crew might have to fend off the French ship or repel boarders. The heavy blade of the cutlass felt awkward, not like the slender fencing swords he’d practiced with. This weapon was designed for n
othing but brute strength, to be swung as hard as possible at your opponent’s head, or thrust viciously into his stomach.
The experienced sailors laid their weapons down along the bulkhead, securing them with a bit of rope, so Antonio did the same. Durkin nodded approvingly, and Antonio noticed that the gun captain carried a long black pistol in his belt in addition to his cutlass.
The Pinnace had spread every sail she could carry, and fairly bounded across the water, rising and falling at a dizzying pace. A cry rang out for all hands, and Smith pulled Antonio by the arm.
“All hands means anyone not doing anything. That’s us, for now.”
They joined a crowd of sailors heaving on a rope that ran through a pulley attached to the mainmast. The coarse rope burned against Antonio’s palms, but he tightened his grip and added his strength to the others against the pressure of the wind. He watched with interest as the huge sail turned ponderously on the mast, the muscles of the crew overcoming the force of the wind.
“Avast heaving! Make fast.” Mr. Turner’s voice, amplified by his two hands, carried the length of the ship, despite the competing sounds of wind and water.
“Back to your station, Antonio.” Durkin grinned as he spoke. “You always need to be where you’re supposed to be, unless you want Mr. Turner on your back.”
The sea chase continued, and now Antonio detected details of the two ships. One was about the same size as the Pinnace, the other larger. The next time Durkin came by, Antonio turned to face him.
“Can they out sail us, Mr. Durkin?”
“Aye, the Frenchie might show us his heels. He’s probably faster, but not as handy in a running sea like this. He’ll not want to leave his prize behind. He’ll fight if he has to, especially against a ship as small as the Pinnace.”