by Sam Barone
When Antonio saw the privateer begin to list, he knew Captain Stukeley had won the battle. Now in danger of sinking, the Frenchman hoisted a white flag. Stukeley turned his efforts toward the captured prize, only a quarter mile astern, but she, too, had taken enough punishment. Another white flag was raised. The battle was over.
Despite the white flags, Captain Stukeley took no chances. Using a speaking trumpet, he ordered the privateer’s crew into the two longboats the French vessel carried, packing every man in until both boats looked ready to swamp.
Meanwhile, the privateers aboard the Mary Conception released the captured English crew, who promptly took back control of their ship. With both the English galleon and the privateer under the Pinnace’s guns, Stukeley sent Turner and a prize crew aboard the valuable English captive.
Durkin, his hoarse voice barely a whisper after all the shouting, gave the order for the gun crews to stand down, but keep the cannons loaded. Antonio slumped over the gun carriage, more tired than he’d ever been in his life. The bronze tube remained too hot to touch, and he had no idea of how many rounds he had fired.
Covered with burnt gunpowder and choked with thirst, Antonio followed Bert and Smith to the water butt, where he had to shove his way past a dozen other men to get a cup of water. He gulped it down greedily, then refilled it twice more, until he quenched his thirst and washed most of the gunpowder residue from his throat.
In less than an hour, the three ships began the journey back to London. The merchantman, her original crew now guarding their former captives, led the way. The privateer followed, towing her former crew in the two boats, while the Pinnace brought up the rear, her guns still ready to deal with any resistance should the Frenchies try to retake the ship.
The French crew, almost a 140 men crowded into the long boats, knew better than to attempt anything foolish. A single cannon ball would sink the precarious lifeboats, or they could be run beneath the waves by the hull of the Pinnace.
Antonio looked around. He still didn’t know what to do. With the prize crew dispatched to the privateer, there were scarcely enough men to keep the Pinnace afloat. One of the mates spotted Antonio and his crew standing idle, and shouted for them to join those manning the pumps. The Pinnace had taken plenty of damage, and two hoses struggled to empty the dirty green water out of her hull and over the side. He’d scarcely begun that labor when he heard his name.
“Antonio, belay that order. Come up here.”
He looked up to see Captain Stukeley standing above him. Mounting the short flight of steps, Antonio stood for the first time on the quarter deck, his arms and legs still trembling from his exertions.
“Your father’s cannons performed well today, Antonio. You must give him my compliments. And inform him I’ll be ordering quite a few more. Reclaiming that merchantman will yield me a quarter of her value, including the cargo.”
“Yes, sir . . . I mean, Captain. I’ll tell my father.”
“You did well yourself, seaman. You readied your guns as fast as any, and took time to make each shot count.”
The gruff words of praise gave Antonio as big a thrill as the fight itself, to realize that Captain Stukeley had observed his handling of the gun. “Thank . . . thank you, sir.” He hoped the captain hadn’t seen how frightened he’d been.
“I think you’ll make a fine addition to my crew. Now go help with the pumps. I don’t want to sink before we reach London.”
Chapter 7
Captain Stukeley’s exhausted crew had cheered when the Frenchman hauled down her colors, but the tough sea captain allowed his men no rest. The Pinnace had four sailors killed and six wounded. One of the gun carriages on the port side had been smashed to splinters. Another cannon ball had punched a hole into the Pinnace at her water line, and the ship was taking on water.
That damage occurred early in the fight, but first mate Turner had dispatched some of the crew into the hold to keep the pumps manned, backbreaking labor that could exhaust a man in minutes. The moment the fighting stopped, the carpenter and his assistants started patching the hull from within. Meanwhile, three sailors went over the side and into the water with an old sail, its surface thickened by stitching rope yarns and oakum, to help staunch the flow of water.
The Pinnace had been shorthanded before the battle. What with the casualties, the men working the pumps, and the prize crew sent onboard the captured privateer, Stukeley barely had enough seamen to sail the ship and make repairs. Everyone had to make do, including Antonio.
To Antonio’s surprise, Gunner Biggsley ordered him to secure the guns, then Biggsley and Durkin rushed off to lead the boarding party headed for the Mary Conception. With the merchantman’s crew freed, they could take control of their own ship.
Antonio found himself supervising the starboard guns. That included, as Durkin explained in a few brief sentences before dashing after the gunner, removing and re-stowing the powder and shot, cleaning the weapons, checking the lashings, and securing the guns against the ship’s roll. Even though Durkin left Bert and Smith to assist Antonio, the task took more than two hours of hard labor before they finished making fast the seven undamaged guns.
The dismounted gun’s barrel had cracked from the impact, and he knew it would never fire again. But even scrap iron had salvage value, so they cleared away the debris and rolled the metal barrel against the bulwark, lashing it down with an entire coil of rope. Antonio wound up securing the powder charges himself, making a half dozen careful trips back to the magazine.
By the time he’d finished, darkness had fallen, and the little convoy of ships, taking advantage of a favorable breeze, had crept more than halfway back to London. Antonio reported the guns secured to Captain Stukeley, who nodded absently and ordered Antonio to check the port guns as well.
Finishing up the guns gave Antonio no rest. Stukeley sent him and his gun crew to the pumps. The ship’s carpenter and his assistants had sealed most of the hole, but some water still worked its way past the patch into the lower deck, despite the hasty repairs. Only strenuous efforts by weary men, who struggled in shifts against the pump handles, kept the Pinnace afloat. Even taking a break every quarter hour, Antonio couldn’t manage more than two hours of the exhausting labor.
At 10 o’clock that night, the three ships dropped anchor back in London. Soldiers, dockworkers, sailors, and a good-sized crowd of idlers were present, and cheered the Pinnace’s arrival. Captain Stukeley, eager to assess the value of his prize, raced down the gangplank the moment it touched the wharf, the first man off the ship. He left Turner the task of securing the vessel and continuing the repairs.
A detachment of 60 soldiers in scarlet jackets and shakos marched up and took charge of the captured Frenchmen. All of them were wet, exhausted, and miserable after their journey in the overcrowded open boats. Antonio sagged against the rail and stared as the soldiers fastened the privateers’ hands and escorted them off to prison.
First mate Turner had come back aboard the Pinnace as soon as the merchantman docked, and another two hours passed before he deemed the ship secure and in no danger of sinking beside the wharf. Unsure of what to do, and with no one shouting orders at him, Antonio slumped down on the deck and leaned against the bulkhead, grateful for the chance to rest. Never in his life had he worked so hard. Before he could decide what to do next, Durkin and a few of his mates came up the ladder from the deck below.
“Come on, boy,” Durkin shouted. “We’re headed for the Crow and Anchor.”
Ignoring Antonio’s protests, Durkin dragged him to his feet. A moment later, they left the ship, heading for the crew’s favorite tavern.
Inside the crowded common room, Antonio gulped down a mug of the heavy ale, strong spirits unlike anything he’d drunk at home. The crew of the Pinnace might be exhausted, but none of them intended to miss an opportunity to celebrate their victory. Each sailor would earn a handful of extra shillings from today’s action, their share of the prize money, and the innkeeper willingly extende
d credit to any who needed it. Durkin explained to Antonio that he wouldn’t receive anything, since he had not signed on as an official member of the crew.
Antonio didn’t care. Captain Stukeley and his crew were the heroes of London at the moment, and the sailors intended to take every advantage of their status. A second round of the powerful brew followed. Everyone talked at the same time, each shouting to be heard over the din of laughter, singing, and endless toasts to their victory.
An hour passed, then another. Too tired to do much more than nurse his third ale, Antonio watched wide-eyed as Durkin, Bert, Smith, and the others drank themselves into inebriation, emptying mug after mug, and telling the details of the fight over and over again.
As the ale took hold, Antonio found himself laughing and singing with the rest. He didn’t notice First Mate Turner’s arrival until he felt the man’s big hand on his collar. He lifted Antonio off his bench, ignoring the ale that spilled on the table.
“Come with me, my lad,” Turner said. “Captain Stukeley wants to see you.” Gripping Antonio by the arm, Turner dragged his surprised and unresisting charge through the crowded tavern, while Durkin and the others shouted drunken goodbyes. Outside, the brisk night air soon cleared the smell of ale from Antonio’s lungs. He saw a carriage waiting a few steps from the tavern door.
More than a little drunk and too weary to protest, Antonio didn’t notice the man leaning against the carriage until Turner pushed him into the man’s arms.
“Here’s your man, mate,” Turner said. Without another word, he turned around and headed back to the tavern.
Antonio discovered that the hands gripping his arms belonged to Maffeo.
“Time to go home, Antonio. Your father’s waiting for you.”
***
No lights burned in the house when they arrived home. Everyone had gone to bed and no sounds came from the servants’ side of the house. Maffeo and Antonio needed no candle to guide their way upstairs, treading the familiar steps until they reached Antonio’s bedroom at the back of the house. Maffeo stopped at the doorframe, a deeper shadow.
“I forgot to tell you. Bernardo got back last night. He wanted to be here for your birthday. Your father wants to see you both at breakfast tomorrow, so I’d be pleased if you’d give me your word to remain in your room tonight. Otherwise I’ll have to nail your door shut, and I don’t want to wake the whole house.”
Sluggish from the ale, Antonio could smile at that. Honor meant everything to Maffeo, and Antonio couldn’t bear the thought of embarrassing his old mentor.
“I’ll stay, Maffeo. I’m too exhausted to argue with anyone.”
“Good. Now get to sleep. It’s well past midnight.” Maffeo patted him on the shoulder and left, shutting the door behind him.
Antonio collapsed onto his bed, too tired to take off his clothes. He fumbled a blanket around him, glad that he would see Bernardo in the morning. Then he fell asleep, or more likely, passed out from the combination of exhaustion, lack of sleep, and too much spirits.
The first light of dawn shone through the window when Maffeo woke him, a pint mug of fresh water in his hand. One of the serving women followed Maffeo into the room, carrying a basin, pitcher of water, a fresh linen towel, and a wash rag so he could clean the dirt and gunpowder from his body. Antonio’s head throbbed from last night’s drinking and his hands shook as he took the water from Maffeo’s hand.
By the time he’d emptied the mug, the servant had gone.
“Is Father very angry at me?” His voice sounded hoarse, and Antonio remembered he’d been shouting orders over the roar of the cannons.
“No, not angry. Just disappointed. You running off like that . . . he blamed himself. Said he must have failed to teach you properly.”
His thirst quenched, Antonio looked at his filthy and odorous clothing, amazed that he’d been able to sleep wearing them. He stripped them off, ignoring the chill in the room until he stood naked. He used the rag, dampened in the basin, to clean himself, paying special attention to his face, hair, and hands. When he finished, the basin water and wash rag had turned black from the dirt and burnt gunpowder, and the towel looked almost as bad.
“Put on your good pantaloons and a clean shirt,” Maffeo said. “Your father wants to speak with all of us. And hurry. They’re waiting breakfast.”
The house seemed quiet when Antonio came down the stairs. Unusual at this hour, the front door remained closed and barred, and he heard none of the usual servants moving about.
In the dining room he found Nicolo, Maffeo, and Bernardo. Margaret, the housekeeper, came in behind Antonio. She must have been waiting for him to descend.
“Good morning, Father.” The word sounded strange on his lips. Whatever punishment might befall Antonio he would accept it without argument. At least the sight of Bernardo cheered him. Tall and dark-featured, Bernardo looked much like his father. As far back as Antonio could remember, his older brother had been his protector, friend, and idol. “It’s good to see you, Bernardo. Good morning, Maffeo.”
“Take your seat, Antonio.” Nicolo’s voice sounded weary, older.
As soon as Antonio sat down, Nicolo bowed his head and recited the morning prayer, thanking the Lord for their food and asking His blessing for the family. Antonio murmured his own prayers, as did the others. The moment Nicolo ended the brief oration, Margaret returned, carrying a pitcher of weak ale and a big wooden bowl of porridge.
No one spoke as she ladled out the porridge, and Maffeo went round the table and poured the ale. Bread and salt already rested on a platter, the bread cut into thick slices. When Margaret finished, she looked toward his uncle.
“Thank you, Margaret. That will be all.”
Maffeo rose again and followed the housekeeper from the room. After a moment, Antonio heard the front door open and close. Maffeo returned and sat down without a word. Antonio, still thirsty, drank half his cup of ale before touching his porridge, the scent of the fresh cream reminding him that he’d eaten nothing since before the battle. He dipped his bread into the porridge as he ate. He’d emptied the bowl before he looked up, to find Bernardo, a smile on his face, looking at him.
“Drinking and fighting does give you an appetite, doesn’t it,” Bernardo said.
Antonio’s face flushed with embarrassment. He’d gulped his food down like any common peasant. But neither his father or Maffeo appeared to notice his lapse of manners. Both stared down at their plates as they ate.
Antonio wondered what his father knew about yesterday’s encounter. Likely everyone in London would have heard about the Pinnace and Captain Stukeley’s bold fight with the French pirates.
At last Nicolo finished his porridge, then took a sip of ale. He looked around the table, making sure that he had everyone’s attention, then turned his gaze on Antonio.
“We have family business to discuss. I gave the servants the morning off, so we can speak freely.”
Antonio forgot his own problems. Bernardo seemed just as concerned. Perhaps there was more to this meeting than his running away.
“A letter arrived 10 days ago from my brother Marco in Venice. Trouble is brewing with the Turks again, and fears that war may break out are troubling everyone on the Rialto. He’s given me a letter of credit to hold for him, so that a portion of his wealth will be out of Venice.”
Nicolo waved that startling news aside as if it were unimportant. “He’s also asked again for my help. With war coming, the Arsenal needs skilled men to craft new weapons, and trustworthy men are scarce. In my last correspondence, I mentioned that we are developing new drilling techniques. It seems that some at the Arsenal are also interested in drilling. That is part of the reason why I told Antonio that he needed to go to Venice. He would show Marco what we have done and in return learn the latest secrets from the Venetian master gunners. In this way we would help Marco and the Arsenal now that danger from the Turks threatens.”
Nicolo looked around the table. “Antonio was not happy with my dec
ision, and told me he wanted to be a soldier.” Nicolo couldn’t resist a frown at Bernardo, who kept his eyes on his plate. “Yesterday he ran away, stowed away onboard Captain Stukeley’s ship. I had to go to Stukeley last night and plead with him for Antonio’s release. The captain finally agreed, after demanding compensation for discharging Antonio from his obligations as a member of the crew. As payment, I agreed to give him one new Demi-Culverin for free, and to deliver 13 more within a fortnight, at a substantial discount.”
The Pinnace would be completely rearmed with the latest bronze weapons, Antonio realized. Even with Nicolo’s discount, that many guns would cost hundreds of pounds. The recaptured merchantman must have carried a more valuable cargo than anyone expected.
For a moment, Nicolo sat there, shaking his head, then turned toward Antonio. “Those are the conditions I accepted to get you back. I was tempted not to pay it, to let you go, but my duty demanded that I speak with you.”
No one said anything. Antonio wanted to ask his father what he meant, but another look silenced him, and the old man went on. “I raised you as my own son, loved you as much as I loved Bernardo. In many ways . . . all this, my house, the foundry, all would be yours when I die. Bernardo has no interest in making cannons for the Crown.”
“I’ve not the skills for it, father,” Bernardo said. “The studying, the calculations, the dealing with customers, you know I could never master the trade. A soldier is what I am, what I’ve wanted to be, all my life.”
“Yes, my son, but you made the choice, and you spoke to me about it like a man. You didn’t disobey me by running away.”
Antonio flushed again. “Father, it’s not that . . .”
“Keep silent, Antonio,” Nicolo said. “I’m not finished speaking, and you are not yet old enough to interrupt your elders.”