by David Starr
Rowe takes out his pocket watch as silence settles on the gun deck. All we can hear is the gentle tick of his watch, our own breath and the sea bubbling below the open gun ports.
“Level your gun!” Rowe orders. Haggis and Yankee Bill lift up the breech of the gun with large wooden handspikes. Their job is to raise and lower the cannon until it is in its proper position. When the breech, the rear of the cannon, is level with the deck, Tom sticks a wooden brace under the breech to hold it in place.
“Load with cartridge!” At Rowe’s order, Little Fred stuffs a canvas bag full of gunpowder into the barrel of the gun, followed by a wad of cloth. This is where I go to work. I am the sponger. My first duty is to take a ramrod and tamp the bag of gunpowder and the wad right into the barrel of the cannon.
“Is it in?” I nervously ask, knowing the gun won’t fire if I haven’t done my job correctly. Tom takes a thin copper wire and sticks it through the vent hole in the breech.
He nods. “Wire’s pierced the bag proper. It’s right where it needs to be.”
Almost despite himself, Pudding grunts in approval. He is behind us, watching carefully. There are twenty-six gun crews training today, a full complement, but to nobody’s surprise Figg has decided to stand near us, watching everything we do with his watery eyes.
“Shot and wad your gun!” cries Rowe, the second-to-last order before we fire. On command, Big Fred picks up one of the large iron balls and rolls it down the barrel. Little Fred inserts a cloth wad, then I tamp the ball and wad tightly against the bag of shot.
“Right, lads,” whispers Tom. “Let’s show ’em how we shoot.” Rowe runs his eye up and down the side of the ship. When he is confident all are ready, he gives his next command. “Roll out your gun!”
“Heave!” cries Tom. The cannon on the gun deck are 18-pounders, named after the weight of the cannonballs. With their long brass barrels and the wheels and tackle they are built on, each gun weighs more than two thousand pounds.
The entire gun crew puts our shoulders to the cannon. We push as hard as we can, the heavy weapon slowly moving forward until the tackle is flush against the bulwark, the barrel poking through the open gun port.
“You there!” Rowe says to the crew next to us. “Your gun’s too far back. Shove it forward another foot. Good,” he says when they make the adjustment. “Prepare to fire, but stand to the side unless you want to lose your feet, your hands and whatever other appendages you’ve grown accustomed to!”
We wait to shoot though we have nothing to aim at but the gently rolling sea. “Wait for the down roll,” Rowe says. The seas are light but the swells are still large enough for the ship to rise and fall, and when we roll down with the wave, Master Rowe gives the final order.
“Fire!” he cries.
Tom and the other gun captains pull sharply back on lanyards connected to the flintlock hammers, and the gun deck erupts in smoke and noise. The cannons roll back on their iron trucks with terrific force, stopping only when the thick ropes that attach them to the sides of the ship stretch tight against their weight, stopping their momentum.
Ears ringing from the massive din, I take another ramrod from Dutch, this one with a damp sponge attached to its end, then run it down the barrel, extinguishing any hot sparks, cleaning out unburned pieces of wadding.
If this had been a real battle, the ship’s powder monkeys, lads as young as ten, would be running between the gun deck and orlop deck, two decks below us, to the shot lockers where the gunpowder is secured.
“Not bad,” says Rowe, looking at his watch. Not bad is a tremendous compliment from the gunner. Tom knows it and he flushes with pride. Figg on the other hand looks like he is sucking on a lemon.
“Three minutes that took, but when I’m done with you lot, you’ll be firing three shots in five minutes, and the Russian Navy will tremble when they see our sails!”
When our cheers subside, Rowe makes a surprising announcement. “We’re not done yet. Captain Whitby wants his gun crews to be the best in the fleet. As we speak, a ship’s boat is towing a target off the starboard bow. They’ll let it loose and as it floats past, each gun crew will have a chance to blow it to blazes. The crew that hits the target will receive an extra ration of grog at supper! Now get to your guns and make ready!”
“Three cheers for Cap’n Whitby!” someone cries.
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” we reply in unison, before turning our attention back to our 18-pounder.
“Right lads,” whispers Tom. “I can taste that grog already. Let’s show Rowe and Puddin’ how real sailors can shoot.”
Chapter 14
One hundred yards from Cerberus, the ship’s longboat tows the target, a collection of a dozen empty water barrels, tied together with netting. We watch through the gun port as one of the sailors in the boat cuts the tow rope and sets the makeshift target loose.
The barrels approach and the gun in the bow fires. When the smoke clears, we see the target completely unharmed, the ball splashing into the sea two hundred yards off target. “Useless!” says Rowe in derision. “Far too high!”
The next gun crew makes adjustments and fires as the barrels come into view. They are closer, but still miss by fifty yards, their shot going high and to the right.
The next three guns all miss, though they each come closer in turn. The misses are met with good-natured jeers and catcalls.
The crew two guns from us strike first. They hit a barrel on the edge of the target, blowing it to smithereens, but the netting holds and, bobbing roughly from the glancing blow, the target approaches. “Not bad,” says Rowe approvingly. “Let’s see if you remaining lot can finish the job.”
The gun to our immediate right fires. It is a close miss, the ball hitting the water just a few feet in front of the barrels. The ball kicks up a wave and the barrels bob violently on the water but remain untouched.
“Steady lads, steady,” says Tom, staring keenly down the cannon. “A littler higher,” he orders, and Yankee Bill and Haggis raise the gun slightly with their handspikes.
“On the down roll,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. Tom waits patiently until the ship rolls gently downward.
“Now!” cries Tom, and the cannon fills the gun port as he deftly pulls the lanyard. Our gun erupts in flame. Smoke billows around us, but through it I see that our target has been smashed into a million splinters.
“Well done!” says Rowe as we congratulate Tom, slapping him smartly on the back.
“’Tis much like shooting a very large pistol,” I tell Tom.
“What’s that you said, waister?” Pudding suddenly interrupts our celebrations, and pushes his way towards me. “What the devil do you know about shooting pistols? More than you know about how to haul lines and sheets, I hope!”
The gun deck falls silent as the men wait my response. “Sir, when I was in Canada I was taught to shoot by the voyageurs. I crossed North America and back with a pistol at my side.”
Pudding laughs, a high-pitched nasally giggle. “So the Highlander learned how to shoot in a land of savages, did he? This I must see! Master Rowe, set up a target. Let us all find out how well our little Scottish friend knows his pistols.”
“Sir,” says Rowe deferentially to Second Lieutenant Wilson who has been watching us train from a corner of the gun deck, “I don’t think it’s wise to fire live pistols below decks, not with the powder kegs and such. Perhaps this little competition should occur on the main deck above.”
“Nonsense, gunner,” says Wilson. “Our hull is built of solid English oak, made to stop a cannonball. I hardly think a pistol shot will sink us. Besides,” he adds with a grin, “I believe I’d like to see this myself.”
“Yes,” Pudding sneers. “Let us see how the whelp shoots.” With a nod from Wilson, Rowe sets a pewter drinking mug on a table. “We’ll shoot from twenty paces,” says Figg, taking his pistol out of his belt.
“I dinnae have a pistol, Sir,” I say, my ears stinging from the rebuke.
Whelp.
That was what La Malice called me on the first day I arrived in Fort St. James, the day I splashed him with my paddle. I’ve not heard that word for a long time. To be called that name by a boy younger than I am makes my blood boil.
“Not to worry, waister,” Figg says. “I’ll shoot first then lend you mine. I wouldn’t want you to weasel your way out of this.”
Figg and I stand in the middle of the deck, the men cramming excitedly behind us. Figg steps up, pistol in hand and aims at the mug. “Watch and learn how an English gentleman does it.”
He pulls the trigger. The pistol cracks loudly and the ball whizzes past the mug, so close it wobbles as the small lead shot flies past, burying itself into the side of the ship with a thud.
Judging by the sour look on Pudding’s face, he’d not expected to miss. “Your turn, landsman,” he spits, handing me his pistol and bag of shot and powder. “Let’s see if you can do any better.”
I reload, tamping down the powder and ball. It’s been an age since I’ve fired a pistol, not since I was on the lower reaches of Fraser’s River, with the Musqueam chasing after me with their arrows and spears.
“A wise man would miss this shot,” whispers Tom. “Puddin’ won’t forgive a comeuppance.”
“Aye,” I reply, “mayhaps a wise man would.”
I used to be rash, prone to making hot-headed decisions, choices that cost me dearly when I was younger. I know exactly what I should do, but Pudding has called me out, insulted me in front of my friends. That will not stand.
I take careful aim and squeeze the trigger gently. Bang. The mug bounces sharply off the table, holed clear through by the ball. The crew erupts in applause, with even Rowe and Second Lieutenant Wilson cheering.
“Yer pistol, my laird,” I say deferentially, handing Figg back his gun. The midshipman scowls, his cheeks glowing red as he snatches the pistol, tucks it back into his belt and storms off.
“You’ve made an enemy of Puddin’ and you’ll come to rue that, I reckon,” Tom says, shaking his head. “I thought I said a wise man would miss?”
“Aye, ye did,” I say, “but I’ve not often been accused o’ being one o’ them before.”
Chapter 15
“That’s Jutland,” says Tom as a faint headland appears to the east, a low, long peninsula projecting into the grey sea. “The cap’n will be having us on a war footin’ soon as we enter the Skagerrak, the strait that leads us into the Baltic. The Baltic’s a Russian lake; we’ll be surrounded by enemies and we’d best be on our toes.”
We’ve been at sea for two weeks. Sailing directly to the Baltic would have taken Cerberus less than a week, but Captain Whitby has taken his time, allowing us to practise on the guns and the sails in anticipation of the coming fight.
“When was yer first fight?” I ask Tom. As we near enemy territory, my excitement is rising.
“Last year in the West Indies, just after I left the Sylph. We had a different cap’n then, Cap’n Selby,” says Tom. “He commanded Cerberus for five years before he was given a newer ship. Cap’n Whitby was commissioned during our refit. Good men both. I’ve not seen Whitby under fire yet, but he has a heart of oak, I think. He’ll stand firm.”
“What’s it like? Battle, I mean?” I’ve been in a few skirmishes, have shot my gun in anger, even killed a man, but my experiences pale in comparison to engaging in warfare with the firepower we have on board.
“Oh, Trap! I’ve never been so terrified, so frightened, yet so exhilarated and alive in all my days! We were blockadin’ off Guadeloupe, in the Caribbean. Cap’n Selby learned that some blasted French privateers were in port so he decided to do somethin’ about it.”
Tom’s eyes gleam as he talks. “We took the island of Marie-Galante first. Cap’n landed a force of sailors and Royal Marines and they shot the French out of their batteries. You’ve seen how the Marines don’t get much credit on board, but they’re crack shots and hard men when there’s a battle to be fought.
“After Marie-Galante we sailed north to this little flyspeck of an island, La Désirade. That was my first taste of real war. We traded shots with the French battery that guarded the harbour. Showed ’em what-for, too, blew the guns to pieces, captured the island and a French garrison. Took a poundin’ though, we did.”
“Did ye get hurt?” I ask Tom, and for just a second Tom’s eyes darken.
“Me? No, but good men died that day. A few were mates of mine. Fine lads all, God rest their souls. You see things in battle that you can’t unsee, if you know what I mean, Trap. Cannon fire can do terrible things to flesh. There’s excitement to be sure, but war can be a horrible thing.”
Tom falls silent for a moment or so, and when he speaks again I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you something since you came aboard, Trap, but haven’t found the way to say it.”
“Aye?” Tom has a serious tone I’ve not heard before.
“Your sister. It’s been three years since you last saw her, right?”
“Almost to the day.” An image of Libby’s face pops into my head. At least the Libby I used to know. She would have grown into a fine young woman by now.
“Have you ever thought that maybe your fate and hers are meant to go different paths?”
“A dinnae ken yer meaning, Tom.” Since that fateful day in Liverpool with the British Army breathing down my neck I’ve thought of precious little else but finding Libby. To suggest otherwise is something I’ve never once considered.
“I mean no disrespect, my friend. How old would your sister be now?”
“Almost twenty,” I say. “Why?”
“Maybe it’s because I’m a sailor. We’re a superstitious lot, I grant you, but it seems to me that life has other plans for you. Probably there’ll be suitors for her soon, with a husband and children to follow. She will be fine, I know. Perhaps you should accept that you are both following different stars.”
Maybe life has other plans for you.
My friend and travelling companion, Luc Lapointe, said the very same thing when we left Red River for Fort St. James. I fall silent as memories wash over me. Fate has certainly conspired to keep me from my sister. Maybe Tom is right. Perhaps I’m not meant to see her again after all.
A sudden hissed warning from Tom brings me back. “Trap! Look smart! Pudding’s coming towards us.”
“What the blazes does he want? We’re not on watch.” Tom and I were lazing in the waist as we talked, resting against one of the ship’s boats, enjoying the late spring sun and warm westerly breeze. That we are not on duty doesn’t seem to bother Pudding, however.
“Attention!” barks Pudding as he waddles quickly towards us. Tom and I quickly stand up to salute him. Since I bested him with his own pistol last week, Figg’s not said two words to me, though I’ve felt his gaze burning into the back of my neck every time I see him.
“Lounging about are you, waisters?”
“Aye, Sir,” Tom says, “just resting a bit before the dog watch.” Figg ignores the response, staring up the mainmast as if he were looking for something.
“Tell me, my sharpshooting friend,” he says to me. “Can you see that rip in the moonsail?”
The moonsail is the topmost sail in the rigging, nearly two hundred feet above the deck. “Nae, Sir,” I say, squinting into the sky. “I cannae say I do.”
“It looks fine to me too, Sir,” adds Tom.
“Well I see a tear, Stuart,” smirks Figg. “I order you to climb up the rigging and confirm the damage.”
“But we’re not on watch right now,” Tom says. “Surely the lads on duty should do that.”
“Are you questioning an order, sailor?” Figg’s voice takes on a dangerous tone.
Tom does his best to be respectful. “No, Sir, it’s just that we ain’t on watch is all. Besides, the sails and rigging are topmen duties, not deckhands.”
“I’ve given our fur-trader friend here an order,” Figg say
s with a smirk. “Surely someone brave enough to traverse the wild with fur traders and savages can do something as simple as checking the rigging. Up you go, boy, and don’t stop till you clear the topgallant.”
“Sir.” Tom’s protests are more forceful this time. “Please, Stuart here has no experience in the rigging. It would be murder to send him up. Let me go.”
“I don’t believe I asked your opinion on the subject, sailor. You will shut your mouth and the boy will climb.”
“Trap, don’t.” Tom’s face now flushes with anger. “The sail’s fine. Pudding’s just trying to get back at you for besting him. This is madness.”
“You impudent rascal!” screams Figg at the use of his hated nickname. “How dare you!” The midshipman pulls his sword from its scabbard, and waves it at Tom. “Mr. Collins! Master at Arms! There’s an insubordinate wretch of a sailor refusing to follow orders! Clap him in irons!”
Robert Collins, Cerberus’ master at arms, hurries over to Figg, along with two of his assistants. Collins is a warrant officer, in charge of enforcing ship’s discipline and meting out punishment as needed.
“To the brig with him!” orders Figg, but Collins pauses for just a second. By now there’s a large crowd of sailors watching. They see what’s going on, have heard the order for me to climb, and the dark looks on their faces show their displeasure at Figg’s actions. If a man could be killed by a look, Pudding would be dead multiple times.
“Stand down, the lot of you,” says Tom, as Collins places his hands in irons. “I’ll not have any man punished for my actions.”
Our messmates and the other sailors reluctantly clear a path for Collins, who marches Tom off the deck. Tom is a well-liked member of the crew, hardworking, loyal to a fault. His treatment will not go down well with the men.
“Be careful, Trap,” says Tom as he’s bundled off the deck. “You’re far too good a man to suffer at the hands of an incompetent, regardless of his rank.”