The King's Shilling

by David Starr

  Regardless of the reason, the Danish sailor doesn’t heed Tom’s warning. Their small vessel is only twenty yards away from our port midships when the Dane clumsily swings the rifle towards us, cocks the hammer and shoots.

  The shot echoes over the water, smoke rising in a cloud about the man who pulled the trigger. Above me and to my right I hear the musket ball, an angry bee flying through the air before it thuds into the mainmast.

  Captain Whitby’s response comes instantly, in the shape of a sharp nod of his head to Lieutenant Gladding, the commanding officer of Cerberus’ Royal Marine detachment.

  Gladding is a tall man with short black hair and sharp features. He looks every inch a warrior, born to wear his red uniform. “Marines! Fire!” he commands.

  “God save those fools below,” says Tom sadly. “I told ’em not to shoot at us. Cap’n Whitby is a good man. He can laugh off an insult or two, but no cap’n of a ship of the line will abide coming under fire and not respond in kind.”

  In the tops, five Marines aim their own flintlocks. They fire as one, with devastating aim. The sailor who shot at us rocks as if he’s been punched. Three red stains erupt on his shirt as he falls forward, over the gunwale of his boat, into the grey Baltic with a gentle splash. He floats there for a while, face down, bobbing in the swell until his body sinks beneath the waves.

  The other Danish sailor, the one who swore at us, is hit twice. He falls dead as well, slumping in a heap into the bottom of his vessel. Both sailors are dead but the Royal Marines are not done their work.

  “Throw grenades!” orders Lieutenant Gladding. “Down on deck!”

  Tom drops to the decking instantly. “Get down, Duncan!” he shouts. “The Marines mean to sink that boat as well, finish the job proper.”

  No sooner do I press my body down onto the deck when I hear the sound of clattering metal objects landing onto the deck of the fishing smack, followed within seconds by several loud explosions.

  I lift up my head to see smoke and chunks of wood flying up into the air, the smell of gunpowder filling my nose. “Marines stand down!” Gladding barks.

  There will be no more firing, no explosions, so I get back to my feet. Tom does as well, though not without a grimace of pain on his face.

  “Are ye all right?”

  “Back’s a little tender still,” he explains. “Nothing that won’t get better in time, unlike those poor buggers.”

  I look over our rails to the unfortunate Danish boat rapidly filling with water, sides and bottom holed by the small bombs the Marines tossed, jagged splinters of wood at their edges. The dark northern sea bubbles into the fishing smack. I watch as it fills with water until it swamps, then slips under the surface. A moment later only the tip of the mast and the top of its canvas sail remain, until they too disappear.

  “Why did the Cap’n have those men killed?” I ask, as the mast disappears silently into the sea. Save for a few floating pieces of splintered wood, there is nothing left at all to show the boat and the men who sailed it even existed at all.

  “He had no choice, Trap. As soon as that fool fired on us his fate was sealed. Firing on a ship of the line? That’s an act of war against the Crown. If we don’t shoot, then these fellows would have been telling tales at dockside how they raised arms against the Royal Navy and we did nothing in return. Bad for the reputation of the Navy, bad for Cap’n Whitby, bad for us.”

  “Aye. I suppose I ken why we had to shoot,” I say, though the waste of two lives seems tragic, “but to blow that boat to pieces like that? What was the point?”

  “That’s easy enough to understand,” says Yankee Bill as we sail away. “Ain’t no secret that Cerberus is sailing in these waters. A thousand sets of eyes or more have seen us since we slipped through the Skagerrak. It’s hard to mistake a Royal Navy ship, all black and tan, bristling with cannons with the Jack dancing in the wind.”

  “If a fishing smack full of dead Danes floats into shore, bodies riddled with musket fire, it wouldn’t take no genius to figure out we did it,” adds Big Fred. “Provoked or not, that would be a nasty diplomatic incident for London to sort out. Better for everyone if they disappear, lost at sea like. Fewer questions are asked that way.”

  Chapter 18

  I realize with a start that I’ve not thought of my sister for days. Between looking after Tom, completing my duties and worrying about the ever-present danger from the Russians, my mind has been kept occupied, and for a moment I panic when I try to picture what Libby looks like, but can’t.

  I see her golden hair and the blue of her eyes well enough, but the details of her features begin to escape me. It’s only when I think back to that day on the Liverpool docks that her face finally comes fully into view.

  My grief at our separation has long been muted. Nearly four years have passed, after all, since we last saw each other. I’m sad to be sure, but the weight of Tom’s words has sunk in: “You are both following different stars.” Perhaps he is right. It could be that we’re not destined to find each other after all.

  “Masthead there!” cries the lookout from high in the rigging, shaking me instantly out of my gloom. On the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Murray aims his eyeglass to the north where a large warship, sails furled, and a Royal Navy Jack blowing in the wind has appeared in a bay near the horizon, its black and buff sides contrasting against the grey sky and green trees of the coastline.

  She is a ship of the line by the size of her, a massive beast, fifty feet longer than us or more, with two gun decks bristling with cannon.

  Captain Whitby appears on the deck, and has been awaiting the sighting, judging by the smile on his face. “Men,” he begins when the entire crew stand ready in the waist of the ship, “we are rendezvousing with His Majesty’s Ship Minotaur. Prometheus and Princess Caroline will be joining us presently, and the four of us will lay waste to the Russian fleet!”

  By now we are only a hundred yards away from Minotaur. Her sheer size is staggering. Minotaur is a first-rate ship of the line. She dwarfs Cerberus, but by the way her crew greets us with huzzahs and cheers, we may well have been the flagship of the fleet.

  We respond in kind. We’ve been at sea now for almost a month, and with the exception of the surly, ill-fated Danish fishermen, have not seen another soul. To encounter fellow sailors from Britain fills our hearts with joy. I never thought in my wildest dreams I would be happy to see more English sailors.

  * * *

  Within the week the other ships arrive. We make a formidable flotilla. We carry two thousand men and nearly three hundred guns between the four of us. We are invincible, and a jaunty air of confidence sweeps through the crew. “Bring the Russians on!” says Haggis. “The French too! There’s naught a navy on earth who can match us!”

  “Too right!” says Dutch. “Let Boney ’imself show up! We could end the war in an ’our!”

  The bosun’s whistle blows sharply. We know what it means, and all hands quickly muster amidships, as a longboat carrying Captain Whitby approaches the port beam. Captain Whitby and the other commanders have been meeting on board Prometheus, our flagship, holding a war council.

  “Men,” says the captain once he climbs the quarterdeck, “we set sail today, to enter the Baltic proper, to sink or capture any Russian ship we find. We will sail as a convoy with ships larger and more heavily armed than us, but by God the Cerberus is the best frigate in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and we will show the rest of the fleet how it’s done!”

  Chapter 19

  For the next month we cruise the Baltic, a wolf pack searching for prey. We continue our watches, practise our gunnery and sailsmanship, and polish the brass until it shines, but we never lay eyes on our enemy.

  “Damn them! Where can they be?” curses Tom as the sun breaks over the eastern horizon on a rare cloudless day. We are one bell into the morning watch, scouring the horizon from the bow.

  As of yesterday Captain Whitby ordered all men to keep their eyes on the sea, to forego swabbing the
deck. This deep in enemy waters, keen eyes on the horizon are more important that scrubbed wood. We sail now towards the coast of Finland, a once independent country, now part of the Russian Empire.

  Tensions are high on board Cerberus. Our destination is the Archipelago Sea, a shallow, island-studded waterway. The islands are ahead, guarding the gulfs of Finland and Bothnia, the eastern and northern reaches of the Baltic.

  “If the Russian Navy is anywhere in the Baltic, it will be in the Archipelago,” Lieutenant Wilson told us earlier in the week. “I expect we’ll see them bloody soon enough.”

  He turns out to be right.

  Prometheus is several hundred yards off the port while Princess Caroline and Minotaur cruise on our starboard. As we sail through islands, a patchwork quilt of green in the grey sea, I cannot help noticing the countless bays, narrow straits and inlets.

  There are a thousand places or more for the Russian ships to hide out here, and although the sight of the heavily armed warships that cruise alongside us is comforting, I can’t help wondering if they will be enough.

  “The Russians have the third largest navy on Earth,” says Yankee Bill, standing beside Tom and me at the base of the foremast. “There are some 200 enemy ships out here somewhere.”

  “Two hundred ships to our four.” My earlier confidence ebbs when I think of the numbers. “I cannae say I like those odds.”

  “Aye,” agrees Tom. “The Russians are hunting us as much as we them.”

  But by seven bells of the first watch, and well into the islands, we’ve seen no Russian sails.

  “Set the anchor,” commands Lieutenant Murray when we enter a narrow bay.

  The last rays of the evening sun have disappeared, leaving only a red and purple glow in the sky. Stars already twinkle overhead through gaps in the cloud. An extra watch is posted to ensure the heavy metal anchor stays fast at the bottom and that we don’t drift. Then, at the sound of eight bells, we go below decks to eat.

  “Burgoo again tonight, lads,” Big Fred says with a big smile, bringing us back our dinner.

  “I’m nae terribly fond o’ burgoo,” I reply, taking my meal, “but at least it’s hot.”

  “Better than the salt beef we’ve had of late,” says Dutch, tucking into the pudding. “After four months at sea the meat’s a little off, wouldn’t you say?”

  He’s right at that. The quality of our food has certainly slipped. There’s been no butter or cheese for weeks, the biscuits are now thoroughly full of weevils, and salted or not, the pork and beef have started to smell.

  “We do have a little surprise for you,” says Little Fred, grinning. “We’ve been saving the grog for the last few days. There’s enough to have a proper tipple!”

  I don’t like the grog any more than I do burgoo. Ship’s rum mixed with water and lemon juice is doled out daily. I reluctantly drink the foul-tasting stuff, if only for the lemon juice.

  Captain Whitby orders it mixed with the rum to prevent scurvy. Not to drink is insubordination. A look at Tom’s back, brutally scarred by the cat, serves as a daily reminder of what happens to a sailor who disobeys orders.

  “Another dram, Trap?” says Haggis.

  “Nae. I’ve had my one,” but my messmates are not about to let me off so easy.

  “As your gun captain I order you to drink, swabbie!” Tom downs his own cup then passes me another. I take the mug and relent.

  “You tell ’im, Bull!” says Dutch to the agreement of the rest of the mess.

  “A dinnae ken how ye stand the stuff!” I sputter, emptying the cup down my throat.

  “With a great deal of practice,” replies Yankee Bill, refilling my mug and his own, “and you are in desperate need of some!”

  We eat dinner, drink grog, laugh, sing songs and tell stories well into the night. I feel at home with these men, my friends. My family. Tom is right. Like my travels in New Caledonia with Simon Fraser, this has been a tremendous adventure.

  After several more mugs of grog, my head swims. My legs, well-practised to walking on a rolling deck, are unable to hold me steady on my feet. “I dinnae feel so well,” I say, my stomach suddenly lurching.

  “Quick lads,” Tom laughs, “help me get Trap above decks before he makes a mess we have to clean up!”

  I’m barely aware of what’s going on, have only the slightest awareness of my friends helping me through the hatch to the main deck. I lean over the sides, just in time as my stomach heaves, all the burgoo and grog I’ve swallowed making its way back out. “I reckon I’ve practised enough fer now,” I slur as Tom and the others help me back down below.

  Tom lifts me gently into my hammock. “Aye, Trap, you have. Now get some sleep. We’ll have plenty more time to practise later.”

  Chapter 20

  “Beat to quarters! All hands!” The Royal Marine drums and the sharp sound of the bosun’s whistle rouse me from my sleep.

  “Smartly now!” cries Gunner Rowe, as I stumble from my hammock, my head pounding, my mouth as dry as the sand that Haggis pours onto the deck around our gun.

  Big Fred passes me a mug of water. “Russian sails off the port side. We’re in for it now!” Dutch lights the lantern as the ship’s boys run to each gun, bringing a tub of water to each, for drinking and putting out fires.

  I drain my mug, tuck my hammock away into the netting and stumble towards my station. My stomach heaves again, though after last night, nothing’s left in my belly but the rope of spit I cough out onto the wooden floor. I swear to myself I will never drink grog again, no matter how many lashes I get for disobeying the captain’s orders.

  Tom peers out the gun port at the approaching enemy. “Clever buggers are in gunboats not frigates. Shallow-keeled they are, most likely been hiding in some bay we can’t sail into. The Russians waited for us to be at anchor with our sails furled. They have the wind and there’s no way we can manoeuvre. We’ll just have to wait for ’em to approach, then blow ’em to kingdom come.”

  Several hundred yards away, low, fast-moving vessels emerge from the shelter of a shallow bay. From their sterns the Russian naval jack, a flag similar to our own Union Jack, blows over the decks, both the sun and the wind at their backs.

  The approaching ships are much smaller than Cerberus. There are four of them, single-decked, twin-masted yawls each about fifty feet long, a third the length of a frigate, barely a quarter the size of a ship of the line.

  The Russians are well-armed. Each small ship has a large cannon facing forward from the bow, with several smaller carronades — short, stubby elevated cannons — as well.

  “Damnation!” says Tom. “They don’t need to turn sideways to fire when they come in range. Those main guns are 24-pounders by the looks of ’em, enough firepower to sink us. Them carronades will be loaded with grapeshot or chain as well, they mean to kill as many men on the quarterdecks as possible then blast the rigging, to leave us floating helpless like a fish in a barrel.”

  “Level your guns!” cries Gunner Rowe from somewhere behind me. Haggis and Yankee Bill lift the breech with their handspikes, an action repeated by all the gun crews on the port side. Tom aims at the gunboat sailing towards us then inserts the quoin to level and steady the cannon. My heart races. My task comes next.

  “Load with cartridge!” I take the bag of shot from the powder monkey, a young lad named Peter, maybe twelve years of age. Peter’s hands shake as he passes me the shot, and his eyes well with tears of fright.

  “’Twill be all right,” I tell him gently. “When the shooting starts, ye’ll be moving too fast to be harmed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Trap,” the lad says. “I’ll make sure I keep you well supplied with shot!”

  “Well done,” says Tom approvingly. “That lad will cross Hades himself to get us powder now. How are you feeling? Not the best way to wake up, with rum still pounding in your brain.”

  “Absolutely terrified,” I say, tamping the powder and wad down the barrel of the gun. I’ve forgotten all about my headach
e and dry mouth. All I can do is focus on the Russian bow.

  We strip off our shirts and wrap our kerchiefs around our heads. “It’ll get awful hot down here when the guns start blazing,” says Yankee Bill, one of only two men in our mess who has seen actual battle.

  “Shot and wad your gun!” orders Rowe. Big Fred places the large iron ball into the mouth of the gun, followed quickly by the cloth wad from Little Fred, both of which I quickly tamp down.

  Pudding has assumed the same place he has taken during gunnery practice: behind us, watching every move we make. Today, however, his customary smirk is not on his face. Sweat soaks the front of Midshipman Figg’s tunic and he looks as if he’s about to cry.

  I should, I suppose, find some comfort that he’s terrified, but all I can think of is the large cannon on the forward deck of the Russian ship sailing ever closer. “Point your gun!” shouts Rowe.

  “It’s too small a target!” says a gun captain down towards the bow. “We can’t angle our cannon!” Even with the men straining to move their guns with the handspikes, the gunboat that heads directly towards us is narrow. We’re built to shoot at large ships that line up sideways against us, not small boats only a dozen feet or so across the beam.

  “I said point your guns, blast it all!” shouts Rowe, not prepared to listen to any argument as the approaching Russians loom larger through the gun port. Shots echo across the water as Prometheus and our other ships open up their cannon. There is nothing they can do to help us, or us them. It will be every ship for itself.

  An enemy ship heads almost directly in a line towards our cannon. For us at least there’s no need for any adjustments; we are the only cannon on board that will have a clean shot. Tom eyes the gunboat carefully as he stares down the barrel of the cannon. “Got him dead to rights. All we need is the order from Master Rowe.”

  My heart feels as if it will burst from my chest. Any second, Gunner Rowe will command us to fire. Then, the gun deck of Cerberus will erupt in noise and smoke, and I will be at war with the Russian Empire.