Quintspinner

by Dianne Greenlay

“Mr. Taylor! Captain Crowell wishes to speak with ya’ in his quarters.” William did not know the sailor speaking to him but the young sailor obviously knew William. William swung down from his hammock and blearily made his way to the captain’s office.

  “Mr. Taylor. We meet again. This time under much more favorable circumstances, which I’m sure pleases you as much as it does me.” Captain Crowell motioned to William to have a seat in the chair across the table from where he sat. “Mr. Rogers has informed me that you are in the possession of a musical instrument and that you play it very capably.”

  “Yes, Sir,” William replied cautiously, not knowing where this line of questioning was leading.

  “Do you have any other traits that I should know about?” the captain asked casually.

  “No, Sir.” William thought his left handed abilities and accuracy with a knife were best kept to himself for now. And so far, no one had identified him with his father.

  The captain’s eyebrows shot up as though he had been expecting a confession of some kind. “Very well, young sir, I am hereby assigning you to participate in regular musical interludes for the crew. Saturday evenings and also once midweek, I think, should work out best. You will receive an extra portion of rum for your troubles. Is this to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, Sir.” William lowered his eyes and nodded. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

  “Mr. Taylor, are you a god-fearing man?” William looked up but said nothing. Captain Crowell continued. “You might look upon such an assignment to be to your advantage.” He waited to see William’s reaction. William held the captain’s gaze. “God provides the birds with food but He does not drop it into their nests, Mr. Taylor. Make what you can of your given opportunities.”

  William left the captain’s room, pondering the meaning behind the cryptic words. He returned to his hammock and fell asleep once more, still mulling over the strange advice.

  HMS Argus was one of the smaller British Navy ships. Usually employed as a scout rather than one sent to engage in battle, she was presently sailing as an armed escort to the merchant ship, the Mary Jane. William learned of their intended destination as he sat alongside Mr. Lancaster, the ship’s carpenter.

  “Eh, Mr. Taylor, there’ll be plenty of maintenance of her bottom side once we reach warmer waters of the West Indies. There’s worms in the seas there–telodos they call ‘em–what bore right through if the wood’s not coated up proper like. We’ll be careenin’ her soon’s we find a decent beach out of harm’s way on which we’ll run her aground an’ keel her over. Ever done a careenin’? ‘Course you’ve not.”

  “Careening?” William had come to know that Mr. Lancaster not only didn’t mind his questions, he seemed to welcome them as a chance to show off his extensive knowledge of the ship and all things associated with a sailor’s life.

  “There’s all kinds of crusties and seaweed what attach themselves to the waterside of her hull. Slows her down, it does, so every three months or so, we’ll run her up on a beach an’ at low tide, tip her over by winching with some rigging ‘round trees an’ the like. Then we’ll set about scrapin’ an’ fixin’ an’ pluggin’ holes till she’s clear of all of that. She’s doubled planked, she is–pine, fer a sacrifice like to the sea worms, on the outside, and good white oak on her innards–but we don’ want them slimy bastard worms to be drillin’ through em’ both, do we? No sir, we don’t,” he replied in answer to his own question. “We’ll coat her up good with a thick coat of grease an’ brimstone to repel the damn beasties, especially the worms, then tip her over on the other side an’ do it all again.”

  Ships were never watertight, William discovered. In the deepest bowels of the HMS Argus, sea water constantly seeped in from small seams between the boards of the hull, or splashed in through the gun portals and down hatches, finally collecting on the lowest level of the ship, where sailors regularly manned the pumps in a mostly futile attempt to keep the ship’s innards dry. The brackish bilge water had a horrid smell to it, and William was glad that manning the pumps was one task that was not his. Plugging the leaks, however, was.

  “Mr. Taylor, it’s time, ain’t it?” Mr. Lancaster queried. By now William also knew that the carpenter did not expect nor want, any reply to his questions from those around him, intending to always answer his own. “Yessir, it is. An’ time fer what, ya’ may ask. Well I’ll tell ya’. We must plug off as many of the leaks as we can find with oakum.”

  “Oakum?” William wondered out loud.

  “Oakum, boy. Bits of frayed hemp, the old riggings like, soaked in hot pitch and stuffed in her seams, inside an’ out.”

  “How do we get the seams on her outside done?”

  Mr. Lancaster had anticipated William’s question and took obvious pleasure in answering. “Why, one of us hangs overboard in some Spanish riggin’, doin’ the pluggin’–uh, that’d be you–whilst the other stays along the railing up top, lowerin’ down the hot oakum–an’ that’d be me.” He grinned at William.

  “Over the side–” William felt faint at the thought of dangling over the side, fathoms of the dark cold sea sucking and tugging at his legs as the ship coursed onwards through the frothing waves.

  “Ya’ don’ want to be a lander forever, now do ya’?” Mr. Lancaster reasoned. “’Course ya’ don’t! Pluggin’ her up will earn ya’ much gratitude from the others, too,” he winked, “if it means less time fer them needed on the pumps below with the stinkin’ bilge. C’mon, now, I’ve already put an order in with Cook to be givin’ us a couple of hot pots of pitch, an’ I’ve sent Mr. Smith to round up the frayed riggings.” He squinted and swiveled his head from side to side. “Ya’ don’t see him anywheres, do ya’? ‘Course ya’ do!” He pointed straight ahead. “‘Here he comes now with our–”

  An anguished scream ripped through the air interrupting Mr. Lancaster in midsentence.

  “He’s burnin’! Cook’s burnin’ alive! The pitch’s tipped!” Panicked screams carried up onto the deck, but none so loud or anguished as the first.

  At once the deck was covered in a swarm of bodies, crushing and jamming themselves down the companionway, as men grabbed buckets of water and wet rags, and slid or jumped down the steps, disappearing with them into the deck below.

  “Oh my Holy Christ! Please let ‘em put it out!” Smith pleaded out loud to himself. William saw fear in Smith’s eyes and that same fear of an unknown danger set William’s heart to hammering inside his chest again, his breaths shallow and tight.

  “Wha–what’s going on?” William yelled.

  “The pitch’s spilled! If it was hot enough to burn a man’s flesh, it’ll have started the planks an’ timbers on fire! C’mon!”

  “Where to? What are we doing?” William gasped. “Surely we’re not going back down to the galley? If Cook’s burned himself, there must be someone who can take care of him–”

  “Oh, fer Chrissakes! You’re bloody stupid!” Smith screamed at him in exasperation. “They don’t give a rat’s black arse about Cook! It’s the powder! We need to wet the powder or we’ll not have to worry about burnin’ up or drownin’ if she burns through! Doncha’ understand? If even one spark burns through to the deck below it, an’ hits the powder room, we’ll all be blown outta’ the shittin’ sea!” With that, Smith whirled about on his feet, and grabbing up a wet mop, he raced towards the companionway. William followed in close pursuit.

  The deck below was a scene of mass chaos. The previous dimness in which William had come to rely on to navigate his way around below deck had been replaced by a heavy impenetrable blackness. The far end of the lower deck was illuminated only by a menacing orange glow that flickered off the walls and upright timbers. The air, already thick and hot with oily black smoke, rolled over William, stinging his eyes and gagging him. Cries and shouts of the crew ahead of him were punctuated by the harsh coughing of heat-seared lungs. William tore the sleeve from his shirt and wrapped it over his nose and mouth, tying it at the back of his he
ad. When he looked up again, he realized he had lost sight of Smith.

  “This way!” Someone was tugging at his arm, but he could not be sure of whom it was. He followed the sailor ahead of him down another set of stairs, down into the deck below. The air here was not as heavy with smoke, but being so deep in the bowels of the ship, it was oxygen starved just the same. William gulped hungrily as his lungs sought more precious oxygen where none was forthcoming. A lantern lit the area ever so slightly.

  “Bucket that water! Convoy those buckets, Sirs! Make haste! Fierce work now!” It was the voice of the Captain. William was sure that he recognized it. He’s down here with his men! A bucket swung out of the dark, dangling from the end of a sailor’s arm, smashing into William’s arm, and soaking him with the bucket’s sea water. William grabbed the bucket and blindly passed it across his body towards his other side. A pair of hands took it from him just as another bucket slammed again into his shoulder just as the first one had.

  “Mr. Taylor, faster if you please! It’s our powder supplies that require wetting, not you, Sir!” Captain Crowell shouted. He knows me, even though I have my face covered like this! William redoubled his efforts and passed the buckets on, over and over, until his shoulders ached from the effort. The putrid air by now had an ominous tarry odor to it. The smoke is settling down here too! Dear Lord! Have they not put it out yet? William detected the smell of wood fire and burning flesh mixed in with the burning pitch. Screams from overhead confirmed what his nose was telling him.

  “Give me some sweat now lads, and show a leg! Wet the timbers overhead!” the Captain yelled. William hoisted the buckets to sailors in front of him. It was all he could do to pass the bucket forward. His arms felt heavy and limp. It seemed to William that the buckets were coming slower now, as though the convoy line was losing man power. Everyone around him was moving in a curiously slow motion dance. The yelling seemed to be stretched out into long piercing shrieks and grisly howls. Even the collapse of men around him seemed to be a slow motion nightmare, as William felt his own legs go soft beneath him. Don’t wanna’ burn, don’t wanna’ … the ocean will be so cool… he slurred to himself and the flooring planks rushed up to meet him.

  The stabbing pains in his head competed fiercely for his attention against the burning throb in his left ankle. As the fog in his head began to clear, William slowly became aware of the groans and voices around him. He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, only to find himself sandwiched in between two bodies, which in turn, were part of a carpet of sailors, all laid out side by side, upon the plank flooring of the open main deck. Some, like he, were attempting to sit up; others moaned and writhed with the pain of their seared flesh; still others laid ominously still. Two soot stained sailors emerged from the companionway, a crew member’s lifeless body swinging heavily between them. A third and forth carried up the lifeless bodies of the two full grown goats.

  The air was still thick with the smell of burnt wood and raw wounds. William gingerly probed the gathering swelling around his ankle. Toes wiggled; nothing crunched. Not broken then. Carefully he got to his feet and gritted his teeth against the pain that shot through his ankle and foot when he attempted to put weight on it.

  “’Here, wrap it up with these,” a gruff voice commanded from behind, “then give a hand to them what needs a drink, won’cha?” William recognized the voice as being the one he had first heard when his wrists and ankles had still been bound. The man, like so many of the others on board, was shirtless and showed a well built torso laced with scars–some thin, some thickened, and some consisting of large rippled patches. The man’s head was wrapped in a grimy bandana from which a few strands of limp brown hair hung down. A cloudy grey film covered one eye, and he tilted his head at an odd angle as he spoke. “This be the good rum, not the grog, ya’ understand. Help yerself as ya’ need, too.” He shoved a handful of cloth strips and small wooden shims at William, and then passed a ladle and a full bucket of rum over to him.

  With his ankle wrapped and braced as best he could, William stumbled among the men, ladling out the dark clear liquid in liberal amounts to each of them. As medicine, familiar comfort, and painkiller, the rum soothed their pain, and diluted their worry and thirst.

  Under the direction of the ship’s surgeon, the injured were shuffled and sorted into sections according to the likelihood of their survival. Those remaining unconscious were sorted from the already dead by the surgeon’s very own, very effective test–a finger tip, ear cartilage, or upper lip of the man in question was pinched firmly with pliers, or crushed in several cases that William observed, until the man moved or moaned, or until blood seeped from around the pliers’ tips. Most of the men had roused; only four remained unresponsive to the good surgeon’s inquisition. Three of those looked unharmed, as though they had simply fallen asleep there on the floor. The mouth of the fourth victim however was stretched open in an eerie death grimace, stiffened in his last moments of life by what William imagined would have been the man’s last scream. Blackened and burned beyond recognition from the waist up, the sailor’s right leg ended in a familiar stump.

  “It’s the smoke’s poison vapors what done them in,” a familiar voice explained and a hand clapped William on the shoulder.

  “Smith?” William whirled around to see a soot stained face grinning at him.

  “Ya’ got any more in that bucket fer the one what saved yer skinny arse?”

  “Saved me? That was you?” William scooped a full ladle out and passed it to Smith, who gulped it down, then passed it back for a second round, downing that one too, without a word.

  “One more, Willy Boy, won’cha?” Smith prodded William in the ribs with the empty ladle, and then drank down the third offer with as much vigor as his first.

  “You saved me?” William asked again, his gratitude barely contained.

  “Nope,” Smith replied and with a satisfied belch, he smiled then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Actually, it weren’t me at all. I was just askin’, in case that one there should be wantin’ any!” and he pointed to a man sitting on a low bench. Both of the man’s arms were raw, his forearms and hands blackened in places and already blistered where skin still clung.

  William’s heart lurched. His Da’.

  “Hey! He burned rescuin’ the Captain, not just you,” Smith offered, seeing William’s stricken face. He continued softly, “He pulled many of ya’ outta’ there, he did,” and then summed the situation up. “Be glad fer him. This crew’ll never abandon him now….”

  William refilled the bucket from the large barrel into which a pouring spigot had been inserted and returned to his father.

  “Da’?”

  The man slowly lifted his blistered face to look at William. His eyebrows and lashes were gone, burned away William realized, and his eyes were beginning to swell shut.

  “Da’?” William spoke again, not caring who heard him address his father. “Some rum?” William held the edge of the ladle to the man’s blistered lips and gently tipped the liquid down his father’s throat.

  “We’ll be joining the Captain and his officers for tonight’s evening meal,” Tess’s father informed his family. Mrs. Hanley, being the family’s servant, had not been included in the invitation.

  “Charles, I simply cannot,” Tess’s mother pleaded. “Give him my deepest regrets but I am in poor health tonight. Assure him that I shall endeavor to make his acquaintance as quickly as my countenance should allow it to be so.” The boat’s rocking motion had set all of their stomachs on edge, but none more so than hers. She had been unable to keep even weak tea down, and now spoke through gritted teeth, her eyes tightly closed as she lay upon their bed.

  “Very well.” He did not push the issue. “Shall I bring you something back? A warm biscuit with butter perhaps?”

  She groaned at the suggestion. “I doubt that there will be anything offered that I would find palatable at the best of times, let alone now. No, I shall persist with Mrs.
Hanley’s tea. Go and enjoy yourself. I am quite certain that I will be here upon your return.”

  In fact, the supper meal spread out before them at the Captain’s table was quite delectable. Tess stared at the gold rimmed plate set before her. A hot, thick slice of roasted beef and another of seasoned pork crowded the boiled potatoes next to them, the meat’s salty juices creating a lake around the neatly arranged cooked greens. Biscuits were offered, with toppings of butter and sweet marmalade. All of the guests at the table washed the main course down with several glasses of rich red wine.

  Just when Tess felt certain that she could not consume another mouthful, small bowls of warm buttered rice and currants were served with a generous sprinkling of cinnamon, ginger, and sugar on top. Cups of sweet tea completed the meal for the ladies, while the men’s brandy snifters were replenished without end.

  “I do not know of any time at which I have had a finer meal,” declared Dr. Willoughby. Others at the table murmured in agreement. Tess studied the faces of those around the table. Besides themselves, there were three unfamiliar gentlemen, and four officers looking splendidly official in their white and blue uniforms. The gentleman with whom her father had spoken at the ship’s railing earlier in the day was one of the men in attendance. He looked vaguely familiar and Tess thought that he was probably one of her father’s wealthy clients she had seen at their house at one time or another. Perhaps he is even another physician.

  Something about him made her quite certain that she had seen him before. She noted the outline of his cheekbones, his hair thick and wavy, and his beard perfectly groomed; she blushed as his dark eyes met hers for a moment. He acknowledged her with just a brief hint of a smile before averting his gaze. His manners and posture suggested that he was a man who had been well educated. Perhaps he is one of the gentlemen who helped me to my feet in the marketplace! The more she thought about that possibility, the more certain she felt of the connection. If he is, he could verify the attack on me! Obviously, her father respected the man’s views. It probably wouldn’t matter anyway, as he won’t be able to provide any truthful evidence about the Crone and the ring ….