“That is one of ours, right enough,” he said as they walked toward the gun. Peering at the lock visible at its breech, he frowned. “Still cocked, I see. It will be double shotted then.” He examined the carriage then looked at the gun. “Our number eight, I believe. Did no one else come aboard with it?” Reaching for the cocked flintlock, he was restrained by the Marine officer.
“Leave it for the moment, Mid. I’d rather you tell me and my lads what to do, and we’ll do it.” He read Harry’s expression correctly, and softened his statement. “That way, if it goes wrong, I don’t have to explain to my CO how you got injured or killed—my commanding officer,” he added when he saw a brief look of confusion flit through Harry’s eyes upon hearing the unfamiliar acronym.
Harry nodded. “Very well, Captain Wardman, but you must first wedge the lock. Have a care though, the spring is a powerful one and may still cause a spark. I suggest you open the frizzen pan and wet the priming powder first. Oh, and withdraw the quill.”
Bob Wardman used a wedge-shaped piece of wood to jam the raised striker on the device. Opening the priming pan or frizzen, as Harry called it, he carefully brushed the fine black powder onto a pan held by his sergeant.
“How the devil do you get hold of this quill thing?” Wardman huffed in frustration. “What am I looking for?”
“Ah,” said Harry. “Wright was a meticulous gun captain. He’ll have made sure it went well in and penetrated the cartridge.” He stepped closer and pointed to the touchhole. “There. As I thought, he inserted it fully.” Catching sight of the tool the officer held in his hand, Harry stopped him. “Have a care, sir. Any spark you make with your tools will set it off.” He indicated the pair of long tweezers the captain was holding. “A scrape of iron on iron could do it, especially with the powder filling the touchhole, sir.”
“Damn. Thanks for the warning. Sergeant, find me something non-metal or at least incapable of making a spark.” Turning back to Harry, he asked, “You said this was double shotted—what do you mean? A double charge?”
“Lord, no, sir. That would burst the gun.” Harry studied the officer for a moment, realisation dawning that the man really did not know a great deal about these guns. “No, sir,” he repeated, his tone a bit more respectful and less surprised. “It means we loaded it with a half charge of powder and two rounds of shot. Sometimes we loaded grape on top of a single shot, but today we had only double shot loaded.”
“A half charge? What was the full charge then?”
“Ten pounds eleven ounces, sir. A half charge is about six pounds—enough to propel both balls into an enemy at a cable or less.”
“A cable?”
“Six hundred feet, sir—about two hundred yards.”
“Bloody hell.” Bob studied the nearness of the bulkhead to the gun. “So, if I guess correctly, if it went off now, it could make a serious hole in that bulkhead.” He accepted the tool the sergeant brought him, found the tail of the quill and very carefully began to draw it upward until, with a sigh of relief, he could put it on the pan with the priming powder. “There, so this is now safe is it?”
Shaking his head, Harry said, “No, sir. There will still be a small amount of priming powder present, enough to possibly set off the charge if ignited. We must remove the balls, the wads and the main charge. Only then will it be safe, sir.”
Bob paused, staring at the calm youth opposite him for a moment. “Okay, how the devil do we do that?”
Looking round, Harry pointed to a long pole among the wreckage. “With that we may remove the wad, and then persuade the first ball from the barrel, sir.”
The sergeant picked up the tool Harry indicated. A metal coil at its tip drew his attention. “I’ve seen something like this in a museum, sir. What is it?”
“The wad hook,” replied Harry, taking it from him and walking to the muzzle of the gun. “If you’ll permit me, sir.” He didn’t wait for approval. Inserting the corkscrew device very carefully, he inched it into the bore of the gun. “Ah, yes, fully loaded. It is essential not to make a spark when doing this, sir. There is often spilled powder in the bore. One cannot be too careful.” Twisting the pole in his hands, he continued, “There, I think I have the first wad.”
The Marines watched, spellbound, as Harry withdrew the tool.
“Yes, here it is.” He unwound it from the hook. “Now it should be possible to encourage the ball to roll out if you can have some of your men raise the breech, sir.”
“Sergeant, see what you can do, please. Better wedge the wheels on this carriage. We don’t want it moving.”
DOCTOR SILKE GRÜNELAND AND CAPTAIN HERON studied the items on the table. They were intrigued by the short sword. It looked as if it could do some serious damage at close range with its curved eighteen-inch blade. Alongside lay a utilitarian knife with a large heavy blade and something that looked like a tapered iron spike with a handle. Several items of clothing were also laid out, all smelling of unwashed human bodies, an unfamiliar scent in the twenty-third century—at least in the space-faring nations. They stared at the worn and slightly stained uniform coat that Len Myers indicated. Made of coarse cloth, it looked very antiquated and smelled vaguely of a sort of salty musk.
“We think it’s the uniform of a midshipman,” Len noted, indicating the white patches on the collar. “Nearest match we can find is in paintings from the early nineteenth century.”
The blue/black garment had been faded and bleached by the sun and salty sea spray to a sort of greenish black. The cuffs were wide, and stitched to the frayed stand-up collar were white patches embellished with piping along the centre denoting rank. Gold-tone buttons, albeit very tarnished, ran in a double row down the front, and eight more decorated the cuffs. It had seen a great deal of use and had been somewhat inexpertly patched at the elbows and on the skirt, but was obviously a jacket intended to show that the wearer held a rank in some fighting service.
“The midshipman’s trousers are here. The older youth was wearing these.” He held up a pair of trousers made of coarse heavy cloth, which, like the jacket, showed several stains and hard wear. “He had a shirt which we recovered from the hangar maintenance office. Their underclothes are simple, and the cloth is not much better either. Must have made for uncomfortable wear,” he added with a smirk, “especially without frequent laundering. I’ve put those in a separate container, as they are somewhat—ah—ripe. They should provide plenty of interesting material for the labs.”
Leaning back, the Captain kept his gaze on the surgeon commander. “That style of jacket was worn by junior officers, and the loose trousers, shirt and neck cloth by men of the British Royal Navy no later than around 1860—almost four hundred years ago.” The Captain, his mind on the replica plaque in his quarters, glanced at Dr Grüneland. “Do you think it is possible we’ve triggered some sort of time warp that snatched them from that period?”
“I do not say it is unmöglich—it is not previously recorded and should not be possible, but then again, my predecessors in the twenty-first century would have described a tachyon and hyperspace travel as unlikely or impossible.” Her expression serious, she added, “If we have time travellers, you do realise that the scientific community will want to study them closely—perhaps even demand our immediate return to Fleet headquarters.”
“They might, but they won’t get their wishes granted.” The Captain’s expression was grim. “Len, what else can you tell us about these boys? Is it possible they’re imposters, planted as a decoy for some other nefarious reason?”
“I’d say we can be certain they aren’t imposters. For one thing, they have antibodies we haven’t seen in any human population for several generations.” His expression was sardonic. “That’s one of the reasons we confined them to the IsoLab, though Harry has been sprung free to help Captain Wardman disarm some cannons. I’m sure that’s proving to be an interesting experience—for Bob, not our young midshipman!”
He laughed at h
is own joke. The Captain and Silke smiled and waited.
“But isolating them also makes it easier to control access to them for now. Physically they’re fine. The eldest is a strong youth of eighteen years, which we determined from his teeth. His concussion, dislocated shoulder and broken right arm are already mending. He also has a sprained ankle and some severe bruises. It looks as if they all fell from a height of about five to ten feet.” He paused then continued thoughtfully. “It’s almost as if they were taken from something about that height in exchange for the equipment we lost.”
“There was nothing mounted at that height in the hangar deck, so that may simply be displacement due to motion,” remarked the Captain, and Dr Grüneland nodded her agreement.
Changing the subject, Len said, “I’ve run a DNA check on all three and have some interesting results. They all fall into Haplotype R1b making them all North European in origin, with the classic mix of Celtic and Nordic antecedents with Germanic connections as well. They don’t come up in any database held by any national resource since records began on European populations in 2057 and the unified archive in 2077. But they do have matches in their DNA to people alive today.” He paused, adding mischievously, “One in particular has a very close relative aboard this ship.”
The Captain nodded, considering the implications, missing the surgeon’s carefully suppressed grin. “Right, well I suppose that could be expected if they are from a North European origin. But you say there is no record of them in the last hundred and fifty years?”
“None at all, apart from the one very close match aboard this ship.”
“Oh yes.” The Captain paused, sensing the surgeon’s amusement. “Out with it, Len, which one?”
Dr Grüneland watched the interplay between the two men with interest; she could sense the surgeon commander’s amusement was also tinged by a professional interest that had been stirred by something he had discovered. She interrupted. “This DNA match: is it based on Y-chromosome or Mitochondrial DNA?”
“On the Y matches,” replied the surgeon. “The most interesting one of the three is the young man whose coat we are looking at. His DNA suggests that he is your brother or possibly your son, sir.” He watched the Captain’s face and noted the flicker of surprise.
“Well, Len, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have neither, and my sister has no offspring.” The Captain shook his head, considering the possibilities. “We have a number of cousins, of course, but none I’m aware of in the Fleet.”
BOB WARDMAN WATCHED AS HARRY DIRECTED the placement of the jacks the Marines had brought. Satisfied at last, Harry straightened up. The youngster’s confident manner in giving his orders spoke of his knowledge and ability, and the expectation that his authority would be accepted.
“Raising the breech about fifteen degrees should be sufficient, sir,” Harry said. “Perhaps someone could stand at the muzzle and prepare to catch the ball.”
“Activate the jacks,” said the captain. “Let’s see if we can get the ball out.” As the breech rose in the air, a scraping rumble warned of movement inside the gun, and moments later, the corporal made a grab as the iron ball fell from the muzzle.
“Fu...!” The corporal bit his lip as the unexpected weight almost tore through his grip. “Bloody hell. How far did you say these things could travel, sir?”
“About three miles,” Harry replied. “Though we usually waited until we were a cable or less from the enemy ship.”
“I don’t think I’d want to be on the receiving end of one of these at that range, thank you, sir. How many of these guns did your ship have?”
Harry frowned. These people really didn’t know much about ships it seemed. Was this some sort of trickery? “Spartan is a seventy-four. The lower battery held twenty-eight of these. The upper gun deck held thirty eighteen pounders with fourteen twenty-four pound carronades on the quarterdeck and a pair of forty-two pounders on the fo’c’s’le.”
“So a broadside at—say—fifty yards saw several tons of iron balls like that one being blasted at an enemy?” The sergeant whistled, bringing a frown to Harry’s forehead.
“Sergeant, whistling will get you flogged.” He looked at the surprise on their faces. To Captain Wardman, he said, “Do you not discipline men for imitating the sound of the bo’sun’s pipes?”
“Not in this Fleet, Mid. Corporal, if you’ve finished congratulating yourself on making that catch, see if you can get the next wad out of the way. And watch you don’t make any sparks.”
The second wad proved more difficult as the corporal struggled to get a feel for the tool he was using. Eventually his effort was rewarded, and the second wad joined the first, as did the second ball and the third wad.
Bob Wardman breathed a sigh of relief when the cartridge bag emerged and was placed in a container and then sealed. “Take that clear, Corporal.” He looked at the trail of black grit from the barrel to the container. “Pass me that brush and the scoop. Now, flush that barrel with some water, please. According to the Mid here, there’ll be a fair bit of this stuff in there.” He watched as his order was carried out. “Right, now we can deal with that pair.”
The first of the smaller guns proved easy. A simple check by Harry showed it had been fired and not reloaded. The second contained a charge but not the ball.
As the second cartridge was sealed into a container, Bob touched his link. “The guns are now safe, Control. We’ll sweep the rest and check for anything else.”
“Acknowledged. Wings and Scientists want to come in. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes, that’ll be fine.” Captain Wardman closed the link and glanced around him, assessing the situation. To Harry he said, “Didn’t you say there were some cartridge cases?”
“Indeed, sir.” Harry nodded toward a pair of leather-covered tubes. “We had not fired or reloaded, so they should have two full charges.”
The Marine officer nodded. “Right. Sergeant, bring those tubes here, please.”
Bob opened the first cartridge. Sure enough, it contained the thick canvas bag that Harry had described.
“Sergeant, I think we’ll leave these intact for the scientists. We don’t want them to ignite. If the old boys who designed these things thought this was a safe way to handle this stuff in a battle, it probably is. Make sure you brief them fully before you do so.” To Harry, he said, “Thanks, Mid. Your knowledge and skill have proved invaluable. Now I had better return you to the med centre before they send the bloodhounds after us.”
Chapter 6
Long Voyage Home
THE REVEREND MR BENTLEY STARED UNSEEING at the strange native craft plying the harbour. Since the engagement with the French frigates, the ship felt different in a manner he could not quite explain. It was not the deaths in the engagement nor the injured, as most of them were recuperating beneath the fo’c’s’le. It was the strange disappearance of young Heron, his friend O’Connor and the small powder monkey Danny. There was simply no trace of them or the gun that vanished with them. He turned as a footfall on the deck behind him drew him back to the present.
Seeing the lieutenant approaching, Rev Bentley said, “Ah, Mr Rae, how is everything with you? The work on the mast appears to be advancing rather well. How do the repairs on the gun deck go?”
Lieutenant Rae smiled. “Another three days on the mast will see it fully restored. The work on the gun deck will commence as soon as the Captain has the consent of our hosts. We must careen her, and some frames need strengthening. It is all a very strange affair, is it not?”
The clergyman nodded. “Indeed.” Hesitating, he gathered his thoughts. “I have been considering this matter, and am puzzled by something.” He reached for his notebook, which he kept with him always. He had a keen scientific mind and a very observant eye, and took copious notes of all that captured his interest. “I have done some calculations. It is curious, I think, but the device we disposed of at sea was of the same weight as the gun and its
accoutrements plus my estimates of the weight of the three who vanished with it. Could that be significant, do you think?”
The lieutenant considered. “Perhaps, but in what manner? And what of the object that destroyed the French ship? Why did it explode when the one that hit us did not?”
“Ah! I may have an explanation for that. I’ve talked at length to Lieutenant Renault. From him I learned that two of their guns were within the image of the device as it formed—and one discharged as it did. That was followed immediately by the explosion.” He frowned. “I have done some calculations based upon our own experience and our attempt to open the device. I think the discharge of the gun may have caused such a large increase within the device that it burst. Of course, this is supposition, and I shall have to consult others at the Royal Society, but it seems the most likely explanation.”
“I should be interested to hear their conclusions.”
THOMAS BELL GREETED his Captain at the entry port, the line of sideboys and Marines formed up to ensure the Captain received due honours in front of the Portuguese colonists and their French prisoners. It had taken a long five days to cover the distance from the sea fight to the wide bay occupied by the Portuguese settlement and ennobled with the title Delagoa Bay. The little colonial capital rejoiced in the title of Lourenco Marques, and the Captain had gone ashore to, as he put it, “do the pretty by our allies.”
“Is all arranged, sir?” asked the first lieutenant.
“Indeed, Thomas, the governor was most amenable. He has offered us the use of their facilities while we affect repairs to our hull and mast.” He mopped his brow and said, “Let us get out of this sun and heat! I should add that we will not be venturing far ashore while we’re here. This is fever country—yellow jack and the like—and we cannot risk bringing any of that aboard. We will take on fresh water, and I think we can certainly replenish our livestock and fresh vegetables, but I want to get the ships away from this infernal den of heat and disease as speedily as we can.”
Harry Heron: Into the Unknown Page 5