How Ben laughed when I repeated the captain’s words that night. He nearly choked on his bread. “You a midshipman? Takes a gentleman to be a midshipman, and you are as much a gentleman as I am married to a mermaid.”
“Now, now,” said Bob. “That would not be entirely true. Did Mr. Cook himself not come from humble beginnings? Yes, he did. His father was a simple farm labourer, but Mr. Cook worked hard and now he’s a ship’s master.”
“He is indeed,” agreed Gum. “Some day he will be a captain. Mark my words.” He smiled and showed me his pink gums. “Who can say what is in store for you, young Jenkins.”
What was in store for all of us was weather as mixed as weather could be. We had fog, then gales of winds. And always there was ice. It rained so hard that I could scarcely see the other ships, and so to make certain of their locations, we stayed in contact. Admiral Durell had a cannon fired every two hours. Some of our sailors answered back by firing muskets. A few times the lookout called that a ship had been sighted. We would all stare into the distance, trying to make out whether or not it was the enemy. If so, there could be fighting. I had never seen a battle at sea, much less been in one. The practice with our great gun Savage Billy had given me some idea of what it would be like, though. I only hoped I would be as brave as I thought I was.
The foul weather made working on deck a misery. It also made it far more dangerous. With the ship leaning far over, and sea water running down the deck, we had to take great care not to be swept away. There were more injuries than usual — a twisted ankle here and a wrenched shoulder there. The doctor was kept busy seeing to the injured.
I suffered a knock on the head one day when Pembroke slid down a wave and I tumbled down the companionway steps. It was only a lump, though, nothing to keep me from my duties.
When our watch was over, I began to ask Tom about what being in battle was like, when Ben gave a terrifying shriek. “Rats!” he cried in horror. “Right here under our table! How can a man eat his dinner with that going on?”
Baldish looked down. “There is no rat,” he said to Ben. “Not unless there is one in its belly.”
I laughed aloud. “Why, it’s King Louis!”
He whined and licked my leg while I scratched behind his ears.
“A stowaway,” laughed Baldish. “And I thought you were a clever dog, King Louis. Only a fool would stow away on a ship of war.”
“Your dog, is he?” Gum asked me.
“I suppose he is, if he is anyone’s at all,” I said. “How did you get here, old friend?” I murmured as I petted him.
“Perhaps he came out on one of the supply boats,” Davy suggested, and that was when King Louis jumped up on the table.
“Get that filthy tavern dog away from my food or I will heave the creature overboard!” shouted Ben.
King Louis’s ears flattened against his head. He growled like a small lion and leaped over Ben’s plate. Off he dashed, the last of Ben’s salt pork in his mouth. Ben cursed and raged, but his anger was drowned out by the howls of laughter coming from his shipmates.
“Bested by a little beast,” teased Tom.
“Keep it away from me, Jenkins,” Ben warned me. “I will drown it as soon as look at it.”
But Ben did not have to look at King Louis at all. Louis stayed in the hold battling the rats. There were a thousand places that he could hide, which was why he had been able to conceal himself for so long. Sometimes he came out on deck to bask in the sun, but he always stayed well out of anyone’s way. At night he stole in and I would pick him up and place him in my hammock. I often fell asleep to the sound of his snoring.
“Good old King Louis,” I would whisper. “You needed an adventure too.”
On and on we went, in good weather and bad, tacking back and forth, back and forth, until I was almost dizzy from it.
One morning someone said that he could see an island in the distance. I squinted out at the small, low bit of land, but it meant nothing to me. In fact, I had no idea at all where we were.
“Well, that is Bird Island,” said Tom, “so Cape Breton Island is over there behind it. And Newfoundland is northeast of us. All the icebergs you would ever want pass by Newfoundland. Not this small stuff, but mountains of ice.”
I tried to imagine it while I worked beside him and the others hauling on a line to pull up yet another sail. I had seen small ice islands back at Halifax, but nothing that looked like a mountain.
“That would be something,” I said. “We could sail right up to it and take chunks to keep us cool on hot days.” A fleeting memory of the ice house and Louisbourg slipped into my head. And with that of course came the image of Vairon.
“You’d never want to sail up to an ice mountain,” grunted Tom. “One of those will tear the guts out of a ship.”
“Then down you go to meet Davy Jones?” I asked.
“Do not think that, much less say it,” whispered Gum with a shiver. “You might bring bad luck to this ship. Then you would be a Jonah and treated by the others as though you were not even here.”
The next day our sailors dropped a signal flag to half-mast. I was told that it meant we needed a surgeon. Pembroke’s cutter was launched, and Mr. Cook was rowed over to Admiral Durell’s ship Princess Amelia. When he returned, it was with the admiral’s captain of marines and another man. They were met by our Dr. Jackson.
“It is Dr. John, the surgeon from Prince of Orange,” whispered Tom. “They say Captain Simcoe is very ill. Must be if he needs two doctors.”
The ship settled into nervous and respectful silence for the sake of our sick captain. Rumours flew around Pembroke like the gulls that often circled the ship. No one knew just how he fared, though, until the next day when all hands were called on deck.
“Pneumonia has taken Captain Simcoe,” Mr. Cook told the crew solemnly. “He has departed this life.”
Our vessels anchored near an island called Anticosti on the 17th of May, with every ensign and pennant flying at half-mast. All hands were once again called to the deck for the funeral. I could see Cape Gaspé in the distance, and I knew that somewhere beyond it flowed the St. Lawrence. Mr. Cook’s voice droned on as he read the service. I should have listened closely out of respect, but all I could think of was that river. It would be our road to Québec and war.
There was a splash. I cringed a little at the sound of Captain Simcoe’s corpse hitting the water. They had dropped his remains out of one of the gunroom ports. Weighed down with lead balls, the captain’s body sank immediately. A cannon fired just then. There was a half minute or so of silence, and another boomed out. Twenty in all, a fitting farewell for an officer. That done, we all set sail once again, leaving the captain’s remains behind in the gulf’s cold water.
The event stayed with me, though, as I worked on deck. It was there when I ate my dinner and later took to my hammock to get what sleep I could. Two men dead and we have not even seen battle yet, I thought. Surely that will be the end of such bad business. It moved me enough that I recorded it all in my journal the next day.
I was wrong. No one could explain how it happened. For days there was little wind, and Pembroke was sliding over the water, her sails barely filled. There we stood among the chicken coops, which had been brought up so that the hens might get fresh air. The sun shone brightly, and all of us were sweating. It would be grand for the topmen up in the rigging, though.
Tom was showing me how to tie a bowline, saying that it was the perfect knot. “It never tightens too much, and it will never come loose by itself,” he said. “Now you try it.”
I took the line and began, repeating the words he had used to help me recall just how to tie the knot. “The rabbit runs out of the hole,” I whispered to myself. “It goes around the tree, and back down the hole.” I held out my effort. It did not look much like a bowline.
“Your rabbit has tangled himself up something awful,” said Tom with a laugh.
At that moment, someone screamed and there was a tremendo
us splash.
“Man overboard!” shouted Baldish from above us. “Bob Carty’s in the water! Throw something to him!”
At Mr. Cook’s order the sails were dropped. I flung down the line, grabbed a hen coop and tossed it over the side. Many of us crowded the rail. There was nothing to see except the hen in her coop floating on the water. Pembroke’s cutter was launched and the men searched and searched, but nothing was found. They rescued the bedraggled hen and hoisted the cutter back onto the ship. The sea had swallowed up Bob Carty the same way it had swallowed Captain Simcoe.
“Fell like a rock,” said Blue Sam that night.
“Sank like one, too,” Boston Ben added. “Carty never stood a chance once the sea had him.”
“Perhaps he lost consciousness when he hit the water,” I suggested. I passed down a bit of salt beef to King Louis, who was crouched near my feet. “If that had not happened, he might have survived.”
“Not likely,” said Sam. “Carty could not swim. I can, but few among us are able to.” He smiled. “You did a good deed in throwing out the hen coop, though, Jenkins. It was quick thinking — worthy of a sailor. Carty would have liked that.”
“Bad things come in threes, and so that is the end of it,” said Tom. “Three is enough for any butcher’s bill.”
“Let’s have a song for Bob Carty!” shouted Gum. He dug an old fiddle from his battered sea-chest, and began to tune it. “‘Spanish Ladies’ was Bob’s favourite. He did have an eye for the ladies.”
We sang and my spirits lifted a little, especially after Sam’s words. He thought of me as a fellow sailor, and that meant something. Bad things come in threes, I reminded myself. Perhaps we would have good things for a while.
And the music was good. I knew that sailors liked a good shanty. And they liked to dance. Gum played his fiddle and the men sang and clapped to “Spanish Ladies,” then to “Yankee Doodle” — that at Ben’s insistence — and then to “Over the Hills and Far Away.” I was filled with a sense of good things coming.
It seemed to be so. The next day, the 19th of May, the admiral’s ship captured a French vessel that was headed to Québec. Up the St. Lawrence we went, struggling against the current. The wind had to be just right, or else we would have been swept back.
The St. Lawrence began to narrow a bit. Small islands and the mouths of other rivers slid by, but we explored none of them. It was slow going, not just because of the current, but because the river was unfamiliar. If there were sandbars, we could run aground. If there were rocks, we might hit one and sink. Each evening the ships anchored, since it would have been impossible to continue up the river in the dark. I felt myself slowly becoming accustomed to Pembroke’s ways. Sleep in the middle of the day came no easier. But the navy’s language and strange terms now made more sense, and I thought that perhaps in time I might become a proper tar. Still, I could not keep myself from wondering about what we were doing.
We passed by miles and miles of the Canadians’ countryside. Even without my spyglass I could see tidy villages along the shores. The spires of churches rose above them, putting me in mind of lighthouses. As for the farms, they were strangely arranged. Ribbon farms, they are called, because of the long, narrow bands of property that run to the river, which is like a highway to these people.
It was a highway to us as well, but one that was carrying us along our path to war.
I thought of that when I peered at one of the farms with my glass. I saw a boy standing on the shore, a bucket in his hand. I could see his face well enough to read the relief that was there. Keep going, Englishmen, his expression seemed to be saying. Leave us in peace. There will be no peace at Québec, though, not until this war is over and it is ours.
* * *
A ship must have a commander. On the 27th of May, the admiral sent Captain Wheelock over from Squirrel to take charge of Pembroke. The next morning while we were holystoning the decks, I was ordered to go to the quarterdeck. Mr. Cook wished to speak to me. I set down my sandstone, relieved to have a break from the scrubbing, and stood up. No one said a word, but all eyes followed me. I knew I had done nothing wrong, but I could feel every man thinking otherwise.
“Now Jenkins is in for it,” hissed Ben as I passed by him. “Twenty lashes, I would guess.”
“Sir,” I said quietly when I reached Mr. Cook. “You wanted to see me?”
“I do,” said Mr. Cook sternly. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to the deck.
I looked down. There lay a small body part.
“I believe it is a rat’s tail, sir.”
“And how did it get here?” asked Captain Wheelock.
“I have no idea, sir.” But I did have an idea, for there behind the captain sat King Louis.
“I, however, do know,” said Mr. Cook. “It was a dog that brought it and dropped it at the captain’s feet. What do you say to that, Jenkins?”
“Sorry, sir,” I said faintly.
“Sorry for what?” growled Mr. Cook.
“Sorry for letting the dog out of the bag?” I suggested hopefully. The words had popped out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I knew I was doomed. Not a sound came from the men, and even Ben kept his lips pressed shut. King Louis, however, yawned and gave a loud belch. I shut my eyes in despair, but then a low chuckle made me open them. It was Mr. Cook who was chuckling, and so was Captain Wheelock. One by one the other officers joined in.
“Your dog, Jenkins, is doing us a great service,” said Captain Wheelock. “My cook says there is scarcely a rat to be seen in the galley.”
“King Louis does love a plump rat,” I said, and this caused the captain and Mr. Cook to laugh even harder.
“Dog out of the bag,” said Mr. Cook, wiping his eyes. “King Louis. That is rich. Back to work, Jenkins. Your noble dog is welcome aboard this ship, and woe the man who annoys him.” And that is the last time Ben threatened King Louis.
A few afternoons later, Tom guided me up into the rigging. It will be easier this time, I thought — I did it before back in Halifax, after all. This time was different, though. A crisp breeze was blowing. As we climbed, the stronger the wind became, and the more we swayed from side to side. I clutched the shrouds so hard my knuckles went white. I prayed my hands would not get sweaty again and make me lose my grip. If I fell, my head would crack open like a melon. I would be buried at sea and be food for the fish.
It was not a pleasant thought, and so I banished it from my mind and concentrated on climbing. I was a sailor, after all! The higher I climbed, the more my respect grew for the topmen who clambered up here even in the worst storms. Finally Tom helped me onto the topcastle, where the lookouts and sharpshooters stood. Baldish was there, a spyglass in his hand.
“That there is Coudre Island, and those that know say we are some fifty miles or so from the city of Québec. Have a look,” he said, handing me the glass. It was larger than mine, and more powerful.
I pressed the glass against my eye, and leaned on the rail of the crow’s nest to steady myself. I could see our ships.
“Well?” asked Tom.
I cleared my throat. “I see a cow … no, two cows, and … three pigs. No Frenchmen.”
I could not have been more correct. All of our ships set their anchors. Boats took a large party of soldiers ashore, but all they found were farm animals. Every man, woman and child had fled when they saw us coming.
“That’s a good sign,” I said after supper that evening. My head was spinning a little, since we had been given wine — our beer was gone. We stood at ease looking down at the river. “Since the French have run off, this war may be over quickly.”
Boston Ben made a rude noise, and shook his head at my terrible ignorance. “They were just farmers.”
Blue Sam, though, gave us both a cold look. “Farmers? The Canadians are more than farmers. Battling French soldiers is one thing, but you will see how the Canadian farmers fight.” He spat into the water, and the spittle was swept away. “And remember their Abenak
i allies. I would watch my scalp if I were you fools.” Then he went below.
Scalping was an ugly business, and not something only the Indians did. The French, English and Americans were also guilty of the practice. The very thought of it made my own scalp crawl.
“Blue Sam should know,” said Ben with an unpleasant smile. “I would wager he has taken his share of scalps.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He was a captive. Where do you think he got the tattoos? The Abenaki took him years ago when he was a boy. He left of his own accord in time, but by then it was too late. He was one of them, more Indian than white. Do not make an enemy of Blue Sam if you want to live long. And if you are ever taken by the French or by the savages — there is no difference — do anything you can to survive. Forget honour. Lie, cheat, steal, kill!”
I had never heard Ben make such a long, passionate speech. And with that he left us.
Chapter 6
June 8, 1759
Admiral Durell ordered Pembroke, Devonshire, Centurion and Squirrel, along with three of the transport ships loaded with soldiers, to set sail. Captain Gordon on Devonshire would be in command. We were to go as far up the St. Lawrence as we could and find the fire ships the French had constructed. Those ships were just as dangerous as they sounded. When lit by the French, they would float down among our ships, setting them ablaze as well.
Ben’s words about the French stayed with me throughout the next days as we moved slowly up the river towards Québec. They were definitely in my mind when we received a signal that all our small boats were to be launched with armed men in them. No one was certain about how deep the water was, and so the sailing masters would take soundings in a treacherous section of the river they called the Traverse. The boats would leave in the dark so that the French would not see them. They knew we were here, of course. For days they had been lighting signal fires on the shore.
One evening later in June, I was silently wishing the expedition good luck. The silence was broken when Mr. Cook called out, “You and your mess will come as well, Jenkins. A bit of fun will do you good.”
Storm the Fortress Page 4