"On deck there! Boat heading out from the land!"
That jerks me out of my reverie right quick and I jump to my feet and look at the coast. What, another smuggler that's going to get away? No ... strange ... it is a large boat that has no sails, but instead has great long oars sticking out either side. But what's that big thing in the middle? It looks like...
"It's a gun shallop!" roars the lookout. "And it's headed right for us!"
"Beat to Quarters! All hands clear for action!" shouts Mr. Pinkham on the quarterdeck and the sounds of whistles and shouts and pounding feet are heard as all hands head for their battle stations. I slide down the port ratlines right into mine.
"Mr. Piggott! Tucker!" I shout as I see the boys running up to our gun. "Powder! Now!" They hie off in the direction of the magazine as the rest of the men get into position.
"Haul 'em back! Open the gun ports! Harkness, we'll load One and Three first, then the other two!" I say. "Swabbers! Make sure your buckets are full! Carriage men! Pull now!" Guns One and Three rumble back on their little wheels. On any decent ship, they would be loaded already, us being close to the enemy as we always are. I will keep my mouth shut about that as I think the folly of the Captain's ways are about to be forcefully shown.
The boys come back bearing the bags of powder and Harkness takes the one from Georgie and drops it down the barrel of Number One.
"Ram!" I say, from my position to the left of the gun. Shaughnessy rams the charge home. "Ball! Wad! Ram!"
I take the spike and the horn of priming powder from their hooks on the bulkhead and ram the spike down the fire hole to pierce the bag of powder, pour in the priming charge, and set the flint firing mechanism. "Out!" I yell and the rope and carriage men haul the gun forward so the muzzle goes back out through the port. "Set the blocks!"
Number One is ready to fire. And now Number Three.
They are hauling back Two and Four. I take a few strides across the deck to scope out the enemy. It is indeed a gun shallop—a big thirty-two-pound cannon mounted on a sturdy boat that is rowed into position to do its murderous work. The boat has to be built extra strong to withstand the repeated shocks of the recoil and, therefore, is not fast, but it does not have to be—it has the advantage of maneuverability of oars over the speed of sail and it is maneuvering right at us. I can see the blue-striped tops of the sailors as they bend their oars or stand by their gun. The French flag, the Tricolor, waves from the rear, and all aboard are singing the French national anthem, the "Marseillaise," at the tops of their lungs.
"Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!"
Even as they arrive, they fire, and the boom of the cannon rolls out toward us, as does a cannonball. I can see the ball and I know it will be short. It is. It splashes into the water about thirty yards off our beam.
All is in disarray on the starboard side of the Wolverine. The men who are not cowering under the rail are dashing about in confusion, trying to get the guns loaded. I look to my right and see that Robin's not having much luck with his guns, either.
The Captain has been hauled to the quarterdeck and he leans on Mr. Pinkham and bawls out orders that nobody is able to carry out. He is white in the face with the ravages of his sickness and his clothes are stained and filthy. And he seems incredulous that this is going on. I swear he even tries to wave the attacker off, like this is all a mistake. He has Mr. Smythe, the Gunnery Officer, on the quarterdeck. The mistake, Captain Scroggs, was in not training your crew.
The French gunboat fires again. They had reloaded in under two minutes. Probably more like ninety seconds. They are well trained.
I cannot see the ball this time, but it makes itself apparent soon enough. A man is crossing the deck in front of me and there is a whap! His head explodes in a red mist. The headless body stands for a second and then flops down, the remaining blood oozing out of the stump of his neck and spreading across the deck. I look down and see that I am splattered with it and again my knees turn to jelly and my bowels threaten to shame me, same as it ever was when I am in battle and people are doing their level best to kill me. Stop that. Just think about what you have to do.
"Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Marchons! Marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!"
I go back to my guns and to my men and stand there ready. We can do nothing for we are pointed the wrong way.
"What are they singing? What are they saying, Miss?" Tucker asks, as he brings up another bag of powder and hands it over.
"Oh, never you mind, Tucker. It's only something about them calling other Froggies to arms so's they can march through rivers of our blood."
Tucker allows that we'll see about that and then goes down for more powder.
"Fire, fire! Oh, why will you not fire?" I look up on the quarterdeck and hear the Captain shouting, but it is to no avail. No gun on the starboard side can answer the fire from the gunboat. He is reduced to crying, "Will no man do his duty? Will no man do his duty?"
I fill my lungs with air and shout out to him, "Turn the ship about and we will do ours!"
The Captain turns, as if in a dream, and looks at me standing there speckled with that poor seaman's blood and he says, "What? What are you saying?"
"Guns One through Four are ready for firing! Bring the ship about so we can bring them to bear! Or else sit here and be beaten to death by a one-gun boat!" I bellow with absolutely no respect in my voice.
The Captain jerkily gestures to Mr. Pinkham to do it, and Mr. Pinkham roars out "Hard alee! All topmen aloft to make sail!" and the helm is put over and slowly, ponderously, the Wolverine turns into the wind. And as we do, we hear the strains of the "Marseillaise" yet again, and yet again the gunboat fires. This time the ball whistles over the Captain's head but does no damage to the ship. The Captain ducks when the ball whizzes by. A little lower next time, Froggies.
And we turn and turn and turn, but we are not there yet and I'd be damned if I'll have my men sing "God Save the King," in reply to the Frenchies and I think back to something that Jared told me one time and I stick out my chest and start chanting, Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves! over and over till my men pick up the chant, too. Finally we are pointed south and the French gunboat is about to come within our sights. Now, Frenchmen, we shall see.
Another verse? Don't they ever tire of their bloody song?
I lean over Gun Number One and wait for the gunboat to appear in my sights. I hold my breath, for while I know how to load and fire a gun, I've never actually done it. Please, gun, please, go off. I pull the lanyard.
Crack!
There is a thunderclap and the gun whips back under my cheek. I look out through the port—my shot was wide, but it got their notice. I leap over to Number Two and aim. Behind me I hear "Swab! Powder! Ram! Wad! Ram!" as Number One is reloaded. Good boys!
"Harkness! Fire Number Four when she bears!" He leaps over to take the Gun Captain's spot.
"Fire!" I yell and pull the lanyard. The gun cracks and bucks back. Just then Harkness fires Four and a shout and a cheer goes up from our ship. I look out and see that one of our shots has ripped into the oars on the starboard side of the gunboat and its crew is furiously trying to ship new oars over on that side. They ain't singin' no more, that's for sure.
"Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!" I continue to chant as they reload, and soon all aboard pick up the chant. "Were-wolves! Were-wolves! Were-wolves!"
I leap to Gun Number Three and sight along it. "Ratchet over two! Pike up one! Fire!" and I pull the lanyard and the gun barks out its charge. A near miss, but they're getting worried. I'm sure the gunboat only came out to stir up a little trouble and its commanding officer and crew probably were astounded by how close they were able to get to a King's ship. The miss is all right with me, as I sure as hell don't want to kill anybody, even though they got one of ours. The Frenchies looked so merry, coming at us, fl
ying their colors and singing. It would be a shame to kill them, but that is the way of it, ain't it?
"Harkness. You may aim and fire at will," I say, and look over to Robin's crew. He is furious, mostly with himself, I think, for his failure so far to fire a gun. It looks like he's about ready, though. Good lad.
Harkness fires again and his aim is deadly. It hits the oarsmen on the port side and again they scramble to reship oars. They are in full retreat. Let them go, I say to myself, but Harkness is not in such a forgiving mood. The gun barks again and it hits the boat amidships and men go over the side.
Then Gun Number Five fires, and I look over at Robin, who has fired it. He is leaning over the gun and looking out through the port. The ball arcs through the air and, incredibly, hits the boat square on, and the boat, weighed down by the massive gun, points its bow in the air and then goes straight to the bottom. Maybe some of the Frenchmen are able to reach the shore, but I doubt it. It was a lucky, or an unlucky shot, depending on how you look at it. I look at Robin and he is ashen. He staggers to the rail as if he needs to throw up over the side. That, Robin, is what killing men feels like.
Had I not been sent to the top this morning without breakfast, I might have joined him there at the rail. But I don't. Instead I stand on the deck and address my men.
"Good shooting, Harkness. Good job, Werewolves, all of you. You should take pride in your actions today. You saved the ship. Let us clean up the guns and make them ready."
I'm putting the matchlocks away when I hear the Captain call.
"You. Faber. Get over here."
Uh-oh...
I go over to the foot of the quarterdeck and wait.
The Captain weaves unsteadily on his feet, leaning on a cane. Now that the danger is past, his sneer is back in its place on his white-stained lips. His officers stand behind him in a state of mortal humiliation, as if it were their fault that the ship was so woefully unprepared for such an attack. I am sure he has told them just that.
"I should hang the lot of you," snarls the Captain to his crew, "and I just might do that, one at a time, starting tomorrow." His tic comes on him, pulling his mouth down into that horrid grimace. "It would be no loss to the Navy, for you are the most pathetic bunch of pansies that ever tried to pass for men!"
The tic relaxes, but the eye wanders off. The crew is dead silent.
"That being the case, I now direct that the sailmakers shall fashion skirts of light cloth and every member of the starboard gun crews, every one of you loutish dolts who could not get a single shot off to save your sorry asses, shall wear them! And you will wear them, ladies, till such time as I say you may take them off!"
There is a collective intake of breath from the crew at this incredible insult. I reflect that the Captain, though a cruel and despicable tyrant, is not completely mad—had he made the entire crew wear dresses, there would have been an outright mutiny, no question, but with only twenty-four or so singled out, well...
"Now, as for you," he says, turning and fixing his mad stare upon me, "you are now Acting Lieutenant Faber, Assistant Gunnery Officer."
My gasp is echoed by a hundred others.
The Captain looks sideways at Mr. Smythe, who looks like he's been punched in the belly. "Perhaps you can teach Mr. Gunnery Officer Smythe here something about gunnery."
I think back with horror on the conversation I had overheard between the Captain and Pinkham about fraternization and about him making me a lieutenant so's he could get on me. And now he's done it. My horror is nothing compared to that of the ship's officers, who recoil from the Captain's statement.
"Sir! You cannot!" says Mr. Pinkham.
"Sir, I just did," says the Captain. "Now get out of my way. I'm going below. Mr. Smythe, I'll decide later whether or not you will wear the skirt, too. On yours, of course, we'll have a bit of gold lace put around the hem as befits your rank." He staggers down the ladder, his steward holding his arm.
In shock I turn and go back to my division. All, of course, have heard. They are all still there, even though we have secured from Quarters. All except for Georgie. I look around and spy him standing stock-still a little bit away.
He is watching some men take up the headless corpse of the killed man to bear him below to strip him and clean him and sew him up in his hammock and so prepare him for burial. Those men would be the dead man's mates. Other men come with mops and buckets and start swabbing at the blood. It has already started to clot and turn brown, but it goes all pinkish when the water hits it.
I go over and put my arm around Georgie's shoulder. He quivers and he looks up at me, and a look of horror comes over his face and he tears out of my grip and plunges below.
I had forgotten that I was splattered with the dead seaman's blood and must present an awful spectacle. I move the muscles of my face about and can feel the dried blood caked there. Do I hear it said, or is it only in my own mind? Bloody Jack yet again. Sorry, Georgie.
Before I follow Georgie down into the berth, I go into the gun room, the officers' quarters.
They stiffen as I enter, the hatred and humiliation plain on their faces.
"I know you do not want me here, gentlemen, and I will not stay long."
I go up to the gunnery officer and stand before him. "The shame here is not yours, Mr. Smythe. I hope you know that, and do not do anything rash to yourself. This will right itself soon."
He looks at me with eyes burning in rage and shame. He says nothing, but he nods.
I turn to Mr. Pinkham and ask right out, "There is nothing that can be done? Like a complaint made to his superior officers?" If this be mutiny, then so be it.
Mr. Pinkham shakes his head sadly, totally defeated and caring not that this is being discussed in the open. It occurs to me that these four would have talked about this among themselves many times before. Now there are five officers in on it.
"No, the Captain is always able to pull himself together when he is under scrutiny from above. I have seen him do it. The Flag would agree that, though he is a harsh commander, he is not insane. They would side with him and nothing would be accomplished."
Hmmm. I think on this for a moment and then I say, "Thank you, gentlemen, for receiving me so kindly. We all know what happened today was a sham and a mockery. I will continue to stay in my quarters in the midshipmen's berth, and I will take my meals there as well. I think that would be best. Good day, gentlemen."
With that I turn and leave.
I go down into the berth and find Ned and Tom already there.
"You two all right?" I ask. They are subdued, but they nod. "Good. Go find the Weasel and tell him to get us something to eat and drink. Tell him I want a half ration of rum drawn for the two of you. You look like you could use it. Oh, and find out if my uniform is ready yet."
I go in my cabin and strip off my silks and wrap them in a bundle and wash the blood off my face and hands and hair and then put on my nightshirt till such time as my uniform arrives. Then I go in to see Georgie.
He is lying facedown on his bunk. He is crying, and he shudders when I put my hand on his shoulders.
"You saw something horrible today, Georgie, but you will get over it."
"No, I won't! I won't never forget him lying there without his head. I'll never forget that!"
"Come. Turn around." He does, and I put my arms around him and he puts his head on my chest.
"You look just like my sister Theresa when you're dressed like that," he says, his voice shaking.
Ah.
"There, there," I say, as I rock him back and forth. The crush of the day does its work on him and soon he falls asleep. I lay him back on his bunk and pull up the covers.
Why did they send you off, Georgie? Did they think it would be like it was in the books? With bright fancy uniforms and flags snapping and all that? Well, maybe it would have been like that if you'd been sent to a grand flagship where you'd be some admiral's pet and set up as a side boy with nothing else to concern you except etiquet
te and naval rituals and traditions, instead of being sent here to this Hell Ship. But then, the flagships have to fight sometimes, too, so you never know.
I leave his cabin and sit at the table and think about food. And maybe a drop of wine.
Then the hatch door opens and the Weasel falls in, but not with food. No, he is kicked into the berth by Robin, who is red with rage, and who, obviously, has had some of his rum ration already. The Weasel is howling piteously and covering his head with his arms to ward off further kicks from Robin.
"What's this, then?" I say, mystified. I see that Ned has come in bearing my uniform jacket and my trousers. But not my...
"Ask him," says Robin, delivering another kick.
"I warn't doing nothin'," wails the unfortunate Weasel, "just spreading a little joy is all."
"What?" I say.
"The wretch was exhibiting your drawers and charging one penny to ... handle them," says Robin. "Here's his bag of pennies. And there was a line of men clutching other pennies."
I am aghast.
"Kick him again," I say. Robin does. The Weasel howls. "Again," I say. "Penny a sniff, hey?" I pick up my bundle and throw it at him.