An Inception of Piracy Chapter 5
5
It was indeed the Penbroke they reached as the sun kissed the horizon. Even though exhausted from rowing, the men clambered up the side after the officers. As Giovanni’s head came up over the rail he caught his first glimpse of Captain Augustus Fairbain or ‘Fighting Fairbain’ as he was known after the Gibraltar action. He and Littlewort were conversing, Littlewort waving a glass of wine was he talked. There couldn’t be a greater contrast between the two men. The only thing similar about them was their height. Fairbain was trim in his blue waistcoat and cream colored breeches, broad at the shoulder with a powerful physical presence barely restrained by his rank and position. He held himself straight and erect, his mannerisms courtly. Long, dark brown hair was clubbed at his neck. His face was thin and long with a finely curved nose. His light eyes were intelligent, taking in everything at once even as he listened to the animated monologue of Littlewort. In front of him he heard Will ask Matthews about Sam. Matthews just shook his head and he heard Will curse under his breath. It made Giovanni angry, very angry. Poor man was making a good living and was just going home to his family when he was nabbed by these cretins and now he’s dead. His wife’s a widow and his son, fatherless. Who is going to train the boy in his trade now? Who is going to provide for them? Damn these English!
“Move Bartolli!” His observations were rudely interrupted by the bos'un shoving him from behind, the hands slapping his sore back, the power of the blow sending him sprawling across the deck.
“Sir! What is the meaning of this?!” As Giovanni turned himself over he saw Quinn being confronted by what looked like a boy. He was wearing an officer’s uniform that looked like it have been sized slightly large to allow for his further growth, a cocked hat and he couldn’t have been near as old as Giovanni himself. Without the hat, he would have only come up to Quinn’s chin but he fearlessly glared up at the burly older man with blazing blue eyes. Quinn sized up the young officer before he spoke.
“He’s a bad hat sir, a troublemaker, and a papist to boot.”
The boy inched closer to Quinn and Giovanni noticed the whole deck had gone quiet.
“I don’t care if he worships the devil sir, he has been in a small boat without water just as you have and he was heading toward that bit of refreshment just as you and the others were. There was no excuse I could see for such treatment.”
“Mr. Elliot, stand down,” ordered Captain Fairbain with quiet authority. The boy took a step back, continuing to glare at Quinn. “Captain Littlewort, who is this man?”
“Mr. Quinn, sir, our bos'un.” replied Littlewort with what little dignity he could manage in his embarrassed state.
“Mr. Quinn,” he began, now speaking in a voice that could easily be heard by all on deck. He slowly walked up to the bos'un, who had by now lost any hint of defiance and was staring meekly at the deck, his hands rubbing the sides of his pants. “I don’t know how you ran things aboard the Vitol but here we treat men with respect unless they demonstrate they do not deserve it. You are under my authority now, and that of my officers. I trust that there will be no more incidents of this kind?”
“No sir,” he replied in a whisper.
“Very good. Mr. Elliot, Mr. Eyton.” The boy and one of his slightly older companions quickly came to the captain’s side. It was clear to Giovanni that this ship was run very differently than the Vitol and the officers and men respected and admired their captain, and each other. The Pembroke appeared to be a what he had heard called a ‘happy ship’, even though the monotonous duty of blockade was less than desirable. “See that these men are taken care of, enter their names in the ship’s books and give them their assignments.”
“Yes sir,” they stated in unison, touching their hats and quickly turning to Giovanni and his companions. “Come with us men,” encouraged Elliot as he motioned them forward. They were led down the main hatch onto the upper gun deck. Scores of cannon lined either side, peering out hatches open to admit the breeze. Giovanni estimated there were also close to one hundred men already squeezed into the cramped space. “Pembrokes,” began Elliot in a commanding voice seemingly beyond his years. “These men are from the Vitol and they will be with us for a while. I expect you will afford them every courtesy.” The last was not said threateningly but as a statement of fact, recognizing the good nature of the crew. “Mr. Wolfe!”
A short, round man with a pronounced limp hobbled as quickly as he could through the crowd, which parted respectfully before him. He wore a stained apron on which he was vigorously wiping chubby hands, the right of which was missing the first two fingers. “Aye sir?”
“Get these men a double ration of grog and some salt pork and biscuit.”
“Yes sir!” Wolfe spun around and as he made his way back to the galley, gestured for two others to join him.
“Very good. Mr. Eyton,” stated Elliot, turning to his compatriot. “They are all yours.” Turning back to the Vitol’s survivors with his arms spread wide, he smiled. “Again, welcome to the Pembroke. Mr. Eyton will tell you off.” With a quick nod he turned on his heel and headed back up the ladder. Eyton cleared his throat. He was about Giovanni’s height with a slight build and large, blue eyes that bulged a little, full lips, a prominent nose, and a weak, deeply cleft chin.
“We also lost some good men in that storm so if any of you are rated able seamen, step up now.”
Two thirds of the men from the Vitol stepped forward. Giovanni expected that most of them would be rated such, it was more likely they would survive given their experience. Although there were a lot of seamen who didn’t know how to swim, it was a rare landsman who did. A vision of Sam struggling to escape the foc’s’le in his battered condition flashed through his mind’s eye. He balled his fists at the thought.
“Very good. After you have had your grog, you will go with Mr. Rodgers who will enter your names and find you a place among the crew.” Eyton indicated a short, grizzled man with a jagged scar on his chin and eyes too close together. Rodgers nodded respectfully. One of the cook’s assistants had found Giovanni and gave him a piece of biscuit. “The rest of you will stay here and report to Mr. Leech.” Mr. Leech rose up and saluted. He was very tall and thin with a pointed nose and sharp, high cheekbones. He would have had a hard look to him but his green eyes fairly sparkled and his thick lips easily parted into a toothless grin.
“Yes sir,” he replied in that odd mumbling way people without teeth talk. He turned to the Vitols that remained. “You men wi' take your grog on the 'ower gun deck, fo'ow me.” He turned and walked the few steps to the hatch and folding his tall frame, disappeared below. Matthews looked at Giovanni, shrugged with a faint smile and followed Leech below. Giovanni and the remaining Vitols filed after him.
It was dim in the lower gun deck, and it smelled much worse than the fo’c’sle of the Vitol. The wide space reached from starboard to larboard and it was lined with cannon from a bulkhead near the bow to the one near the stern. Even between the beams there was not quite standing headroom. It was already crowded with men. “Men, this wi’ be your home for now. Each of you wi’ be assigned to a crew who wi’ instruct you in the proper use of these beautifu’ weapons.” He patted one of the huge cannon that had ‘death and hell’ carved into it’s carriage. “Accurate fire wi’ win the day men, and you wi’ ‘earn it the Pembroke way!” His voice rose and at the end of his sentence, a chorus of cheers arose around him. He smiled again.
“Beg pardon sir,” mumbled a squat, grubby man at the edge of the circle of men. Giovanni noticed he was bald save a tuft of white hair on his forehead giving him a comical, dwarflike appearance. He was carrying a worn wooden tray with a multitude of battered tin cups perched precariously upon it. He swayed easily with the motion of the ship, holding the tray firmly in his blackened hands.
“Ah, Mr. Bur', thank ye. Men, take your grog. Mr. Hans, Mr. Smit, Mr. Pennybrooke, see that these men are divided as needed among your crews, give them their hammock and watch assignments and whatever else they need. Welcome to the Penbroke men.”
“Huzzah!” cheered the men around them. Giovanni let out a sigh, hoping that this would truly be be an improvement over the Vitol.
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“Form up men!” ordered Pennybrooke. Giovanni had found him pleasant enough, a jovial man with a round, chubby face that smiled often. It was indicative of the mood he found aboard the Penbroke; she was indeed a ‘happy ship’. Pennybrooke slapped his right hand, which was missing three fingers, on the cannon.
“This, men, is a twenty-four pounder. Properly handled she’s reasonably accurate, deadly at close range and should be fired three times in five minutes. That requires that everyone do their job, do it well and do it quickly. This is the only job you have on this ship and you are going to bloody well do it right!” This he said menacingly but with a wink, looking at each of the five men around the gun. Giovanni and Matthews looked at each other with a slight shrug.
“First things first. We remove the tompion,” he reached forward with a slight grunt and removed the wood and canvas cover from the muzzle. “And this,” he pulled off a lead cover from the touch hole. He placed them on the deck out of the way. “When we exercise the guns these will go in those cabinets over there but for now we’ll leave them be. Now pay close attention, each of you will have a job on a team but right now you are going to learn the whole of it.” He grabbed several poles and began handing them out. Giovanni received one that looked like it had two intertwined corkscrews on the end. “First we load, then we aim, then we fire. You..Adams right?”
“Yes sir!” Adams chirped. He was about Giovanni’s age but short and of slight build, maybe a little effeminate. He was holding a pole with a lambskin swab on the end.
“First you put that in that bucket over there and have it ready. Then you shove it all the way down the barrel. Make sure you get it all the way down. If you leave any smoldering wad in there it could set off the powder prematurely and one of you could lose something.” He smiled and held up his two fingered hand. “Understood?” All nodded. “Good. After the first firing you....” He looked at Giovanni.
“Bartolli...sir.”
“Bartolli, right. You will use the wormer before the swab to remove any of that wad. Wormer,” he pointed at Giovanni’s implement. “Then swab. Got it?” All grunted again. “The powder monkeys will have brought you your charge. You will be told how much powder to use based on the range. This is a ladle, it measures and places the powder. Powder goes in the cup, it goes down the muzzle and a quick turn puts the powder in. Now you....Matthew..”
“Matthews sir!”
“Matthews. He has the rammer.” He held out his mangled hand and Matthews gave it to him. “Notice the marks on the rammer. They be very important. After you put in the wad and the charge you push it down hard with this. It will go in to one of the marks. You have to remember what charge went in so you know which mark to look for. If it doesn’t go to the mark that means there is something in there that doesn’t belong, like an unexploded charge. Any of you been in a scrap before?” They all shook their heads no. Most had never even seen the ocean before last week.
“Ahhh....let me tell you about it then, ain’t nothin’ like it. The noise, the smell of powder, the smoke....Back in ‘04 I was just a swab like you in the Ruby, a little frigate, twenty eight guns. We got in the thick of it taking Gibraltar. A frenchie had just snuck up in all the smoke and raked our stern, lucky he was, while we were engaged with another sloop, thirty two guns it were. Knocked the rudder out but the captain, right good seaman he was...Cap’n Dickson, he swung us ‘round enough using the sails an’ we poured it into frenchie. Well, in the thick of it, Barrington, he was the wormer, he was knocked out. Poor swab took a splinter right clean through his head.” With this horrific statement he thrust one of the two fingers on his hand into the side of his head. “Well, that happens, the blood was already thick on the floor, even with the sand we were struggling to keep our feet. In all the smoke Gary, he had the ram, didn’t read the mark and we had two charges instead of one. It was only an old ten pounder and when ol’ Thomas put the slow match on, that piece split right up. Poor Thomas was shredded, almost took his head clean off. A piece took off these,” he waved his mangled hand, “and knocked me on the head. But that was better than Norton, who lost his whole arm. I was out of the fight, didn’t wake up ‘till four days later but we carried the day!” His voice had slowly been getting louder and several men around them were listening, some snickering.
“’Ol Penny can spin a good yarn!” A beefy man with one eye came up and put his arm around Pennybrooke and laughed. “Everyone knows ya lost them fingers when the whore in Plymouth slammed the door on ‘em!” Several others laughed as Pennybrooke pushed the man down but he was smiling as well.
“I believe that same whore took something more important from you!” This elicited even more laughter. “Now let me get back to it.” The men retreated, still snickering and Pennybrooke turned back to them. “That is why every step must be followed and done correctly.” They all nodded. “Now the ball and some more wadding go in, don’t want the ball falling out on a roll or anything now do we? The gunner now uses his prick to clear the vent which he has been holding closed with his thumb and we’re ready to fire. Everyone then takes a line and the gun is run out. Aiming is done with the handspikes. They are placed under the carriage like so and pried to move side to side. The gunner will take care of the elevation with the quoin. After firing the whole process starts again. Now lets run through it.”
“Bartolli, you’re first. Shove the wormer down the barrel.” Giovanni moved around the front of the cannon and worked the wormer down into the barrel. “Adams, get ready with the swab. Don’t duck it on a dry run though.”
“Yes sir,” he chirped as he moved opposite Giovanni. Giovanni pulled out the wormer and Adams enthusiastically shoved the swab down the barrel.
“Bartolli, you will grab a charge and ladle and put it down the barrel after Adams is finished. Make sure you look at the gunner and see that he has his thumb on the vent to keep any sparks from igniting the powder or you will lose an arm, or worse.” Giovanni’s eyes widened at that thought. “Matthews, you will then ram home the charge.” Matthews hustled to the front of the cannon and quickly put the rammer in and out of the barrel. “Shove it hard, the charge needs to sit all the way in.” Matthews nodded. “Adams, you will then put in the shot and the wad and Matthews will ram that home.” Adams pretended to put in the shot and Matthews rammed it home. “Remember to check the marks on the rammer. Now we run it out. Clap on to the breeching, two on a side.” Giovanni and Adams pulled on one side, Matthews and Hanwell pulled on the other. The cannon hardly budged with their first attempt. “Come on ladies, put your backs into it!” They pulled on the tackles again and the carriage finally slid into place. “’Bout time.” yawned Pennybrooke. “Now, the two of you on the back of the tackle, grab the handspikes, you two, keep a loose hold on the line to make sure it doesn’t slide back on a roll. Now, move it to the left.” Hanwell, a husky middle aged man with sparse red hair shoved the pole under the carriage and wrestled the heavy gun a few inches over to the left. “Now, to the right.” Giovanni copied Hanwell’s action but didn’t have his bulk to throw behind it. It took considerably more effort but he moved it. “Now, the gunner will check the elevation, the slow match will be ready and when the command for firing comes, release the tension on the lines and the gun will fire, a glorious action, to be sure.” His face lit up, his expression one of near ecstasy. Then it quickly returned to it’s business like demeanor.
“Now we will run it again...and again...and again. Grab the carriage and pull it back, wait for the roll, there's no recoil today boys. Bartolli, wormer. Adams, swab. Matthews, rammer. Hanwell play the gunner for now. Begin...”
And so it went for the next three hours. They rotated positions, wormed, swabbed, rammed, pulled, pried and pulled again. Shirts were removed after the first three rounds, even in the cool, damp air of the Channel. Pennybrooke cajoled, yelled, encouraged and scolded. When he sensed their exhaustion, he called it quits.
“Good enough for today men. It is almost dinner time. Report here at two bells on the noon watch.” Then he was gone.
They were too exhausted to reply anyway. The sailor Giovanni recognized as the one ribbing Pennybrooke earlier ambled over.
“Welcome to the gun deck mates!” He slapped Adams on the back, nearly flinging him to the floor. “If you don’t mind being crammed in like pork in a barrel, the lice, the smell and the boredom, life ain’t too bad...for the navy! Name’s Vallack.” Vallack fairly filled the space between the decks, was heavily tattooed on his huge forearms, was missing a front tooth and his right eye but he had a kind, open expression. “Billy, get these poor swabs something, will ya?!” A short, wiry man grunted and disappeared. “Jus’ find a spot and make yourselves at home boys. Not’in to do ‘till dinner. Here comes Billy with your drinks.” Billy handed tin cups to all four men. It was really watered down grog but Giovanni was happy for anything. He slumped down on the floor and gulped it down. He rested his back against the carriage of “Death” and closed his eyes as Vallack began to tell some tale. He didn’t hear anything beyond the first sentence.
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“Hey boy, get up.” Giovanni started, instinctively putting his arms up to ward off the blows but none came. He looked up to see Billy grinning at him. “No worries here mate, I’m no spithead nightingale. Jus’ didn’t want you to miss scram.” He turned and shuffled forward to the galley. Matthews was already up beside him. Giovanni moved to get up, his arms and back protesting. The pulling, pushing and prying had done their work on him. He groaned loudly as he struggled to his feet.
“I know what you mean,” offered Matthews, rubbing his neck. “This don’t seem too bad, though, not like the Vitol.”
Giovanni just grunted and they made their way forward. It may be better than the Vitol but he still had no desire to be here. He thought of his father who was counting on him, trusting him to do well in their enterprise. In that he had already failed. All he wanted to do now was get back to Genoa alive, preferably with all his fingers. He knew, however, that he could be stuck here for years. The war had been going on for almost a decade and there was no real end in sight. He slowly made his way to the front of the line and got his salt pork, biscuit and a potato.
“Matthews, Bartolli!” Both turned to see Will waving them over. They picked their way among the scores of men already eating. They plopped down in a small circle on the deck. “Tough duty on the guns.”
“Aye,” agreed Matthews. “Back’s really sore.” With that observation, he ripped a huge chunk of salt pork with his teeth and began working the hard meat, making strange faces as he did so. Will laughed out loud and even Giovanni let a smile cross his lips.
“Always the jester!” Will mumbled, mouth filled with hard tack. He swallowed hard, the not quite softened piece going down with difficulty. He hit himself in the chest. “The menu ‘asn’t improved much, eh Giovanni?”
He just shook his head.
“Come now, it isn’t the Vitol. The bos'un and his mates aren’t beating us constantly. And except for the gun exercise, we don’t even have any duty. Sure, it ain’t home but it’s definitely an improvement.”
“Aye, once my back’s used t’ the work, even shovin’ that gun back and forth won’t be so bad.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Giovanni agreed reluctantly.
“I know, I wish I was home on the farm as well. I hope the boys ‘ave stepped up and are doing the job. If not, they may go hungry this winter and we may lose our lease. The common may provide something but the boys are young......”
“Oh, little James is a good shot with a bow, I’ve seen ‘im take a hare at twenty paces.”
“Aye, ‘e does have some skill there. I hope it’s enough,” Will sighed.
“You’ll have your pay when we get back and maybe a good prize or two could set us up real well, might make us gentlemen....me at least,” joked Matthews, elbowing Will in the ribs.
“Ha! Don’t get your hopes up boys,” laughed a sailor to Giovanni’s back. “Ner been a prize for this squadron in near two years. Fleet won’t come out and the privateers are too fast or slip out in the weather. You’ll be lucky with your wages,” he chuckled.
“Jonnick mate, been a long pull on this station, narry a ship sighted in nine months,” added his rotund companion.
“Aye, it’s been Sod’s Law for us. Wind shift, dirty weather, haven’t been close this last year. But here it’s a soft number most times.”
“Just don’t skylark about or you’ll find yourself rattling!” warned another man nearby. “Captain can be a right hard horse if you cock up or go on a bender.” There were general murmurs of agreement among those nearby.
“Don’t sound too promising, does it?” whispered Will, looking at Matthews.
“Never know...” he added as optimistically as he could. Giovanni just shook his head and finished his salt horse.
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“Get up men, it’s Field Day.” The voice and the sound of the bell slowly penetrated Giovanni’s fitful sleep. He cracked an eye and looked at Matthews in the hammock beside him.
“What is Field Day?”
“No idea,” replied Matthews as he rolled out of his hammock and began stowing it.
“You boys are wet even for landsmen!” exclaimed a voice in the darkness. “It’s make and mend day....work on your clothing and personal things..”
“Ha! Bartolli can finally do something about those pants...”
“Aye, poor as piss and twice as nasty!”
“Jonnick mate..”
“What...I..” started Giovanni but Matthews grabbed his arm and shook his head.
“They’re just joking....and those pants are really bad,” he smiled. Giovanni looked down at the baggy, blood stained pants being held up by the rope and smiled back.
“Yes, they could use some work.”
“Aye, we’ll give you a hand mate.” Vallack had made his way over, his tattooed bulk displacing several of his compatriots. “Got some needles from the sailmaker, we’ll have you ready for some poodle faking right quick,” he added, winking with his one eye. Giovanni looked at him quizzically as Billy untied the rope and took his pants. The chilly morning air coming lightly in through the open ports was a little uncomfortable on his bare legs.
“Let Smit help you with that Billy. Me an’ Bartolli goin’ to the slop chest and see what we can find.” Vallack nodded to Giovanni and the crowd parted before him as they made their way forward, up one deck and then aft. “Your mate Dillon told me ‘bout you, seems a real clanger to me and you ‘ave every right to be stroppy...but we all do what we can. ‘Ere we are.” He hunched over the chest and dug through the clothes. “Got to find you a tiddly shirt to go with your new pants. The one you’ve got is a little rough.” Giovanni knew it had been crudely patched after his flogging and was stained with blood. “How’s this?” He held up a faded blue shirt, stained all over with one arm ripped so it was shorter than the other. Giovanni made a face. “Can’t be too picky mate, this is the slop chest.” He put the shirt back in and pulled out another. This one used to be white with green stripes. The white was now brownish gray and the green was very light. “I do believe this will fit without too much work.”
“That will do nicely, I will look like a prince,” he stated flatly but with a smile.
“Money for old rope mate, we’ll do right by you.”
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Vallack and his mates did do right by him. By mid afternoon Giovanni was able to take his turn on deck with, as Billy put it, a ‘tiddly suit’. He was at the rail still squinting in the sunlight, for it was his first time on deck since he had been brought aboard, when a sharp slap on the back made him cry out involuntarily.
“Still a mite sore ‘mate’?” Quinn leaned over the rail next to him, a cruel smile playing at his lips.
“Look at the new togs he got for his cruise.” Dugal grabbed his shoulder and joined him on the other side. He grimaced in pain.
“Don’t think I will forget how you made the fool of me when we came aboard. We won’t be on this tub forever.”
“Jonnick brother, then we’ll get back to having some real sport.”
“Bartolli!” All three turned to see Billy and Vallack approaching.
“Its a Banyan Day, they’ll passing out the dandyfunk on our deck next bell, may be our last for a while,” stated Billy, eying Quinn and Dugal suspiciously.
“Friends of yours?” asked Vallack, a cold look in his eye.
“Aye,” stated Quinn, slapping him on the back again. Giovanni’s face contorted in pain. “We were mates on the Vitol.”
“Hogwash! Growl is you’re both a bunch of shonkeys, piss poor seamen and useless as a fish’s tit!” Vallack stated almost in a whisper, venom in his voice. “I’ve suffered the likes of you before!”
Quinn’s face turned red with rage, Dugal clenched his fists.
“Jaw to me will ya? I’ll have you clapped in irons and then I’ll flog you myself!”
“A rorty one he is,” added Billy, fists clenching in turn.
“You won’t be blowing great guns when we’re through with you!” yelled Dugal.
“What the hell is going on here!” Giovanni breathed a sigh of relief as Elliot strode up to the knot of men. “You again!” He looked up at Quinn. “You’re a right hard horse aren’t you. If you weren’t a warrant officer I’d love to see you flogged!”
“Sir, for the jaw from this man...” he pointed to quickly to Vallack, “that is where the flogging should lie!”
“Vallack, Peters, go below, you too,” he pointed to Giovanni. “You are all confined there until I say differently.”
“Yes sir,” Billy and Vallack said in unison, an edge still in their voices. Giovanni followed them, smiling slightly as he heard the dressing down Quinn and Dugal were receiving. Once they were below decks Vallack turned to Giovanni.
“I’ve many a scar from the likes of him. Too many bos'uns, bad hats.”
“Jonnick mate,” added Billy. “Pembroke’s the exception it seems. Surgeon convinced the Old Man that floggin’s a bad thing, so we don’t see it much. Captain does right by us as best he can, everyone does his duty and there’s not much trouble.”
“Aye, ‘tis a happy ship. Have some of this mate.” Vallack handed him what looked like a ship’s biscuit but it was warm and soft.
“Dandyfunk,” Billy stated, biting hungrily into his. “Enjoy it, griff from the cook is there won’t be any more until the supply ship comes in.”
Giovanni bit tentatively into the confection. It was soft and the warm molasses tasted so very good after the bland diet he had been on. He took a much bigger bite. “It is good,” he mumbled.
“Bang on mate!” smiled Vallack, stuffing the rest of his treat in his mouth.
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My Dearest Father,
I write to you from different circumstances that are yet very much the same. I am still a prisoner among the English although the ship I am on is very different. It is one of their large rated ships with two full gun decks, a powerful vessel, certainly. Also, the abuse so evident on the previous vessel is not so widely practiced here. That has made my position, though far from acceptable, at least tolerable.
I do hope that you and mother are well and I hope you do not worry yourselves about me. Father, you have taught me well and I seek to hold the principles you have endowed me with even while I find myself among these barbarians.
I have been assigned to the gun deck and those of us who find ourselves with this duty have little to do apart from practicing with the great guns. Even then, it is just dumb show, I am told it is rare to fire live rounds with them. So most of the day boredom is my constant companion. Many of the men spend their time telling stories and more than a few engage in games of chance among themselves, though few have anything to lose so there is also little to win. But when men have so little, they seem to hold on more tightly to what they have and when it is taken away they cry ‘foul’ and there is discontent and often open conflict. I have seen several men flogged for such altercations as a result of their gambling. It seems to be a vice tolerated by the navy even though it engenders such disharmony. But the English are certainly a people of contradictions.
There are several men here whom I can now count among my friends. When I first was confined to this duty I had no one but now have developed a camaraderie with several men, not just from the Vitol but also this present ship, the Pembroke. Will Dillon and Tom Matthews are men from the previous ship and we often talk about our circumstances and our lives before we were pressed. Both men were farmers and constantly wonder whether they will have anything to go back to or if their land will have had to be sold for their families to have enough to survive. I am sure such thoughts are frustrating for them for there is nothing they can do about it. At least, though I find myself here, far from home and the affections of those I love, I know that this will come to an end and I will have a home to come back to. I do hope that it is soon, it seems like an eternity since I’ve been gone and I so long to see you again. There are so many things I miss, not the least of which is mother’s cooking. I so tire of salt pork and hard tack and the grog is nothing like the good wine at home.
Pray that the war soon comes to an end or I find some other way to come home. I miss you all terribly although on this ship, at least, life has become tolerable. I think of you always.
With all my love,
Giovanni
It was indeed the Penbroke they reached as the sun kissed the horizon. Even though exhausted from rowing, the men clambered up the side after the officers. As Giovanni’s head came up over the rail he caught his first glimpse of Captain Augustus Fairbain or ‘Fighting Fairbain’ as he was known after the Gibraltar action. He and Littlewort were conversing, Littlewort waving a glass of wine was he talked. There couldn’t be a greater contrast between the two men. The only thing similar about them was their height. Fairbain was trim in his blue waistcoat and cream colored breeches, broad at the shoulder with a powerful physical presence barely restrained by his rank and position. He held himself straight and erect, his mannerisms courtly. Long, dark brown hair was clubbed at his neck. His face was thin and long with a finely curved nose. His light eyes were intelligent, taking in everything at once even as he listened to the animated monologue of Littlewort. In front of him he heard Will ask Matthews about Sam. Matthews just shook his head and he heard Will curse under his breath. It made Giovanni angry, very angry. Poor man was making a good living and was just going home to his family when he was nabbed by these cretins and now he’s dead. His wife’s a widow and his son, fatherless. Who is going to train the boy in his trade now? Who is going to provide for them? Damn these English!
“Move Bartolli!” His observations were rudely interrupted by the bos'un shoving him from behind, the hands slapping his sore back, the power of the blow sending him sprawling across the deck.
“Sir! What is the meaning of this?!” As Giovanni turned himself over he saw Quinn being confronted by what looked like a boy. He was wearing an officer’s uniform that looked like it have been sized slightly large to allow for his further growth, a cocked hat and he couldn’t have been near as old as Giovanni himself. Without the hat, he would have only come up to Quinn’s chin but he fearlessly glared up at the burly older man with blazing blue eyes. Quinn sized up the young officer before he spoke.
“He’s a bad hat sir, a troublemaker, and a papist to boot.”
The boy inched closer to Quinn and Giovanni noticed the whole deck had gone quiet.
“I don’t care if he worships the devil sir, he has been in a small boat without water just as you have and he was heading toward that bit of refreshment just as you and the others were. There was no excuse I could see for such treatment.”
“Mr. Elliot, stand down,” ordered Captain Fairbain with quiet authority. The boy took a step back, continuing to glare at Quinn. “Captain Littlewort, who is this man?”
“Mr. Quinn, sir, our bos'un.” replied Littlewort with what little dignity he could manage in his embarrassed state.
“Mr. Quinn,” he began, now speaking in a voice that could easily be heard by all on deck. He slowly walked up to the bos'un, who had by now lost any hint of defiance and was staring meekly at the deck, his hands rubbing the sides of his pants. “I don’t know how you ran things aboard the Vitol but here we treat men with respect unless they demonstrate they do not deserve it. You are under my authority now, and that of my officers. I trust that there will be no more incidents of this kind?”
“No sir,” he replied in a whisper.
“Very good. Mr. Elliot, Mr. Eyton.” The boy and one of his slightly older companions quickly came to the captain’s side. It was clear to Giovanni that this ship was run very differently than the Vitol and the officers and men respected and admired their captain, and each other. The Pembroke appeared to be a what he had heard called a ‘happy ship’, even though the monotonous duty of blockade was less than desirable. “See that these men are taken care of, enter their names in the ship’s books and give them their assignments.”
“Yes sir,” they stated in unison, touching their hats and quickly turning to Giovanni and his companions. “Come with us men,” encouraged Elliot as he motioned them forward. They were led down the main hatch onto the upper gun deck. Scores of cannon lined either side, peering out hatches open to admit the breeze. Giovanni estimated there were also close to one hundred men already squeezed into the cramped space. “Pembrokes,” began Elliot in a commanding voice seemingly beyond his years. “These men are from the Vitol and they will be with us for a while. I expect you will afford them every courtesy.” The last was not said threateningly but as a statement of fact, recognizing the good nature of the crew. “Mr. Wolfe!”
A short, round man with a pronounced limp hobbled as quickly as he could through the crowd, which parted respectfully before him. He wore a stained apron on which he was vigorously wiping chubby hands, the right of which was missing the first two fingers. “Aye sir?”
“Get these men a double ration of grog and some salt pork and biscuit.”
“Yes sir!” Wolfe spun around and as he made his way back to the galley, gestured for two others to join him.
“Very good. Mr. Eyton,” stated Elliot, turning to his compatriot. “They are all yours.” Turning back to the Vitol’s survivors with his arms spread wide, he smiled. “Again, welcome to the Pembroke. Mr. Eyton will tell you off.” With a quick nod he turned on his heel and headed back up the ladder. Eyton cleared his throat. He was about Giovanni’s height with a slight build and large, blue eyes that bulged a little, full lips, a prominent nose, and a weak, deeply cleft chin.
“We also lost some good men in that storm so if any of you are rated able seamen, step up now.”
Two thirds of the men from the Vitol stepped forward. Giovanni expected that most of them would be rated such, it was more likely they would survive given their experience. Although there were a lot of seamen who didn’t know how to swim, it was a rare landsman who did. A vision of Sam struggling to escape the foc’s’le in his battered condition flashed through his mind’s eye. He balled his fists at the thought.
“Very good. After you have had your grog, you will go with Mr. Rodgers who will enter your names and find you a place among the crew.” Eyton indicated a short, grizzled man with a jagged scar on his chin and eyes too close together. Rodgers nodded respectfully. One of the cook’s assistants had found Giovanni and gave him a piece of biscuit. “The rest of you will stay here and report to Mr. Leech.” Mr. Leech rose up and saluted. He was very tall and thin with a pointed nose and sharp, high cheekbones. He would have had a hard look to him but his green eyes fairly sparkled and his thick lips easily parted into a toothless grin.
“Yes sir,” he replied in that odd mumbling way people without teeth talk. He turned to the Vitols that remained. “You men wi' take your grog on the 'ower gun deck, fo'ow me.” He turned and walked the few steps to the hatch and folding his tall frame, disappeared below. Matthews looked at Giovanni, shrugged with a faint smile and followed Leech below. Giovanni and the remaining Vitols filed after him.
It was dim in the lower gun deck, and it smelled much worse than the fo’c’sle of the Vitol. The wide space reached from starboard to larboard and it was lined with cannon from a bulkhead near the bow to the one near the stern. Even between the beams there was not quite standing headroom. It was already crowded with men. “Men, this wi’ be your home for now. Each of you wi’ be assigned to a crew who wi’ instruct you in the proper use of these beautifu’ weapons.” He patted one of the huge cannon that had ‘death and hell’ carved into it’s carriage. “Accurate fire wi’ win the day men, and you wi’ ‘earn it the Pembroke way!” His voice rose and at the end of his sentence, a chorus of cheers arose around him. He smiled again.
“Beg pardon sir,” mumbled a squat, grubby man at the edge of the circle of men. Giovanni noticed he was bald save a tuft of white hair on his forehead giving him a comical, dwarflike appearance. He was carrying a worn wooden tray with a multitude of battered tin cups perched precariously upon it. He swayed easily with the motion of the ship, holding the tray firmly in his blackened hands.
“Ah, Mr. Bur', thank ye. Men, take your grog. Mr. Hans, Mr. Smit, Mr. Pennybrooke, see that these men are divided as needed among your crews, give them their hammock and watch assignments and whatever else they need. Welcome to the Penbroke men.”
“Huzzah!” cheered the men around them. Giovanni let out a sigh, hoping that this would truly be be an improvement over the Vitol.
__________________________
“Form up men!” ordered Pennybrooke. Giovanni had found him pleasant enough, a jovial man with a round, chubby face that smiled often. It was indicative of the mood he found aboard the Penbroke; she was indeed a ‘happy ship’. Pennybrooke slapped his right hand, which was missing three fingers, on the cannon.
“This, men, is a twenty-four pounder. Properly handled she’s reasonably accurate, deadly at close range and should be fired three times in five minutes. That requires that everyone do their job, do it well and do it quickly. This is the only job you have on this ship and you are going to bloody well do it right!” This he said menacingly but with a wink, looking at each of the five men around the gun. Giovanni and Matthews looked at each other with a slight shrug.
“First things first. We remove the tompion,” he reached forward with a slight grunt and removed the wood and canvas cover from the muzzle. “And this,” he pulled off a lead cover from the touch hole. He placed them on the deck out of the way. “When we exercise the guns these will go in those cabinets over there but for now we’ll leave them be. Now pay close attention, each of you will have a job on a team but right now you are going to learn the whole of it.” He grabbed several poles and began handing them out. Giovanni received one that looked like it had two intertwined corkscrews on the end. “First we load, then we aim, then we fire. You..Adams right?”
“Yes sir!” Adams chirped. He was about Giovanni’s age but short and of slight build, maybe a little effeminate. He was holding a pole with a lambskin swab on the end.
“First you put that in that bucket over there and have it ready. Then you shove it all the way down the barrel. Make sure you get it all the way down. If you leave any smoldering wad in there it could set off the powder prematurely and one of you could lose something.” He smiled and held up his two fingered hand. “Understood?” All nodded. “Good. After the first firing you....” He looked at Giovanni.
“Bartolli...sir.”
“Bartolli, right. You will use the wormer before the swab to remove any of that wad. Wormer,” he pointed at Giovanni’s implement. “Then swab. Got it?” All grunted again. “The powder monkeys will have brought you your charge. You will be told how much powder to use based on the range. This is a ladle, it measures and places the powder. Powder goes in the cup, it goes down the muzzle and a quick turn puts the powder in. Now you....Matthew..”
“Matthews sir!”
“Matthews. He has the rammer.” He held out his mangled hand and Matthews gave it to him. “Notice the marks on the rammer. They be very important. After you put in the wad and the charge you push it down hard with this. It will go in to one of the marks. You have to remember what charge went in so you know which mark to look for. If it doesn’t go to the mark that means there is something in there that doesn’t belong, like an unexploded charge. Any of you been in a scrap before?” They all shook their heads no. Most had never even seen the ocean before last week.
“Ahhh....let me tell you about it then, ain’t nothin’ like it. The noise, the smell of powder, the smoke....Back in ‘04 I was just a swab like you in the Ruby, a little frigate, twenty eight guns. We got in the thick of it taking Gibraltar. A frenchie had just snuck up in all the smoke and raked our stern, lucky he was, while we were engaged with another sloop, thirty two guns it were. Knocked the rudder out but the captain, right good seaman he was...Cap’n Dickson, he swung us ‘round enough using the sails an’ we poured it into frenchie. Well, in the thick of it, Barrington, he was the wormer, he was knocked out. Poor swab took a splinter right clean through his head.” With this horrific statement he thrust one of the two fingers on his hand into the side of his head. “Well, that happens, the blood was already thick on the floor, even with the sand we were struggling to keep our feet. In all the smoke Gary, he had the ram, didn’t read the mark and we had two charges instead of one. It was only an old ten pounder and when ol’ Thomas put the slow match on, that piece split right up. Poor Thomas was shredded, almost took his head clean off. A piece took off these,” he waved his mangled hand, “and knocked me on the head. But that was better than Norton, who lost his whole arm. I was out of the fight, didn’t wake up ‘till four days later but we carried the day!” His voice had slowly been getting louder and several men around them were listening, some snickering.
“’Ol Penny can spin a good yarn!” A beefy man with one eye came up and put his arm around Pennybrooke and laughed. “Everyone knows ya lost them fingers when the whore in Plymouth slammed the door on ‘em!” Several others laughed as Pennybrooke pushed the man down but he was smiling as well.
“I believe that same whore took something more important from you!” This elicited even more laughter. “Now let me get back to it.” The men retreated, still snickering and Pennybrooke turned back to them. “That is why every step must be followed and done correctly.” They all nodded. “Now the ball and some more wadding go in, don’t want the ball falling out on a roll or anything now do we? The gunner now uses his prick to clear the vent which he has been holding closed with his thumb and we’re ready to fire. Everyone then takes a line and the gun is run out. Aiming is done with the handspikes. They are placed under the carriage like so and pried to move side to side. The gunner will take care of the elevation with the quoin. After firing the whole process starts again. Now lets run through it.”
“Bartolli, you’re first. Shove the wormer down the barrel.” Giovanni moved around the front of the cannon and worked the wormer down into the barrel. “Adams, get ready with the swab. Don’t duck it on a dry run though.”
“Yes sir,” he chirped as he moved opposite Giovanni. Giovanni pulled out the wormer and Adams enthusiastically shoved the swab down the barrel.
“Bartolli, you will grab a charge and ladle and put it down the barrel after Adams is finished. Make sure you look at the gunner and see that he has his thumb on the vent to keep any sparks from igniting the powder or you will lose an arm, or worse.” Giovanni’s eyes widened at that thought. “Matthews, you will then ram home the charge.” Matthews hustled to the front of the cannon and quickly put the rammer in and out of the barrel. “Shove it hard, the charge needs to sit all the way in.” Matthews nodded. “Adams, you will then put in the shot and the wad and Matthews will ram that home.” Adams pretended to put in the shot and Matthews rammed it home. “Remember to check the marks on the rammer. Now we run it out. Clap on to the breeching, two on a side.” Giovanni and Adams pulled on one side, Matthews and Hanwell pulled on the other. The cannon hardly budged with their first attempt. “Come on ladies, put your backs into it!” They pulled on the tackles again and the carriage finally slid into place. “’Bout time.” yawned Pennybrooke. “Now, the two of you on the back of the tackle, grab the handspikes, you two, keep a loose hold on the line to make sure it doesn’t slide back on a roll. Now, move it to the left.” Hanwell, a husky middle aged man with sparse red hair shoved the pole under the carriage and wrestled the heavy gun a few inches over to the left. “Now, to the right.” Giovanni copied Hanwell’s action but didn’t have his bulk to throw behind it. It took considerably more effort but he moved it. “Now, the gunner will check the elevation, the slow match will be ready and when the command for firing comes, release the tension on the lines and the gun will fire, a glorious action, to be sure.” His face lit up, his expression one of near ecstasy. Then it quickly returned to it’s business like demeanor.
“Now we will run it again...and again...and again. Grab the carriage and pull it back, wait for the roll, there's no recoil today boys. Bartolli, wormer. Adams, swab. Matthews, rammer. Hanwell play the gunner for now. Begin...”
And so it went for the next three hours. They rotated positions, wormed, swabbed, rammed, pulled, pried and pulled again. Shirts were removed after the first three rounds, even in the cool, damp air of the Channel. Pennybrooke cajoled, yelled, encouraged and scolded. When he sensed their exhaustion, he called it quits.
“Good enough for today men. It is almost dinner time. Report here at two bells on the noon watch.” Then he was gone.
They were too exhausted to reply anyway. The sailor Giovanni recognized as the one ribbing Pennybrooke earlier ambled over.
“Welcome to the gun deck mates!” He slapped Adams on the back, nearly flinging him to the floor. “If you don’t mind being crammed in like pork in a barrel, the lice, the smell and the boredom, life ain’t too bad...for the navy! Name’s Vallack.” Vallack fairly filled the space between the decks, was heavily tattooed on his huge forearms, was missing a front tooth and his right eye but he had a kind, open expression. “Billy, get these poor swabs something, will ya?!” A short, wiry man grunted and disappeared. “Jus’ find a spot and make yourselves at home boys. Not’in to do ‘till dinner. Here comes Billy with your drinks.” Billy handed tin cups to all four men. It was really watered down grog but Giovanni was happy for anything. He slumped down on the floor and gulped it down. He rested his back against the carriage of “Death” and closed his eyes as Vallack began to tell some tale. He didn’t hear anything beyond the first sentence.
________________________
“Hey boy, get up.” Giovanni started, instinctively putting his arms up to ward off the blows but none came. He looked up to see Billy grinning at him. “No worries here mate, I’m no spithead nightingale. Jus’ didn’t want you to miss scram.” He turned and shuffled forward to the galley. Matthews was already up beside him. Giovanni moved to get up, his arms and back protesting. The pulling, pushing and prying had done their work on him. He groaned loudly as he struggled to his feet.
“I know what you mean,” offered Matthews, rubbing his neck. “This don’t seem too bad, though, not like the Vitol.”
Giovanni just grunted and they made their way forward. It may be better than the Vitol but he still had no desire to be here. He thought of his father who was counting on him, trusting him to do well in their enterprise. In that he had already failed. All he wanted to do now was get back to Genoa alive, preferably with all his fingers. He knew, however, that he could be stuck here for years. The war had been going on for almost a decade and there was no real end in sight. He slowly made his way to the front of the line and got his salt pork, biscuit and a potato.
“Matthews, Bartolli!” Both turned to see Will waving them over. They picked their way among the scores of men already eating. They plopped down in a small circle on the deck. “Tough duty on the guns.”
“Aye,” agreed Matthews. “Back’s really sore.” With that observation, he ripped a huge chunk of salt pork with his teeth and began working the hard meat, making strange faces as he did so. Will laughed out loud and even Giovanni let a smile cross his lips.
“Always the jester!” Will mumbled, mouth filled with hard tack. He swallowed hard, the not quite softened piece going down with difficulty. He hit himself in the chest. “The menu ‘asn’t improved much, eh Giovanni?”
He just shook his head.
“Come now, it isn’t the Vitol. The bos'un and his mates aren’t beating us constantly. And except for the gun exercise, we don’t even have any duty. Sure, it ain’t home but it’s definitely an improvement.”
“Aye, once my back’s used t’ the work, even shovin’ that gun back and forth won’t be so bad.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Giovanni agreed reluctantly.
“I know, I wish I was home on the farm as well. I hope the boys ‘ave stepped up and are doing the job. If not, they may go hungry this winter and we may lose our lease. The common may provide something but the boys are young......”
“Oh, little James is a good shot with a bow, I’ve seen ‘im take a hare at twenty paces.”
“Aye, ‘e does have some skill there. I hope it’s enough,” Will sighed.
“You’ll have your pay when we get back and maybe a good prize or two could set us up real well, might make us gentlemen....me at least,” joked Matthews, elbowing Will in the ribs.
“Ha! Don’t get your hopes up boys,” laughed a sailor to Giovanni’s back. “Ner been a prize for this squadron in near two years. Fleet won’t come out and the privateers are too fast or slip out in the weather. You’ll be lucky with your wages,” he chuckled.
“Jonnick mate, been a long pull on this station, narry a ship sighted in nine months,” added his rotund companion.
“Aye, it’s been Sod’s Law for us. Wind shift, dirty weather, haven’t been close this last year. But here it’s a soft number most times.”
“Just don’t skylark about or you’ll find yourself rattling!” warned another man nearby. “Captain can be a right hard horse if you cock up or go on a bender.” There were general murmurs of agreement among those nearby.
“Don’t sound too promising, does it?” whispered Will, looking at Matthews.
“Never know...” he added as optimistically as he could. Giovanni just shook his head and finished his salt horse.
________________________
“Get up men, it’s Field Day.” The voice and the sound of the bell slowly penetrated Giovanni’s fitful sleep. He cracked an eye and looked at Matthews in the hammock beside him.
“What is Field Day?”
“No idea,” replied Matthews as he rolled out of his hammock and began stowing it.
“You boys are wet even for landsmen!” exclaimed a voice in the darkness. “It’s make and mend day....work on your clothing and personal things..”
“Ha! Bartolli can finally do something about those pants...”
“Aye, poor as piss and twice as nasty!”
“Jonnick mate..”
“What...I..” started Giovanni but Matthews grabbed his arm and shook his head.
“They’re just joking....and those pants are really bad,” he smiled. Giovanni looked down at the baggy, blood stained pants being held up by the rope and smiled back.
“Yes, they could use some work.”
“Aye, we’ll give you a hand mate.” Vallack had made his way over, his tattooed bulk displacing several of his compatriots. “Got some needles from the sailmaker, we’ll have you ready for some poodle faking right quick,” he added, winking with his one eye. Giovanni looked at him quizzically as Billy untied the rope and took his pants. The chilly morning air coming lightly in through the open ports was a little uncomfortable on his bare legs.
“Let Smit help you with that Billy. Me an’ Bartolli goin’ to the slop chest and see what we can find.” Vallack nodded to Giovanni and the crowd parted before him as they made their way forward, up one deck and then aft. “Your mate Dillon told me ‘bout you, seems a real clanger to me and you ‘ave every right to be stroppy...but we all do what we can. ‘Ere we are.” He hunched over the chest and dug through the clothes. “Got to find you a tiddly shirt to go with your new pants. The one you’ve got is a little rough.” Giovanni knew it had been crudely patched after his flogging and was stained with blood. “How’s this?” He held up a faded blue shirt, stained all over with one arm ripped so it was shorter than the other. Giovanni made a face. “Can’t be too picky mate, this is the slop chest.” He put the shirt back in and pulled out another. This one used to be white with green stripes. The white was now brownish gray and the green was very light. “I do believe this will fit without too much work.”
“That will do nicely, I will look like a prince,” he stated flatly but with a smile.
“Money for old rope mate, we’ll do right by you.”
_________________________________
Vallack and his mates did do right by him. By mid afternoon Giovanni was able to take his turn on deck with, as Billy put it, a ‘tiddly suit’. He was at the rail still squinting in the sunlight, for it was his first time on deck since he had been brought aboard, when a sharp slap on the back made him cry out involuntarily.
“Still a mite sore ‘mate’?” Quinn leaned over the rail next to him, a cruel smile playing at his lips.
“Look at the new togs he got for his cruise.” Dugal grabbed his shoulder and joined him on the other side. He grimaced in pain.
“Don’t think I will forget how you made the fool of me when we came aboard. We won’t be on this tub forever.”
“Jonnick brother, then we’ll get back to having some real sport.”
“Bartolli!” All three turned to see Billy and Vallack approaching.
“Its a Banyan Day, they’ll passing out the dandyfunk on our deck next bell, may be our last for a while,” stated Billy, eying Quinn and Dugal suspiciously.
“Friends of yours?” asked Vallack, a cold look in his eye.
“Aye,” stated Quinn, slapping him on the back again. Giovanni’s face contorted in pain. “We were mates on the Vitol.”
“Hogwash! Growl is you’re both a bunch of shonkeys, piss poor seamen and useless as a fish’s tit!” Vallack stated almost in a whisper, venom in his voice. “I’ve suffered the likes of you before!”
Quinn’s face turned red with rage, Dugal clenched his fists.
“Jaw to me will ya? I’ll have you clapped in irons and then I’ll flog you myself!”
“A rorty one he is,” added Billy, fists clenching in turn.
“You won’t be blowing great guns when we’re through with you!” yelled Dugal.
“What the hell is going on here!” Giovanni breathed a sigh of relief as Elliot strode up to the knot of men. “You again!” He looked up at Quinn. “You’re a right hard horse aren’t you. If you weren’t a warrant officer I’d love to see you flogged!”
“Sir, for the jaw from this man...” he pointed to quickly to Vallack, “that is where the flogging should lie!”
“Vallack, Peters, go below, you too,” he pointed to Giovanni. “You are all confined there until I say differently.”
“Yes sir,” Billy and Vallack said in unison, an edge still in their voices. Giovanni followed them, smiling slightly as he heard the dressing down Quinn and Dugal were receiving. Once they were below decks Vallack turned to Giovanni.
“I’ve many a scar from the likes of him. Too many bos'uns, bad hats.”
“Jonnick mate,” added Billy. “Pembroke’s the exception it seems. Surgeon convinced the Old Man that floggin’s a bad thing, so we don’t see it much. Captain does right by us as best he can, everyone does his duty and there’s not much trouble.”
“Aye, ‘tis a happy ship. Have some of this mate.” Vallack handed him what looked like a ship’s biscuit but it was warm and soft.
“Dandyfunk,” Billy stated, biting hungrily into his. “Enjoy it, griff from the cook is there won’t be any more until the supply ship comes in.”
Giovanni bit tentatively into the confection. It was soft and the warm molasses tasted so very good after the bland diet he had been on. He took a much bigger bite. “It is good,” he mumbled.
“Bang on mate!” smiled Vallack, stuffing the rest of his treat in his mouth.
________________________
My Dearest Father,
I write to you from different circumstances that are yet very much the same. I am still a prisoner among the English although the ship I am on is very different. It is one of their large rated ships with two full gun decks, a powerful vessel, certainly. Also, the abuse so evident on the previous vessel is not so widely practiced here. That has made my position, though far from acceptable, at least tolerable.
I do hope that you and mother are well and I hope you do not worry yourselves about me. Father, you have taught me well and I seek to hold the principles you have endowed me with even while I find myself among these barbarians.
I have been assigned to the gun deck and those of us who find ourselves with this duty have little to do apart from practicing with the great guns. Even then, it is just dumb show, I am told it is rare to fire live rounds with them. So most of the day boredom is my constant companion. Many of the men spend their time telling stories and more than a few engage in games of chance among themselves, though few have anything to lose so there is also little to win. But when men have so little, they seem to hold on more tightly to what they have and when it is taken away they cry ‘foul’ and there is discontent and often open conflict. I have seen several men flogged for such altercations as a result of their gambling. It seems to be a vice tolerated by the navy even though it engenders such disharmony. But the English are certainly a people of contradictions.
There are several men here whom I can now count among my friends. When I first was confined to this duty I had no one but now have developed a camaraderie with several men, not just from the Vitol but also this present ship, the Pembroke. Will Dillon and Tom Matthews are men from the previous ship and we often talk about our circumstances and our lives before we were pressed. Both men were farmers and constantly wonder whether they will have anything to go back to or if their land will have had to be sold for their families to have enough to survive. I am sure such thoughts are frustrating for them for there is nothing they can do about it. At least, though I find myself here, far from home and the affections of those I love, I know that this will come to an end and I will have a home to come back to. I do hope that it is soon, it seems like an eternity since I’ve been gone and I so long to see you again. There are so many things I miss, not the least of which is mother’s cooking. I so tire of salt pork and hard tack and the grog is nothing like the good wine at home.
Pray that the war soon comes to an end or I find some other way to come home. I miss you all terribly although on this ship, at least, life has become tolerable. I think of you always.
With all my love,
Giovanni
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