An Inception of Piracy Chapter 6

6


It was a month before the longed for supply ship arrived.
“Can you see it?”  It was Matthews, straining to see around the knot of men who were crowding every open gunport, trying to catch a glimpse of the ship.”
“Aye, hull up off our quarter.”  came the reply
“She looks like the Sprucol, ‘Ol Arnold’s ship.”
“Arnold’s a fat one,” laughed another.  “Hope he ain’t eat all our hash!”  This elicited several chuckles.
“Whatever's left got’s to be better than the whack we’ve got!”
“Jonnick mate, bottom of the barrel for sure!”
“Aye, can’t wait for some good grog, that addle’s been piss!”  This statement generated plenty of hearty agreement.
Giovanni couldn’t argue.  After his introduction to British Navy rations on the Vitol things had gotten steadily worse.  The grog was watered down so much one could hardly taste the rum and the water had been putrid for the last two weeks.  The average sailor may not have much but he is generally well fed, if not in quality then in quantity.  However, three weeks prior, the admiral of the squadron determined that rationing was in order.  This made for less than a ‘happy ship’.   Meal time was once a pleasant distraction from the monotony of the gunroom.  Lately it had become something else to be endured.  Some of the men had taken to trapping rats to supplement their meager rations.
“Fresh peas, potatoes, even salt pork and biscuit.  Never thought I’d be lookin’ forward to that, eh Giovanni?” smiled Matthews.
“No, I will have to agree.”
“Maybe the cook will whip up some dandyfunk.  I sure hope there’s molasses on that ship.  It’s about the only taste of home...pleasant taste anyway,” added Will
“Last ship brought gin, but I doubt Fairbain will serve that out.  Last time Hans went on such a bender capt’n threw him in the brig for a week and stopped all our spirits,” laughed Billy.
“Aye, made such a donkey’s breakfast of his duty he nearly brought down the topsail yard with twenty men on it!” added Vallack.
“A real clanger that was!” agreed another man nearby.
All turned as the loud footsteps of an officer’s shoes banged on the ladder.  It was Eyton.  He looked around for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.
“Peters, Burl, Smit, Vallack, on deck!”  He turned and quickly exited.
“Time to go to work,” grunted Billy as the four men got up and made their way to the ladder.
“Don’t drop not’in, Billy boy!” yelled a man across the deck.
“That weren’t my fault!” Billy retorted.
“Best rum in the fleet down the scuppers!” added another.
“Turn it up mate!  The line broke!”
“Don’t get your rag out Billy,” stated Vallack, pushing him up the steps.  A few more barbs followed and then they were gone.
Things quieted down for a while as those at the ports watched the ship come up.  But the ports were then ordered closed as the Sprucol came alongside.   Fortunately, the weather was perfect for such an operation even if the still air and the heat made it rather suffocating below, especially with half the ports now closed.   Giovanni closed his eyes and listened, leaning against one of the gun carriages. Over the murmur of the gun deck he could hear the orders, the angry oaths and the occasional grinding of the two ship as they touched, resulting in more oaths and swearing.
“Fend off men...push!”
“Quit your skylarkin’!”
“Get that pole out!”
“Watch the swell!  Fend off!”
The operation had gone on for half a watch when there was a loud crash and a lot of screaming on deck.  Silence fell over the whole gun deck as everyone listened.
“Get it off!  Heave!”
“Cut that...there!”
“Get your finger out man!  Heave that line!”
“Oh bloody hell!”
“Aaaaaahhhhhh!”
“Careful, don’t make it worse!”
“Easy now......Hold!  Pull them out!”
“Aaaaaahhhhh!”
“Get the surgeon!”
“I think it’s too late for this one.”
“Damn....Who was on that line!”  Silence.  “What the hell is your excuse man?!”  The reply could not be heard from the gun deck.  “Clap this man in irons!”
“Aaaaahhhh...my leg!”
“Gently now men........ here comes the surgeon.”
“I don’t want to lose my leg!”  Giovanni started; he now recognized that voice, it was Billy’s.
“I don’t know....get some canvas.....take him below...gently.”
As they were apparently readying Billy for transport to the orlop, a rattling of chains down the forward hatch caught everyone's attention.  Two marines were leading the guilty party below.  Giovanni stood up and tried unsuccessfully to see around all the other curiosity seekers.  Word soon made its way back, it was Dugal.  Within minutes the whole story made it’s way below.  A line had snapped, looked frayed, maybe cut.  Five barrels of salt horse fell to the deck.  Vallack was dead, Billy’d probably lose his leg.  If he was a gambling man, Giovanni would have bet Quinn was involved as well.  The anger in the gun room was evident.
“Vallack...Billy..was good men.”
“Aye, ought to hang the bad hat.”
“Jonnick mate...ought to hang the lot from the Vitol.”
“Nothin’ but bad luck since they come aboard.”  General murmurs of agreement made Giovanni sink a little lower in his corner of the deck.
“Ah, hanging’s too good, a ride on the Spanish mare for a while’d fix ‘im!”  Shouts of agreement this time.
“The griff is the ‘ol man can’t stand Littlewort or that pretty boy Rooke.  Can’t wait to get ‘em off the ship.”
“Ought to put the lot in the pinnace and let ‘em row home!”  Malicious laughter followed that suggestion.  Giovanni looked at Matthews who simply shrugged and tried to become just as small.
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They committed Vallack to the sea that evening and after trying to save Billy’s leg, it became gangrenous and they ended up taking it off just above the knee.  His right hand had been crushed as well.  It was three weeks before he came back to the gun deck, sullen and morose.  Fairbain conducted a formal inquiry and although he had his suspicions like everyone else, no one could prove it was a deliberate act and Dugal escaped punishment.  This did not sit well with the gun deck.  The general agreement was that although they understood the captain to be fair and just to a fault, they felt Dugal got away with murder.  Their unequivocal admiration for their captain did not allow them to place the blame on him so their frustration was redirected to the rest of the crew of the Vitol.  The officers on deck gave them the worst duty and eyed with suspicion everything they did.  On the gun deck it was more subtle since other than exercising the great guns, a duty similar for all, there was no way to single them out.  In their case they were shunned, given the worst food and confined forward where the pitching of the ship in weather made it more uncomfortable for sleeping.  Vallack and Billy had taken the lead in making them feel part of the crew.  With Vallack dead and Billy depressed and gloomy, no one was willing to take their place.  Giovanni and his crew mates were lepers, segregated in the crowd of men, reduced to whispering among themselves.  The relief and joy they felt on the Pembroke after their arrival was gone, replaced by sullen apprehension.  Conversation was minimal.  Even Matthews’ optimistic outlook had suffered.
“You know what the worst is Will, no one tells us anything and even trying to overhear is hard, they seem to make sure they pipe down every time we’re near.  Never get a look out a port, not that there’s much to see but I haven’t seen anything but the inside of this hole and this damn cannon for two weeks, or is it three?  I can’t even keep track of time anymore!”  With that he kicked the gun carriage in front of him and elicited some angry looks and grunts from the Penbrokes nearby.
“Now quiet down Tom, we’re all in the the same boat...” he chuckled slightly at his little joke.  He was the only one.  “I overheard someone say we may be heading to Portsmouth soon for refitting since this tub’s been on station so long.”
“Sure, and we’ll be paraded ashore and dropped off at the nearest tavern wit’ gold in our pockets.  Even if it were true, landsmen never go ashore, you know that as well as I.   We’re gonna be stuck in this hole going back and forth over this same stretch or water ‘till we die.”  With that he was quiet and dropped his head between his knees.  Will said nothing in reply, there was nothing to say.  They all knew Matthews was right, they were stuck here until the war was over or they were dead, whichever came first.  They had had the same conversation every day for weeks now.  The monotony, isolation and seeming hopelessness had broken Matthews.  Will somehow remained the same, expecting little and content with that.  Giovanni simply existed most of the time for when he allowed himself to feel, anger and frustration would rise up and nearly overwhelm him.  Vallack and Billy had shown him that contrary to his experience on the Vitol, not all Englishmen were cruel and nasty.  Now they were gone and as he looked beyond his little circle of Will and Matthews, his negative opinion was confirmed and reinforced every day.  When they would get their only activity of the day, exercising the guns, the crew to which he was assigned only spoke to him when necessary, berated him for any small mistake and left him quickly as soon as it was over.  Even the jovial Pennybrooke remained cold toward him.  Distantly, he heard the bell ring eight times, signaling the end of the afternoon watch and the beginning of the first dog watch.  Giovanni automatically got up, knowing what was next.
“Gun crews to their stations!”  came the order.  The hundred odd men on the deck all rose as one and began jostling their way quickly to their stations.  This was the worst part of the drill for the Vitols, it was like running the gauntlet.  Because they were segregated forward, they had farther to go to their stations than everyone else and as they tried to make their way there they were elbowed or tripped or spat on.  One of the men fought back once and thirty lashes cured anyone else of that inclination.  This treatment invariably made them the last to their assignment, resulting in a verbal dressing down by the gun captain.
“Bartolli!  Get your finger out boy!”  It was Collins, his crew captain.  He was twice Giovanni’s age, just short enough to stand up between the decks, solid as a brick.  He delighted in tormenting any of the Vitols he saw.  As Giovanni finally arrived, he roughly pushed the rammer in his hand.  He had been given this job in the hope that one of these days he wouldn’t do it right and get his hand blown off.  Giovanni was well aware of this fact and made sure he was careful.  This, of course, made him a little slower than some, resulting in even more abuse.
“Live fire today men!”  A cheer went up around the deck.  Through the port, Giovanni could see the target being pulled by one of the tenders.  The smell of slow match was making its way between the decks.
“Load!”  Giovanni dunked his swab and ran it home, pulling it out quickly as another man came around, put the ladle in and deposited the wad and powder.  Giovanni rammed that home, checking the mark on the handle. The shot was placed in with its wad and rammed again.  Giovanni now dropped his tool and took a position on the breeching.  “Run it out!”  Four men heaved and the heavy gun slammed into position.  Two men held the lines to keep it from sliding back with the roll of the ship and Giovanni and another man grabbed the handspikes.
“Rolling broadside, and an extra ration of rum for every crew that hits it!”  Another cheer on the gun deck.
“Don’t cock up Bartolli!” growled Collins.  Giovanni met his eyes for a second, seething, and then lowered his head, handspike ready.  Collins bent over the barrel.  He adjusted the quoin.  “Bartolli, foot left!”   Giovanni jammed the handspike under the carriage and pried, moving the massive gun a few inches.  He repositioned the spike and heaved again.  “Come on you lousy swab, I don’t want to dip out on my rum!  Stop there!”  Giovanni listened as other crews slid carriages on the worn deck.  “Pete, give it a little.”  The man opposite Giovanni placed his spike and nudged the carriage to the right.
“Fire!”  Giovanni recognized Pennybrooke’s voice and glanced back to see him behind the forward gun’s crew.  The slow match was brought to the touchhole and the gun went off with a terrific crash, leaping back between them.  Pennybrooke ran to the next gun.  “Fire!” and so down the line.  The fourth gun hit the target first and it’s crew cheered for a moment before hurrying to reload.  “Fire!”  Pennybrooke screamed, right behind Giovanni.  Collins put down the slowmatch and the gun leapt back.  They all watched the shot...wide left.  Collins smacked the gun and cursed.  “Reload!”  Giovanni dropped the handspike and grabbed the swab, quickly dunking it and shoving it down the barrel.  It hissed as he brought it out.  “Quit your skylarking!”  Wad and powder and Giovanni rammed it home, watching the mark.  The shot was placed and they heaved on the breeching to run it out.
“Fire as she bears!” ordered Pennybrooke.
Collins again adjusted the Quoin.  “Pete, right a bit.”  Pete shoved his handspike under the carriage and wedged the gun over a few inches.  Giovanni stood ready for his order but Collins was satisfied and moved the slowmatch to the touchhole.  The noise of other cannon going off around him was deafening and the smoke made it hard to see.  He felt another body behind him give a hard nudge, enough to knock him off balance.  He pulled on the handspike for support but had to step forward to keep from falling.  The cannon leapt back, smashing into his shin and knee, hurling him back to the deck, handspike flying.  For a moment he was disoriented then he screamed as the pain hit.  His right leg was bent at an unnatural angle as he lay crumpled on the deck.  Collins was bending down over him.  “That was a real clanger Bartolli!  Damn fool!”  He caught a glimpse of one of the powder monkeys, wide eyed in amazement.  Another wave of agony swept over him as he felt his arms being yanked on.  Suddenly he was in the air, moving along the deck, being handed down a hatch, every change in position excruciating.  Soon, he found himself laid out roughly on a locker and the surgeon was bending over him.
“Looks like a clean break, hold him now!”  Hands clamped down on his arms and legs, immobilizing him.  Someone shoved a piece of wood into his mouth.  Through the pain shooting up his leg he felt the cold hands of the surgeon grab and pull.  “Smartly there, give a hand!”  Another pull and a wave of excruciating pain; that was the last thing Giovanni remembered.  
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Giovanni awoke with a start, pain racking his body.  He looked frantically around, seeing little in the dim light.
“Now there mate, relax, you’ve ‘ad a hard pull.”  A strong hand gently but firmly adjusted him in his hammock.  “Got to lie still, let the leg heal.”  He winced again in pain as he settled back into the canvas.
“How long...”
“You’ve been out for three watches mate, it’ll be a soft number for a while.”
“Tom, where’s my drought!?”  called an irritated voice in the semi-darkness of the orlop.
“I’m comin’, don’t get your rag out.  Here Bartolli, this’l freshen your hawse.”  He handed Giovanni a tin cup with some strong alcohol.  “Come on, it’ll ‘elp with the pain too.”  Giovanni took the drink, closing his eyes tightly against the burn in his throat.  “That’s better mate,” and he took the cup, moving on to other patients.  Giovanni grimaced as he tried to look around in the dim light, every movement tormenting him.  The great gun exercise had brought down a number of cases; burns, smashed fingers and toes.  Only the more severe cases were left, Giovanni’s the most severe at all.  There were also a few with various fevers and other illnesses.  He soon felt the alcohol begin to numb him.  He listened to the creaking of the ship, the muted voices from the decks above, the snoring of several of the men in the room with him.  The motion of the ship was hardly noticeable this low but the air was thick, there was little ventilation.
“He awake yet Hugh?”
“Aye, he’s still in a bad way but ‘e’ll be alright.”
“Bartolli, 'ow’re you doin’?”  Giovanni rolled slightly to see Will’s smiling face by his side.  He pulled up a chest and sat down.  “Pennybrooke said it was alright if I come and check on you now and t'en, though he didn’t seem to 'appy about it.”  Giovanni just grunted his understanding.  Pennybrooke and all the Penbrokes were still less than friendly.  Even a severe accident hadn’t changed that.  After all, life on a ship often resulted in injuries of varying severity and death was never far away.  It was expected and lucky was the man who did his tour without some mishap.  “What 'appened?”
Giovanni was glad to see Will but the strong liquor with opium mixed in, and his pain, were fogging his mind.  He tried to gather his thoughts, to remember what happened.   “The cannon...my leg...”
“I know, easy duty but Pennybrooke was right, dangerous too.”
“Pushed...Will, somebody pushed me.”  As it came back to him the cobwebs lifted and in his mind he saw Collins lowering the slowmatch, felt the bump from behind, he could see himself falling, the noise of the gun, the pain.  “Somebody pushed me,” he repeated, clearly now.
“Pushed you?”  Will leaned in and whispered.  He understood that such an accusation would not sit well with the Penbrokes.  “Are you sure?  Who?”
Giovanni adjusted himself in the hammock, grimacing in pain as he did, turning slightly to face Will.  “I don’t know who.  I was standing away from the cannon with my handspike and as Collins fired someone behind me bumped me into the gun.”
“Did they mean to do it?”
“I don’t know.  After what happened to Vallack and Billy...”
“Yes....Billy’s still sullen.  I’ll see if I can find out....if someone saw..”
“No,” Giovanni grabbed his arm.  “No, I don’t want any more trouble, I don’t want you to be a bigger target if it was intentional.”
Will nodded.  “It there anyt'ing I can get you?”
“No, no...don’t trouble yourself...thank you.”
“Tomorrow’s Banyan Day, I’ll bring you some dandyfunk if they give us any.”
“That would be good,” Giovanni smiled weakly.  “I will look forward to it.”
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There was no dandyfunk the next day, only the same fare of potable soup, hard tack and salt pork with some dried peas on occasion.  The days went by slowly in the orlop, his sense of time becoming distorted.  He would wake and sleep, hear the bells but with no light but for a lamp, there was no way to tell what time of the day it was or if it was even daytime at all.  He thought often of his family, especially his father.  Such thinking made him angry; angry at himself for getting into this mess but much more so at the British for putting him in it and using him so horribly.  He began to really hate them, and if it wasn’t for visits from Will and Matthews, he’d hate every one of them.
Though it was serious business in the orlop, for that is where the surgeon did his duty, Giovanni watched him and his assistants with amusement.  The Surgeon himself was just a butcher, quick and skillful at setting or removing a limb but at a loss to do much else.  Few men came down with complaints of the internal variety for they knew they were just as likely to be sent over the side as  cured.  When one would appear they would look him over, probe his head and nose, ask a few questions and then either let some blood or make up some potion to give him, a potion usually made up of whiskey and opium.  The poor sailor would then be confined to a cot and he would either recover sufficiently in a few days to return to duty or he would be dropped over the side in his hammock with shot around his ankles.  Once he even got to see the surgeon attempt trepanning on a sailor who had been knocked unconscious by a heavy block.  He did not have the proper tools for such a procedure so he borrowed a drill from the carpenter, washed off the wood chips and set about drilling the man’s head.  There was a lot of blood on the floor that evening and another man went over the side the next day.
The one other bright spot, in addition to his visits from Will and Matthews, was Elliot.  Elliot didn’t see him often and then only briefly, but he brought books.  Elliot was a young gentleman with a classic education and brought books on mathematics, navigation, natural history, and even some plays.  He also let him borrow his Bible for a while.  Giovanni didn’t think he’d ever miss the parish Mass but found himself longing to be back in the church with his sisters by his side, bracketed by his parents, watching the priests go through their rituals.  To pass the time he would try to remember such things in all their detail.  He wished Elliot would stay and talk to him about some of the books he’d read but their conversations only lasted a few minutes as Elliot did his tour of the orlop in preparation for the Captain’s weekly inspection.  After four such inspections the surgeon declared him fit enough to return to light duty and he returned to the gun deck.  His leg still hurt when he put his weight on it but that wasn’t often since light duty did not include working the guns.
The resilience of youth brought him to a full recovery in a few months as the Pembroke continued her patrol with the squadron.  Spring went to summer to fall to winter and still they sailed back and forth along the coast of France, never seeing an enemy ship.  Eventually the anger felt over the death of Vallack subsided and the open hostility of the Pembrokes toward the Vitols turned to simple contempt.  Winter in the channel was hard, occasionally too hard and the Squadron put into port.  There was no leave for landsmen, of course, the assumption being that they would run at the first opportunity.  No doubt the truth.  Fortunately, their first resupply brought warmer clothes.  The good slops had long ago been taken by the Pembrokes and Giovanni and his mates had been left to shiver in their threadbare clothes.  Mail eventually reached even the Pembroke and Matthews and Will both received something from their families.  This brought Giovanni even lower.  His father didn’t know if he was dead or alive and he probably hadn’t even begun to worry until a few moths ago.  Giovanni thought about the few letters he had sent but doubted they would get there since Genoa was on the other side of the conflict.  So the monotonous routine continued; sleep, wake, breakfast, lay around, dinner, exercise the guns, sleep.  Occasional duty with the cook, weekly Sunday inspections and church on occasion, weather permitting, and special treats from the galley were all that broke the boredom.
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     Dear Father,
     I find myself very low right now.  The weeks have turned into months and the months into years.  Though the news on the war is good and it seems like it will be over soon, we continue on our station, going to and fro over the same patch of water.  It has seemed an eternity since I’ve even seen dry land and how I long for the hills of Genoa, to walk along the narrow streets, to smell the air laden with goods from the marketplace.  I long to see you and mother again, even to see my siblings, how I’m sure they have grown.  I would imagine that Penelope is married by now, or at least you have found a suitable husband for her.
     The ship is no longer so happy, past events having divided the crew and those of us from the Vitol are suffering ostracization for the actions of a few of our more surly companions.  For the greater part of the day we sit in silence, alone with our thoughts.  I am so happy when I can get a scrap of paper to write you, I wish it could happen every day.  I would love to share all my thoughts with you daily as we once did, standing at the rail, feeling the wind, enjoying the sea, watching the sunset.  Oh how I cherish those times and hold on to them, for so often the sea seems like a prison in my present circumstance.
     Tom, whom I have mentioned before, tries to cheer me, he is an eternal optimist it seems.  But too often when we do talk our discussions turn to home and that only serves to bring on such melancholy that I try not to be reminded of my loss even though it seems that all my waking thoughts are of you and mother.  The only thing that has helped me are the unexpected gifts of a midshipman, Elliot.  He has allowed me books and though the English was hard to follow at first I have become quite proficient.  You would be amazed at how I have progressed in my study of mathematics.  I remember you being so frustrated with me as I struggled with trigonometry and understanding sine and cosine!  Although I am certainly not allowed an astrolabe or even a crosstaff, I do my best to figure angles in my head from things on the deck, on the rare occasions I find myself there.  I have even had opportunity to read in French and Spanish, his books including a history and some natural philosophy.  My only hope is that upon my return I may make myself valuable to our family’s enterprise once again.
     I love you all and I hope that we may again gaze on one another and embrace with the affections of our filial bond.  God bless you all.
    Your loving son,
    Giovanni