An Inception of Piracy Chapter 7
7
“Did you hear something?”
“I’m not sure.”
Captain François D’Bollier peered into the fog from the rail of his quarterdeck. He couldn’t see more than a few fathoms over the water. He had left port the night before, counting on just this kind of weather to get past the English ships, but sailing in this soup made him nervous.
“Silence fore and aft!” ordered the first mate in a loud whisper. Both strained to see or hear anything.
“I don’t think there’s anything out there but keep the bells muted for now. We’ve got to get farther out before we start worrying about prizes. Have to make sure we’re past the blockade.”
“Aye aye sir,” smiled the first mate, a glint in his eye.
Captain D’Bollier knew what that glint was, hunger for gold. This was their third cruise together and each of the previous had been very successful. As the war had worn on and reached a kind of stalemate with little naval action, English merchantmen had become careless, assuming that there was little to fear with the French fleet bottled up in port. For the more daring men like himself, if they could get into the open sea, the pickings were easy.
Clang, clang.
D’Bollier started. Damn, he knew he had heard something. It could be a merchantman but this close to shore, he didn’t want to take any chances. But where had it come from? The dense fog was so disorienting. He turned to the helmsman who was looking at him anxiously, waiting for orders. He had heard it to.
“Stay your course,” he whispered, turning again to peer into the wall of fog. Sweat beaded on his brow. While privateering could be very profitable and his previous cruises had made him a rich man, being a lone wolf was also very nerve-wracking at times. He had a fast ship and could probably outrun most ships on the blockade, especially those that had been on station for a long time, for weeds and barnacles retarded their speed. But in this? Just a whisper of wind and he couldn’t see the bowsprit from the helm. He thought for a moment he heard voices over the water but he was unsure and even if he was, he still couldn’t tell from which direction they’d come. He looked up at the topsails. They barely had steerageway in the light air. Such a slight breeze maintained the cover of fog but if they found themselves in a jam, there would be no running.
“Mr. Henrie, set courses if you please,” he ordered quietly. Henrie just nodded and ran aloft with several others. Perhaps a little more speed.
Bang! One of the blocks hit the deck and in the silence it sounded like a gunshot. François glared into the waist at the knot of sailors working to set the forecourse but it did little good, they couldn’t see his face from there. The rustling of flax and the creak of the blocks as the course fell and began to draw sounded like a parade, it seemed so loud.
“Two points starboard,” he ordered quietly.
The helmsman nodded and pushed the tiller slightly.
He peered into the fog again, nervously rubbing the rail. Walking to the leeward side, he strained again to see anything. It had seemed a good idea to leave in such weather at the time, he knew these waters and the route well, but right now he longed for a clear day and an empty sea. Sometimes he wondered why he kept going out. His first trip had made his life comfortable, the second, wealthy. He certainly didn’t need this one. But when he thought of the thrill of the chase, the cat and mouse game played with the blockade, the gold running through his fingers, he knew he had to go, it was where he belonged, it was where he felt alive. It was a dangerous sport but he knew it better than most by now and he loved it. And at times like this, the apprehension, the uncertainty, it was like a drug.
“Captain, Dubois says he swore he heard English voices to larboard,” whispered his first mate, coming up to his side.
François nodded and squinted, trying to see anything, straining to hear. Play with fire, he thought, and sooner or later.... He hoped this wasn’t his day to get burned.
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“Will, did you hear that?” Giovanni nudged Will, who was sleeping next to him, shivering slightly in the damp morning air. The gun deck had become very quiet as men ran above them on deck.
“I thought I heard the lookout say he had sighted a ship, a French ship!” stated Matthews excitedly.
“How could he see anything in that?” asked Will, looking out the nearest gunport into the thick fog that surrounded them.
Giovanni felt the motion of the ship change as she slowly rounded up to begin what everyone assumed was a chase. The gunner was making his way along the deck and men were quietly getting to their stations.
“We’ve beat to quarters men,” he said in a hushed tone. “A frenchie is out there in the fog and we don’t want to scare him off so keep quiet. Load but don’t run them out yet.”
All the men hurriedly, but with amazing silence, took their positions, loaded their guns and stood there waiting. All that could were peering out into the fog, trying to see anything. They stood in fervent anticipation for well over an hour, stomachs beginning to grumble, for the galley fires had been put out and breakfast delayed. Then the silence was broken by a single cannon, one of the bow chasers followed by cheer from the deck. The men manning the guns on the starboard bow quickly relayed the news.
“She’s struck! ‘Ol Fairbain put us right on her stern quarter not a hundred yards out. She looks like a sloop, twelve guns maybe, but a prize none the less!”
A cheer erupted all along the gun deck to join with those above. The fog was finally burning off as the Pembroke inched alongside in the light breeze. All those on the starboard side could see her clearly now.
“Looks like a converted merchantman.”
“Aye, a privateer no doubt!”
“I hope she’s had a good haul!”
“Look, the boat’s away, Mr. Elliot’s heading over.”
“We’re gonna be rich!”
“Bang on mate!”
“Shut your clap, don’t know what she has yet.”
“Ah, don’t get your rag out, we can hope, can’t we?!”
“I could sure use some rhino in my pouch.”
“Jonnick mate, we all could, been a long pull with no’tin’ to show fer it.”
“Shhh, snottie’s jawin’ with the cap’n.”
The deck was quiet for a few moments but nothing could be heard as Elliot talked with the privateer captain.
“’Ere comes the books.”
“That’ll tell the story.”
“He don’t look ‘appy.”
“Let me see!”
“Don’t be wet!”
“Stop your guff.”
A slap was heard across the water. It was Elliot slamming the book closed.
“Bad omen.”
And so it was. A look through the books and a thorough inspection revealed the ship had an empty hold, she was just heading out on her cruise and had taken nothing as of yet. A prize, but far from a rich one.
“Well, it’s something,” Will offered.
“Ha, lucky if you get two pence out of it!” laughed another sailor behind them. Several others laughed with them. Landsmen were at the bottom of the list in more ways than one, and one of them was prize money. A thumping on the companionway caught their attention. It was Eyton.
“All Vitols on deck immediately!”
They all looked at each other with uncertainty and rose up to go on deck. Giovanni squinted in the morning sunlight as he emerged from the hatch. About fifteen Vitols were gathered by the starboard rail, including Quinn and Dugal. Littlewort was talking with Fairbain on the quarterdeck.
“Move to the rail men,” they were directed. Giovanni caught a nasty look from Dugal as he joined the crowd. The purser appeared with his book and began taking names.
“What’s going on?” Giovanni asked Will.
“Don’t know.”
“We’re the prize crew. Man you’re wet!” mocked one of the Vitols
“Aye, the smoko’s over mate, gonna be under that shonky Quinn again,” whispered another.
“Jonnick, growl is ‘Ol Fairbain’s been lookin’ to get rid of us since...you know.”
“Jus’ don’t cock up and you’ll be fine, it’s only for a week or so ‘till we get home,” added someone else.
“Aye, fair wind for Portsmouth.”
“And the Portsmouth ladies!” cheered another. This resulted in general laughter and an order for silence fore and aft from Rooke. It was quiet again as the purser finished his job. Giovanni guessed there were about twenty-five Vitols remaining. They were given five minutes to go below and gather their things and be ready at the longboat. With naval efficiency they were all loaded aboard the privateer and steering away from the Pembroke in half a bell. The privateer’s crew were locked up in the hold so the foc’s’le was empty. With less than half the normal crew on a boat this size, it seemed almost spacious.
“Get your finger out! There’s work to be done!” Giovanni recognized Quinn’s voice immediately. The seven men with him ran to the ladder and Giovanni followed Will up, he was the last man. As he cleared the hatch he felt a hard thump on his back that threw him forward.
“Your soft number’s over boys!” he chided, swinging his knotted rope. “We got less than a week to get this tub in shape for the prize court! And you useless landsmen are going to do it! Move!” They were herded forward where they were given various buckets and rags. “You are going to scrub every inch of this ship until it shines!”
And so it began, seemingly where it left off. All day they scrubbed and polished and cleaned and painted. They were also divided into watches, so in addition to scrubbing from sun up to sun down they had their normal watches at night. After two days they were exhausted. Quinn, Clay and Dugal constantly prowled the deck, giving a blow to anyone they perceived to be slacking. Quinn, remembering his dressing down on the Pembroke and Dugal, his run in with Vallack, paid particular attention to Giovanni. If they perceived Littlewort or Rooke was not looking, they would give him an extra blow just because they could. His back was soon sore and tender again and his anger was building quickly.
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“Landsmen on deck!”
Giovanni groaned and rolled out of his hammock. His watch had ended just two hours ago but he tried to get moving. He was last up the ladder again. Smack, the rope fell across his back as he emerged from the foc’s’le.
“You’re useless as a fish’s tit boy!” yelled Quinn. “Maybe tomorrow you won’t be last up!”
Giovanni caught a sympathetic smile from Matthews as he got to his feet. He looked up at the limp sails as he moved forward to get his bucket and rag. This was the second day they had little or no wind. At this pace it could be a month before they made Portsmouth.
“Quit your skylarking boy!” It was Dugal this time and Giovanni knew what was coming. Damn, he was tired, overworked, frustrated and just plain sick of it all. He was exhausted and his back was sore from being hit at every opportunity and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. He was not some damn animal to be kicked and abused. What seemed like a lifetime ago he had been a man, a captain himself, a son of wealth and privilege, classically educated, a gentleman. These lowlife brutes had no right to treat him this way, he had had enough. He turned and grabbed the rope as it swung toward him and pulled, taking Dugal off balance and sending him sprawling across the deck. Dugal shook his head in surprise for a moment then glared at Giovanni. “I’m gonna kill you now boy,” he growled, taking his knife from it’s sheath and slowly getting up off the deck. Giovanni quickly looked around for any source of help, any weapon for defense.
“What the hell is going on here!?” Everyone froze as Rooke broke into the crowd that had gathered. Dugal quickly resheathed his knife.
“This man,” began Quinn, who had promptly asserted himself and pointed at Giovanni. “Refuses to do his duty. Dugal attempted to discipline him and he resisted.”
“Is this true?!” demanded Rooke, turning an icy gaze on Giovanni.
“Yes sir!” added Clay. Dugal nodded. Giovanni just hung his head. He knew any protest would be useless.
“Set up the grate! Two dozen Mr. Quinn, if you please.”
“Yes sir!” he replied enthusiastically. Dugal and Clay grabbed him roughly and quickly had him bound to the grate, shirt ripped open, back bare.
“All hands to witness punishment!” ordered Rooke. It was the first time in three days work had ceased. The men hastily assembled in the waist. “Men, we have work to do and can tolerate no one who will not do his duty. Mr. Quinn and his mates are here to make sure the work is done and done properly. No insubordination, real or perceived, will be tolerated. Let this man be an example to all of you. Mr. Quinn, do your duty.” Quinn raised a knuckle to his forehead and smiled, taking the cat out of it’s red bag and cracking it on the deck. Giovanni braced himself. He was going to give him no satisfaction this time. The first blow fell, knocking the wind out of him. By the fifth, the blood began to flow. Ten more and the raw nerves were exposed but he clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out. Splash! Cold seawater hit him and he almost screamed. Three more and his mind was foggy with pain. He lost count. More seawater, he gritted his teeth.
“Thank you Mr. Quinn, take him below.” It was over, he must have passed out near the end.
“A real bottler, eh boy,” Quinn whispered in his ear as he cut the cord on his wrist. “This ain’t over. I’ll see you dead yet.” Giovanni fell to his knees on the deck. “You and you, take him below!”
“It’s all right Bartolli, it’s over now.” It was Will by his side. He and another man lifted him gently and helped him down the hatch. They spread out some canvas on the deck and gingerly laid him down. “Just rest, I’ll bring you something later.” Giovanni just grunted. His exhaustion was such that even the pain couldn’t keep him awake.
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“Giovanni, I brought your breakfast.”
Giovanni slowly opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, wincing in pain. “Thank you Matthews.” He looked at the plate. No matter how his circumstances changed, for better or worse, the food never did.
“How’re you feeling?”
“I’m all right...little sore.” He looked up tried to manage a smile. The work and lack of sleep were taking it’s toll on Matthews as well. He was pale and haggard, his eyes were red and his speech a little slow.
“Wind’s finally picking up a little. If it holds we might make England in five days.”
“Then what? Will we go ashore when they sell the prize?”
“No, word is we’ll be transferred to other ships. Sorry, we won’t be setting foot on land for a while yet.” Giovanni groaned and ripped a piece of salt beef with his teeth. He winced in pain at every move. “From all I hear though, the war’ll soon be over. Then we’ll collect our wages and prize money and go home.” Giovanni said nothing. After more than a year of this nightmare he could hardly envision such a time. “I got to get back up to work before I get a beatin’. I’ll see if I can come back later.”
“Thank you again.” Giovanni adjusted himself slightly, the new scabs on his back pulling and cracking. He groaned and took another bite of his breakfast.
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“Giovanni, get up!” It was Will, excitement evident in his voice. “This could be another prize!”
Around him the men were scurrying up the ladder with more that the usual fervor, talking excitedly to one another.
“All hands on deck!” Came the shout from Clay down the hatch. “That means you too Bartolli!”
Giovanni slowly got up off the deck, his back protesting. He gingerly put on the shirt Will had managed to find and climbed the ladder. As he stepped up onto the deck in the early morning haze, men were enthusiastically pulling lines and singing shanties. The captain and Rooke were at the larboard rail, not far from the hatch he had just come up.
“Shall I call the hands to breakfast early sir?” inquired Rooke. Both of them were looking through their glasses into the misty morning light.
“No, Mr. Rooke, I don’t believe we’ve got the time, she’s turning to engage us.” He looked up at the set of the sails. They were still close hauled on the larboard tack. “They’ll have the weather gauge but I believe the long guns will even the odds.”
“Yes sir,” replied Rooke, although Giovanni thought he caught a hint of apprehension in his voice.
“Run out the larboard guns, set the t’gall’nts, I want more speed Mr. Rooke.” He took one more look through his glass and started back to the quarterdeck.
“Mr. Ingram!” roared Rooke in a voice that easily carried from the tops to the bilge.
“Sir?” said Ingram, hastening to his side.
“Larboard guns, Mr. Ingram, get the gun crews and powder boys about their duty!”
“Aye sir!” replied Ingram, smiling broadly before turning to go.
“Mr. Okes!”
“Yes sir!” replied the young midshipman.
“Get some men on that t’gall’nt, let’s see if we can get another knot out of her.”
“Yes sir....Mr. Quinn!” He yelled as he walked quickly to the mainmast.
“Sir?” replied the bos’un.
“Get some men to loose the t’gall’nt!” ordered Okes.
“Right away sir,” His cruel eyes looked about quickly and settled on Giovanni. “Dugal!”
“What is it Quinn?” came the hated voice behind Giovanni.
“Take this useless swab and loose the t’gall’nt, and there’s not a moment t’ lose!”
Dugal grabbed Giovanni’s arm and led him to the larboard ratlins.
“Dugal!” yelled Quinn. Giovanni watched him throw the knotted rope to his friend. “In case he needs a little persuadin’” Dugal just laughed.
“Come on boy, up ya go!” He pressed him to the rail.
Giovanni looked up. Swinging through a large arc over a hundred feet up he saw the t’gall’nt yard. The fear of falling rose up as his mind's eye flashed his youthful accident before his eyes. The moment he had been dreading throughout this nightmare had come. He was nearly frozen with fear. He felt he could endure another bout with the cat before he could go that high. He began to protest.
“I...I...aaaahhhh!” The knot fell across his still ragged back.
“I said up!” yelled Dugal.
He grabbed the shroud and put his foot on the rail, hauling himself up. Dugal was right behind him.
“Move!”
Giovanni climbed the lines, the tarred rope sticky on his hands and feet.
“Faster!” Giovanni winced as the rope fell on his back again. He looked up, the maintop was within reach. “Come on boy!” Giovanni could feel his hot breath on his calf. He hauled himself up onto the wide platform that formed the maintop, holding on with both hands.
“You gotta long way to go boy!” threatened Dugal. Giovanni looked around, unsure of how to proceed. “There!” pointed Dugal. Giovanni gingerly stepped to the side of the top and placed a foot on the topmast ratlin. The deck rolled fifty feet below them. In the distance he could make out the enemy ship through the haze. “GO!” The knot fell across his back again. His left hand lost it’s grip and his body swung out over the ocean. Dugal grabbed him and thrust him against the lines. “Don’t go jumpin’ off boy, got work to do. Now go!”
Giovanni adjusted his grip and started up the next tier. They were narrower, and there wasn’t a wide platform at the top, just the narrow crosstrees. Soon they arrived at the next stop, one more to go. The long guns on both sides were testing their range.
“Up there!” pointed Dugal, coming up behind.
“I...I can’t.”
“Oh yes you can!” Dugal hit him on the thigh with the rope. “Now move.”
Giovanni started up the topgallant mast ratlins. His arms and legs were trembling in his fear. The arc of movement was so much more pronounced, the swinging forced him to hold on even tighter, if that were possible. Dugal was pushing him from below, forcing him higher.
“Out on the footrope boy!” Giovanni wrapped his arms around the t’gall’nt yard. The deck swayed over a hundred feet below. He was nearly paralyzed.
“Come on boy, untie the warps!” Dugal yelled. He was already out on the yard, his feet on the ropes, his knees braced against the yard, his hands working quickly on the reef knots. Giovanni tried to untie the one in front of him with one hand, the other tightly gripping the shroud. “Out on the yard!” threatened Dugal. He finally got the first wrap off and it flew away in the breeze. “Hold on to the the bloody things you fool! Now get out on the yard!!”
Giovanni put a foot out on the rope, it swayed under his weight and he tightly hugged the yard, nearly folded in half. He tried to untie the next knot when Dugal was beside him.
“I said out!” He pushed his body against Giovanni’s, forcing him out on the yard. It swung wildly under their combined weight. Giovanni shut his eyes in fear. Dugal hit him again, the blow loosening his grip. Giovanni’s foot fell from the rope and he felt himself slipping, his arms wrapped around the yard and his feet dangling in the air. Dugal growled, grabbing him by the pants and hauling him up so one of his legs wrapped around the rope. Dugal reached around him and untied the rest of the wraps himself. Soon he was back at the mast.
“Find your way down boy, and quickly now!” he laughed as he made his way down the lines. Giovanni was alone. Suddenly the yard lurched, as if it was trying to shake him free and it slid up the mast. The sail filled and cracked, leaning the ship further as it swung into position. Giovanni’s arms were aching from holding on. He looked down. The battle was beginning in earnest. Orders were flowing in rapid succession from the quarterdeck. The French ship, he could see her colors now, was coming in on a reach, heading right to the bow of the prize, only a league distant. She looked to be about ten guns, smaller than their ship but handled well, he knew she’d be an even match. And with the weather gauge she certainly had the advantage at this point. Neither could do more than use the bow chasers thus far so little damage had been inflicted on either vessel.
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“Load ‘em up boys!” bellowed Ingram, stooped at the rear of the gun deck. Men were putting powder and shot into the larboard guns, ramming it tight and heaving on the lines to run them out. Those near the bow could just make out the French ship.
“You there!” he pointed to a young boy, nephew of one of the officers, he couldn’t remember which. He had short curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes that got even wider when such attention was directed at him. “More sand over there!” The boy scurried away with his bucket and began spreading handfuls of sand on the deck where Ingram had pointed.
“She’s turning!” yelled one of the men who had been peering out his gunport.
“I need powder!” came an insistent call from one of the crewmen manning a gun near the stern.
“Boys!” screamed Ingram. “Powder and shot, Now!” The gun crews had been cobbled together and were unused to working with each other, unlike on the Pembroke where the same men had drilled together for months and knew their duty well. And most of the gunners ended up being the landsmen left from the Vitol, the true seamen being needed to run the ship. The two boys serving as powder monkeys were from the Penbroke, some of the other undesirables Fairbain wanted to get rid of. The lack of coordination was quickly evident. The boys jostled each other as they went below to the magazine for more powder.
“Incoming!” yelled someone forward. It was immediately followed by a loud boom from outside.
“Hold!” yelled Ingram.
Then there was the scream of metal flying at high velocity followed by a terrific crash forward. One of the shots had hit the number two gun, dislodging it from it’s carriage and launching it into the crew. The heavy gun fell on two of them and rolled to a stop on the leg of a third. Shards of metal from the cannon and the ball showered the nearby men, cutting into their flesh and dropping them screaming and writhing to the deck. Another shot came through between gun four and five, sending huge splinters into the two crews. Large and small pieces of wood were protruding from several men. The ship shook as several other shots hit their marks above, cutting rigging and bringing down spars. One of the boys was nearly up the steps from the magazine with some powder and he fell against the edge of the deck, puncturing the bag. He looked around in horror at the scene.
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Giovanni tightened his grip and slowly began inching his way back to the mast. He threw his leg over the yard and moved closer. The ships were closing rapidly. A moment later he watched the French vessel turn away, presenting her broadside to the prize’s larboard bow. In a thunderous roar, all five guns fired. Cannonballs pounded the ship and sliced through the rigging. Halyards and sheets were cut, yards flew around out of control, sails were flapping. He felt the whole mast lurch below him and saw one of the balls had cut through most of the larboard shrouds. Giovanni gasped. He heard Mr. Rooke’s booming voice calling for a turn to starboard to return fire. The ship spun slowly, few of the yards could be brought around due to the damage. He watched men hurry to reeve new lines through the blocks to regain some control.
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“Prepare to return fire!” yelled Ingram. He ignored the chaos around him as he waited. The ship was slowly turning to give his crews a target. “Harvey, Gray, get that gun back in place. You men, take the wounded below. Blackman, get your starboard crews to the empty guns! Where’s that powder!” he bellowed, looking right at the boy halfway out of the hatch, chest over the bag. He scurried up, leaving a trail of black powder. “Get that gun run out!” The crew on number seven pulled hard on their lines and the heavy gun moved into position. Other crews were adjusting their elevation. Ingram could see the French ship through his port now. “Ready!” The men were poised over their guns, slow match ready at the touch hole. “Fire!”
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Giovanni crawled closer to the mast as he felt a shudder and the ship heeled slightly. They had returned fire. He saw the fore topmast of the French ship go over the side in a tangle of rigging. Most of the other shots had been high or wide, the inexperienced gun crews having timed the roll of the ship incorrectly. He saw the Frenchmen run forward with axes, cutting at the rigging. The topmast quickly fell away and the French ship turned hard to larboard. She closed within a quarter of a league and presented the other broadside to the prize at a devastatingly close range. Below him in the tops men with muskets were shooting at the Frenchmen on deck, the Frenchmen doing the same. Farther below, men were still trying to get control of the flapping maincourse. He heard both the strong calm voice of Rooke and the shrill screaming of the captain yelling orders. They were trying to turn away but with only half the sails pulling they could not outmaneuver the French ship, which had completed her turn. A moment later another broadside shattered the clear morning.
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“More sand!” yelled Ingram. As men scrambled to swab out the guns for reloading, their feet were slipping on the blood of their compatriots. The boy with the sand scurried about, throwing it everywhere. “Powder and shot!” The powder monkeys ran to the hatch. The noise of the gun carriages on the deck and the screaming of wounded men reverberated throughout the close space. Ingram saw the French ship turning toward them. He knew they had their starboard guns already loaded and at the end of that maneuver they would be subjected to another broadside long before they were reloaded. He cursed the incompetent captain for his lack of maneuvering skill. As men hurried to reload, they kicked the loose powder from the ripped bag all over. “Faster boys, she’s coming around!” Only two of the guns were swabbed out and being reloaded when the next broadside came. One of the shots came through next to the number seven gun sending splinters into the crew and knocking the man holding the ripped powder bag back into the deck, a large splinter piercing his neck. The man holding the slow match was also hit. He fell to the ground and dropped the match. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem but it fell on some of the spilled powder, igniting it. One of the crew yelled and Ingram watched in horror as the powder in the ripped bag glowed red.
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Giovanni watched in horror. Metal and splinters shot through the crew on deck, cutting and maiming. Orders were shouted again but fewer men were left to carry them out. Then he saw a strange flash down in the main hatch, someone yelled ‘fire!’ and then a larger explosion rocked the ship. Giovanni nearly lost his grip. He looked down the see the remaining shrouds parting and heard the cracking of wood. He felt the mast begin to move when an even greater explosion ripped through the ship. The mast was gaining speed as it went over and pieces of decking flew up around him. The ship had split in two and was disappearing beneath the waves.
The mast and yard hit the water with tremendous force, sending Giovanni deep under the waves. It was a cold shock but he quickly began to struggle upward. He gasped for breath as his head broke the surface. Looking around, he slowly swam over to a piece of wreckage and grabbed hold for a rest. He looked around. The French vessel was already half a league distant and slightly downwind. They wouldn’t be coming back. He saw a larger piece of what looked like decking and swam the short distance to it. Climbing out of the cold water on to the makeshift raft, he sat back, looking up at the blue sky, shivering. The salt water hurt his still raw back terribly and his forearms were numb from the death grip he had had on the t’gal’nt yard before his plunge. He looked around and listened intently but saw and heard nothing. Could he be the only one left? He rose to his knees and looked around. Several barrels were floating nearby and after finding a long piece of wood he started gathering them, slowly paddling around. He had secured two of them, one with water and another of salt pork when he heard splashing behind him. He turned to see Quinn, one mangled arm over a spar and the other slowly paddling not ten yards away.
“Boy, give me a hand!” he ordered weakly, reaching out with his good arm. Giovanni tightened his grip on the pole he’d been using to corral the barrels and began to reach out to him. He looked into Quinn’s cold eyes. He pulled the pole back.
“What ’re ya doin’ boy, pull me up, now!” He was nearly to the raft. Giovanni dropped his head. “Now!” ordered Quinn threateningly. Giovanni shut his eyes tightly and gripped the stick. He heard Quinn’s whispered threats in his ear as he was tied to the grate, his laughter as he brought the cat down on his back, the cold eyes that constantly searched for ways to torment him. No more. He was tired of having no control, of letting such men determine his destiny, allowing his fate to remain in the hands of such despots. He opened his eyes and stared hard at Quinn who was reaching for the edge of the raft. He lifted his pole and swung it down as hard as he could. Quinn’s eyes widened as he feebly raised his arm but the pole came down on his head with a sickening thud. Giovanni stood there, breathing heavily, as blood began pooling in the water around Quinn’s head. As he watched the body slowly drift off he thought of the torture, the cruelty, the abuse. He sighed in relief and then began gathering other things; pieces of line, another barrel of water. He had no idea how long it would be until the current carried him close to land or another ship came by.
“Did you hear something?”
“I’m not sure.”
Captain François D’Bollier peered into the fog from the rail of his quarterdeck. He couldn’t see more than a few fathoms over the water. He had left port the night before, counting on just this kind of weather to get past the English ships, but sailing in this soup made him nervous.
“Silence fore and aft!” ordered the first mate in a loud whisper. Both strained to see or hear anything.
“I don’t think there’s anything out there but keep the bells muted for now. We’ve got to get farther out before we start worrying about prizes. Have to make sure we’re past the blockade.”
“Aye aye sir,” smiled the first mate, a glint in his eye.
Captain D’Bollier knew what that glint was, hunger for gold. This was their third cruise together and each of the previous had been very successful. As the war had worn on and reached a kind of stalemate with little naval action, English merchantmen had become careless, assuming that there was little to fear with the French fleet bottled up in port. For the more daring men like himself, if they could get into the open sea, the pickings were easy.
Clang, clang.
D’Bollier started. Damn, he knew he had heard something. It could be a merchantman but this close to shore, he didn’t want to take any chances. But where had it come from? The dense fog was so disorienting. He turned to the helmsman who was looking at him anxiously, waiting for orders. He had heard it to.
“Stay your course,” he whispered, turning again to peer into the wall of fog. Sweat beaded on his brow. While privateering could be very profitable and his previous cruises had made him a rich man, being a lone wolf was also very nerve-wracking at times. He had a fast ship and could probably outrun most ships on the blockade, especially those that had been on station for a long time, for weeds and barnacles retarded their speed. But in this? Just a whisper of wind and he couldn’t see the bowsprit from the helm. He thought for a moment he heard voices over the water but he was unsure and even if he was, he still couldn’t tell from which direction they’d come. He looked up at the topsails. They barely had steerageway in the light air. Such a slight breeze maintained the cover of fog but if they found themselves in a jam, there would be no running.
“Mr. Henrie, set courses if you please,” he ordered quietly. Henrie just nodded and ran aloft with several others. Perhaps a little more speed.
Bang! One of the blocks hit the deck and in the silence it sounded like a gunshot. François glared into the waist at the knot of sailors working to set the forecourse but it did little good, they couldn’t see his face from there. The rustling of flax and the creak of the blocks as the course fell and began to draw sounded like a parade, it seemed so loud.
“Two points starboard,” he ordered quietly.
The helmsman nodded and pushed the tiller slightly.
He peered into the fog again, nervously rubbing the rail. Walking to the leeward side, he strained again to see anything. It had seemed a good idea to leave in such weather at the time, he knew these waters and the route well, but right now he longed for a clear day and an empty sea. Sometimes he wondered why he kept going out. His first trip had made his life comfortable, the second, wealthy. He certainly didn’t need this one. But when he thought of the thrill of the chase, the cat and mouse game played with the blockade, the gold running through his fingers, he knew he had to go, it was where he belonged, it was where he felt alive. It was a dangerous sport but he knew it better than most by now and he loved it. And at times like this, the apprehension, the uncertainty, it was like a drug.
“Captain, Dubois says he swore he heard English voices to larboard,” whispered his first mate, coming up to his side.
François nodded and squinted, trying to see anything, straining to hear. Play with fire, he thought, and sooner or later.... He hoped this wasn’t his day to get burned.
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“Will, did you hear that?” Giovanni nudged Will, who was sleeping next to him, shivering slightly in the damp morning air. The gun deck had become very quiet as men ran above them on deck.
“I thought I heard the lookout say he had sighted a ship, a French ship!” stated Matthews excitedly.
“How could he see anything in that?” asked Will, looking out the nearest gunport into the thick fog that surrounded them.
Giovanni felt the motion of the ship change as she slowly rounded up to begin what everyone assumed was a chase. The gunner was making his way along the deck and men were quietly getting to their stations.
“We’ve beat to quarters men,” he said in a hushed tone. “A frenchie is out there in the fog and we don’t want to scare him off so keep quiet. Load but don’t run them out yet.”
All the men hurriedly, but with amazing silence, took their positions, loaded their guns and stood there waiting. All that could were peering out into the fog, trying to see anything. They stood in fervent anticipation for well over an hour, stomachs beginning to grumble, for the galley fires had been put out and breakfast delayed. Then the silence was broken by a single cannon, one of the bow chasers followed by cheer from the deck. The men manning the guns on the starboard bow quickly relayed the news.
“She’s struck! ‘Ol Fairbain put us right on her stern quarter not a hundred yards out. She looks like a sloop, twelve guns maybe, but a prize none the less!”
A cheer erupted all along the gun deck to join with those above. The fog was finally burning off as the Pembroke inched alongside in the light breeze. All those on the starboard side could see her clearly now.
“Looks like a converted merchantman.”
“Aye, a privateer no doubt!”
“I hope she’s had a good haul!”
“Look, the boat’s away, Mr. Elliot’s heading over.”
“We’re gonna be rich!”
“Bang on mate!”
“Shut your clap, don’t know what she has yet.”
“Ah, don’t get your rag out, we can hope, can’t we?!”
“I could sure use some rhino in my pouch.”
“Jonnick mate, we all could, been a long pull with no’tin’ to show fer it.”
“Shhh, snottie’s jawin’ with the cap’n.”
The deck was quiet for a few moments but nothing could be heard as Elliot talked with the privateer captain.
“’Ere comes the books.”
“That’ll tell the story.”
“He don’t look ‘appy.”
“Let me see!”
“Don’t be wet!”
“Stop your guff.”
A slap was heard across the water. It was Elliot slamming the book closed.
“Bad omen.”
And so it was. A look through the books and a thorough inspection revealed the ship had an empty hold, she was just heading out on her cruise and had taken nothing as of yet. A prize, but far from a rich one.
“Well, it’s something,” Will offered.
“Ha, lucky if you get two pence out of it!” laughed another sailor behind them. Several others laughed with them. Landsmen were at the bottom of the list in more ways than one, and one of them was prize money. A thumping on the companionway caught their attention. It was Eyton.
“All Vitols on deck immediately!”
They all looked at each other with uncertainty and rose up to go on deck. Giovanni squinted in the morning sunlight as he emerged from the hatch. About fifteen Vitols were gathered by the starboard rail, including Quinn and Dugal. Littlewort was talking with Fairbain on the quarterdeck.
“Move to the rail men,” they were directed. Giovanni caught a nasty look from Dugal as he joined the crowd. The purser appeared with his book and began taking names.
“What’s going on?” Giovanni asked Will.
“Don’t know.”
“We’re the prize crew. Man you’re wet!” mocked one of the Vitols
“Aye, the smoko’s over mate, gonna be under that shonky Quinn again,” whispered another.
“Jonnick, growl is ‘Ol Fairbain’s been lookin’ to get rid of us since...you know.”
“Jus’ don’t cock up and you’ll be fine, it’s only for a week or so ‘till we get home,” added someone else.
“Aye, fair wind for Portsmouth.”
“And the Portsmouth ladies!” cheered another. This resulted in general laughter and an order for silence fore and aft from Rooke. It was quiet again as the purser finished his job. Giovanni guessed there were about twenty-five Vitols remaining. They were given five minutes to go below and gather their things and be ready at the longboat. With naval efficiency they were all loaded aboard the privateer and steering away from the Pembroke in half a bell. The privateer’s crew were locked up in the hold so the foc’s’le was empty. With less than half the normal crew on a boat this size, it seemed almost spacious.
“Get your finger out! There’s work to be done!” Giovanni recognized Quinn’s voice immediately. The seven men with him ran to the ladder and Giovanni followed Will up, he was the last man. As he cleared the hatch he felt a hard thump on his back that threw him forward.
“Your soft number’s over boys!” he chided, swinging his knotted rope. “We got less than a week to get this tub in shape for the prize court! And you useless landsmen are going to do it! Move!” They were herded forward where they were given various buckets and rags. “You are going to scrub every inch of this ship until it shines!”
And so it began, seemingly where it left off. All day they scrubbed and polished and cleaned and painted. They were also divided into watches, so in addition to scrubbing from sun up to sun down they had their normal watches at night. After two days they were exhausted. Quinn, Clay and Dugal constantly prowled the deck, giving a blow to anyone they perceived to be slacking. Quinn, remembering his dressing down on the Pembroke and Dugal, his run in with Vallack, paid particular attention to Giovanni. If they perceived Littlewort or Rooke was not looking, they would give him an extra blow just because they could. His back was soon sore and tender again and his anger was building quickly.
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“Landsmen on deck!”
Giovanni groaned and rolled out of his hammock. His watch had ended just two hours ago but he tried to get moving. He was last up the ladder again. Smack, the rope fell across his back as he emerged from the foc’s’le.
“You’re useless as a fish’s tit boy!” yelled Quinn. “Maybe tomorrow you won’t be last up!”
Giovanni caught a sympathetic smile from Matthews as he got to his feet. He looked up at the limp sails as he moved forward to get his bucket and rag. This was the second day they had little or no wind. At this pace it could be a month before they made Portsmouth.
“Quit your skylarking boy!” It was Dugal this time and Giovanni knew what was coming. Damn, he was tired, overworked, frustrated and just plain sick of it all. He was exhausted and his back was sore from being hit at every opportunity and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. He was not some damn animal to be kicked and abused. What seemed like a lifetime ago he had been a man, a captain himself, a son of wealth and privilege, classically educated, a gentleman. These lowlife brutes had no right to treat him this way, he had had enough. He turned and grabbed the rope as it swung toward him and pulled, taking Dugal off balance and sending him sprawling across the deck. Dugal shook his head in surprise for a moment then glared at Giovanni. “I’m gonna kill you now boy,” he growled, taking his knife from it’s sheath and slowly getting up off the deck. Giovanni quickly looked around for any source of help, any weapon for defense.
“What the hell is going on here!?” Everyone froze as Rooke broke into the crowd that had gathered. Dugal quickly resheathed his knife.
“This man,” began Quinn, who had promptly asserted himself and pointed at Giovanni. “Refuses to do his duty. Dugal attempted to discipline him and he resisted.”
“Is this true?!” demanded Rooke, turning an icy gaze on Giovanni.
“Yes sir!” added Clay. Dugal nodded. Giovanni just hung his head. He knew any protest would be useless.
“Set up the grate! Two dozen Mr. Quinn, if you please.”
“Yes sir!” he replied enthusiastically. Dugal and Clay grabbed him roughly and quickly had him bound to the grate, shirt ripped open, back bare.
“All hands to witness punishment!” ordered Rooke. It was the first time in three days work had ceased. The men hastily assembled in the waist. “Men, we have work to do and can tolerate no one who will not do his duty. Mr. Quinn and his mates are here to make sure the work is done and done properly. No insubordination, real or perceived, will be tolerated. Let this man be an example to all of you. Mr. Quinn, do your duty.” Quinn raised a knuckle to his forehead and smiled, taking the cat out of it’s red bag and cracking it on the deck. Giovanni braced himself. He was going to give him no satisfaction this time. The first blow fell, knocking the wind out of him. By the fifth, the blood began to flow. Ten more and the raw nerves were exposed but he clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out. Splash! Cold seawater hit him and he almost screamed. Three more and his mind was foggy with pain. He lost count. More seawater, he gritted his teeth.
“Thank you Mr. Quinn, take him below.” It was over, he must have passed out near the end.
“A real bottler, eh boy,” Quinn whispered in his ear as he cut the cord on his wrist. “This ain’t over. I’ll see you dead yet.” Giovanni fell to his knees on the deck. “You and you, take him below!”
“It’s all right Bartolli, it’s over now.” It was Will by his side. He and another man lifted him gently and helped him down the hatch. They spread out some canvas on the deck and gingerly laid him down. “Just rest, I’ll bring you something later.” Giovanni just grunted. His exhaustion was such that even the pain couldn’t keep him awake.
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“Giovanni, I brought your breakfast.”
Giovanni slowly opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, wincing in pain. “Thank you Matthews.” He looked at the plate. No matter how his circumstances changed, for better or worse, the food never did.
“How’re you feeling?”
“I’m all right...little sore.” He looked up tried to manage a smile. The work and lack of sleep were taking it’s toll on Matthews as well. He was pale and haggard, his eyes were red and his speech a little slow.
“Wind’s finally picking up a little. If it holds we might make England in five days.”
“Then what? Will we go ashore when they sell the prize?”
“No, word is we’ll be transferred to other ships. Sorry, we won’t be setting foot on land for a while yet.” Giovanni groaned and ripped a piece of salt beef with his teeth. He winced in pain at every move. “From all I hear though, the war’ll soon be over. Then we’ll collect our wages and prize money and go home.” Giovanni said nothing. After more than a year of this nightmare he could hardly envision such a time. “I got to get back up to work before I get a beatin’. I’ll see if I can come back later.”
“Thank you again.” Giovanni adjusted himself slightly, the new scabs on his back pulling and cracking. He groaned and took another bite of his breakfast.
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“Giovanni, get up!” It was Will, excitement evident in his voice. “This could be another prize!”
Around him the men were scurrying up the ladder with more that the usual fervor, talking excitedly to one another.
“All hands on deck!” Came the shout from Clay down the hatch. “That means you too Bartolli!”
Giovanni slowly got up off the deck, his back protesting. He gingerly put on the shirt Will had managed to find and climbed the ladder. As he stepped up onto the deck in the early morning haze, men were enthusiastically pulling lines and singing shanties. The captain and Rooke were at the larboard rail, not far from the hatch he had just come up.
“Shall I call the hands to breakfast early sir?” inquired Rooke. Both of them were looking through their glasses into the misty morning light.
“No, Mr. Rooke, I don’t believe we’ve got the time, she’s turning to engage us.” He looked up at the set of the sails. They were still close hauled on the larboard tack. “They’ll have the weather gauge but I believe the long guns will even the odds.”
“Yes sir,” replied Rooke, although Giovanni thought he caught a hint of apprehension in his voice.
“Run out the larboard guns, set the t’gall’nts, I want more speed Mr. Rooke.” He took one more look through his glass and started back to the quarterdeck.
“Mr. Ingram!” roared Rooke in a voice that easily carried from the tops to the bilge.
“Sir?” said Ingram, hastening to his side.
“Larboard guns, Mr. Ingram, get the gun crews and powder boys about their duty!”
“Aye sir!” replied Ingram, smiling broadly before turning to go.
“Mr. Okes!”
“Yes sir!” replied the young midshipman.
“Get some men on that t’gall’nt, let’s see if we can get another knot out of her.”
“Yes sir....Mr. Quinn!” He yelled as he walked quickly to the mainmast.
“Sir?” replied the bos’un.
“Get some men to loose the t’gall’nt!” ordered Okes.
“Right away sir,” His cruel eyes looked about quickly and settled on Giovanni. “Dugal!”
“What is it Quinn?” came the hated voice behind Giovanni.
“Take this useless swab and loose the t’gall’nt, and there’s not a moment t’ lose!”
Dugal grabbed Giovanni’s arm and led him to the larboard ratlins.
“Dugal!” yelled Quinn. Giovanni watched him throw the knotted rope to his friend. “In case he needs a little persuadin’” Dugal just laughed.
“Come on boy, up ya go!” He pressed him to the rail.
Giovanni looked up. Swinging through a large arc over a hundred feet up he saw the t’gall’nt yard. The fear of falling rose up as his mind's eye flashed his youthful accident before his eyes. The moment he had been dreading throughout this nightmare had come. He was nearly frozen with fear. He felt he could endure another bout with the cat before he could go that high. He began to protest.
“I...I...aaaahhhh!” The knot fell across his still ragged back.
“I said up!” yelled Dugal.
He grabbed the shroud and put his foot on the rail, hauling himself up. Dugal was right behind him.
“Move!”
Giovanni climbed the lines, the tarred rope sticky on his hands and feet.
“Faster!” Giovanni winced as the rope fell on his back again. He looked up, the maintop was within reach. “Come on boy!” Giovanni could feel his hot breath on his calf. He hauled himself up onto the wide platform that formed the maintop, holding on with both hands.
“You gotta long way to go boy!” threatened Dugal. Giovanni looked around, unsure of how to proceed. “There!” pointed Dugal. Giovanni gingerly stepped to the side of the top and placed a foot on the topmast ratlin. The deck rolled fifty feet below them. In the distance he could make out the enemy ship through the haze. “GO!” The knot fell across his back again. His left hand lost it’s grip and his body swung out over the ocean. Dugal grabbed him and thrust him against the lines. “Don’t go jumpin’ off boy, got work to do. Now go!”
Giovanni adjusted his grip and started up the next tier. They were narrower, and there wasn’t a wide platform at the top, just the narrow crosstrees. Soon they arrived at the next stop, one more to go. The long guns on both sides were testing their range.
“Up there!” pointed Dugal, coming up behind.
“I...I can’t.”
“Oh yes you can!” Dugal hit him on the thigh with the rope. “Now move.”
Giovanni started up the topgallant mast ratlins. His arms and legs were trembling in his fear. The arc of movement was so much more pronounced, the swinging forced him to hold on even tighter, if that were possible. Dugal was pushing him from below, forcing him higher.
“Out on the footrope boy!” Giovanni wrapped his arms around the t’gall’nt yard. The deck swayed over a hundred feet below. He was nearly paralyzed.
“Come on boy, untie the warps!” Dugal yelled. He was already out on the yard, his feet on the ropes, his knees braced against the yard, his hands working quickly on the reef knots. Giovanni tried to untie the one in front of him with one hand, the other tightly gripping the shroud. “Out on the yard!” threatened Dugal. He finally got the first wrap off and it flew away in the breeze. “Hold on to the the bloody things you fool! Now get out on the yard!!”
Giovanni put a foot out on the rope, it swayed under his weight and he tightly hugged the yard, nearly folded in half. He tried to untie the next knot when Dugal was beside him.
“I said out!” He pushed his body against Giovanni’s, forcing him out on the yard. It swung wildly under their combined weight. Giovanni shut his eyes in fear. Dugal hit him again, the blow loosening his grip. Giovanni’s foot fell from the rope and he felt himself slipping, his arms wrapped around the yard and his feet dangling in the air. Dugal growled, grabbing him by the pants and hauling him up so one of his legs wrapped around the rope. Dugal reached around him and untied the rest of the wraps himself. Soon he was back at the mast.
“Find your way down boy, and quickly now!” he laughed as he made his way down the lines. Giovanni was alone. Suddenly the yard lurched, as if it was trying to shake him free and it slid up the mast. The sail filled and cracked, leaning the ship further as it swung into position. Giovanni’s arms were aching from holding on. He looked down. The battle was beginning in earnest. Orders were flowing in rapid succession from the quarterdeck. The French ship, he could see her colors now, was coming in on a reach, heading right to the bow of the prize, only a league distant. She looked to be about ten guns, smaller than their ship but handled well, he knew she’d be an even match. And with the weather gauge she certainly had the advantage at this point. Neither could do more than use the bow chasers thus far so little damage had been inflicted on either vessel.
———————————-
“Load ‘em up boys!” bellowed Ingram, stooped at the rear of the gun deck. Men were putting powder and shot into the larboard guns, ramming it tight and heaving on the lines to run them out. Those near the bow could just make out the French ship.
“You there!” he pointed to a young boy, nephew of one of the officers, he couldn’t remember which. He had short curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes that got even wider when such attention was directed at him. “More sand over there!” The boy scurried away with his bucket and began spreading handfuls of sand on the deck where Ingram had pointed.
“She’s turning!” yelled one of the men who had been peering out his gunport.
“I need powder!” came an insistent call from one of the crewmen manning a gun near the stern.
“Boys!” screamed Ingram. “Powder and shot, Now!” The gun crews had been cobbled together and were unused to working with each other, unlike on the Pembroke where the same men had drilled together for months and knew their duty well. And most of the gunners ended up being the landsmen left from the Vitol, the true seamen being needed to run the ship. The two boys serving as powder monkeys were from the Penbroke, some of the other undesirables Fairbain wanted to get rid of. The lack of coordination was quickly evident. The boys jostled each other as they went below to the magazine for more powder.
“Incoming!” yelled someone forward. It was immediately followed by a loud boom from outside.
“Hold!” yelled Ingram.
Then there was the scream of metal flying at high velocity followed by a terrific crash forward. One of the shots had hit the number two gun, dislodging it from it’s carriage and launching it into the crew. The heavy gun fell on two of them and rolled to a stop on the leg of a third. Shards of metal from the cannon and the ball showered the nearby men, cutting into their flesh and dropping them screaming and writhing to the deck. Another shot came through between gun four and five, sending huge splinters into the two crews. Large and small pieces of wood were protruding from several men. The ship shook as several other shots hit their marks above, cutting rigging and bringing down spars. One of the boys was nearly up the steps from the magazine with some powder and he fell against the edge of the deck, puncturing the bag. He looked around in horror at the scene.
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Giovanni tightened his grip and slowly began inching his way back to the mast. He threw his leg over the yard and moved closer. The ships were closing rapidly. A moment later he watched the French vessel turn away, presenting her broadside to the prize’s larboard bow. In a thunderous roar, all five guns fired. Cannonballs pounded the ship and sliced through the rigging. Halyards and sheets were cut, yards flew around out of control, sails were flapping. He felt the whole mast lurch below him and saw one of the balls had cut through most of the larboard shrouds. Giovanni gasped. He heard Mr. Rooke’s booming voice calling for a turn to starboard to return fire. The ship spun slowly, few of the yards could be brought around due to the damage. He watched men hurry to reeve new lines through the blocks to regain some control.
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“Prepare to return fire!” yelled Ingram. He ignored the chaos around him as he waited. The ship was slowly turning to give his crews a target. “Harvey, Gray, get that gun back in place. You men, take the wounded below. Blackman, get your starboard crews to the empty guns! Where’s that powder!” he bellowed, looking right at the boy halfway out of the hatch, chest over the bag. He scurried up, leaving a trail of black powder. “Get that gun run out!” The crew on number seven pulled hard on their lines and the heavy gun moved into position. Other crews were adjusting their elevation. Ingram could see the French ship through his port now. “Ready!” The men were poised over their guns, slow match ready at the touch hole. “Fire!”
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Giovanni crawled closer to the mast as he felt a shudder and the ship heeled slightly. They had returned fire. He saw the fore topmast of the French ship go over the side in a tangle of rigging. Most of the other shots had been high or wide, the inexperienced gun crews having timed the roll of the ship incorrectly. He saw the Frenchmen run forward with axes, cutting at the rigging. The topmast quickly fell away and the French ship turned hard to larboard. She closed within a quarter of a league and presented the other broadside to the prize at a devastatingly close range. Below him in the tops men with muskets were shooting at the Frenchmen on deck, the Frenchmen doing the same. Farther below, men were still trying to get control of the flapping maincourse. He heard both the strong calm voice of Rooke and the shrill screaming of the captain yelling orders. They were trying to turn away but with only half the sails pulling they could not outmaneuver the French ship, which had completed her turn. A moment later another broadside shattered the clear morning.
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“More sand!” yelled Ingram. As men scrambled to swab out the guns for reloading, their feet were slipping on the blood of their compatriots. The boy with the sand scurried about, throwing it everywhere. “Powder and shot!” The powder monkeys ran to the hatch. The noise of the gun carriages on the deck and the screaming of wounded men reverberated throughout the close space. Ingram saw the French ship turning toward them. He knew they had their starboard guns already loaded and at the end of that maneuver they would be subjected to another broadside long before they were reloaded. He cursed the incompetent captain for his lack of maneuvering skill. As men hurried to reload, they kicked the loose powder from the ripped bag all over. “Faster boys, she’s coming around!” Only two of the guns were swabbed out and being reloaded when the next broadside came. One of the shots came through next to the number seven gun sending splinters into the crew and knocking the man holding the ripped powder bag back into the deck, a large splinter piercing his neck. The man holding the slow match was also hit. He fell to the ground and dropped the match. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem but it fell on some of the spilled powder, igniting it. One of the crew yelled and Ingram watched in horror as the powder in the ripped bag glowed red.
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Giovanni watched in horror. Metal and splinters shot through the crew on deck, cutting and maiming. Orders were shouted again but fewer men were left to carry them out. Then he saw a strange flash down in the main hatch, someone yelled ‘fire!’ and then a larger explosion rocked the ship. Giovanni nearly lost his grip. He looked down the see the remaining shrouds parting and heard the cracking of wood. He felt the mast begin to move when an even greater explosion ripped through the ship. The mast was gaining speed as it went over and pieces of decking flew up around him. The ship had split in two and was disappearing beneath the waves.
The mast and yard hit the water with tremendous force, sending Giovanni deep under the waves. It was a cold shock but he quickly began to struggle upward. He gasped for breath as his head broke the surface. Looking around, he slowly swam over to a piece of wreckage and grabbed hold for a rest. He looked around. The French vessel was already half a league distant and slightly downwind. They wouldn’t be coming back. He saw a larger piece of what looked like decking and swam the short distance to it. Climbing out of the cold water on to the makeshift raft, he sat back, looking up at the blue sky, shivering. The salt water hurt his still raw back terribly and his forearms were numb from the death grip he had had on the t’gal’nt yard before his plunge. He looked around and listened intently but saw and heard nothing. Could he be the only one left? He rose to his knees and looked around. Several barrels were floating nearby and after finding a long piece of wood he started gathering them, slowly paddling around. He had secured two of them, one with water and another of salt pork when he heard splashing behind him. He turned to see Quinn, one mangled arm over a spar and the other slowly paddling not ten yards away.
“Boy, give me a hand!” he ordered weakly, reaching out with his good arm. Giovanni tightened his grip on the pole he’d been using to corral the barrels and began to reach out to him. He looked into Quinn’s cold eyes. He pulled the pole back.
“What ’re ya doin’ boy, pull me up, now!” He was nearly to the raft. Giovanni dropped his head. “Now!” ordered Quinn threateningly. Giovanni shut his eyes tightly and gripped the stick. He heard Quinn’s whispered threats in his ear as he was tied to the grate, his laughter as he brought the cat down on his back, the cold eyes that constantly searched for ways to torment him. No more. He was tired of having no control, of letting such men determine his destiny, allowing his fate to remain in the hands of such despots. He opened his eyes and stared hard at Quinn who was reaching for the edge of the raft. He lifted his pole and swung it down as hard as he could. Quinn’s eyes widened as he feebly raised his arm but the pole came down on his head with a sickening thud. Giovanni stood there, breathing heavily, as blood began pooling in the water around Quinn’s head. As he watched the body slowly drift off he thought of the torture, the cruelty, the abuse. He sighed in relief and then began gathering other things; pieces of line, another barrel of water. He had no idea how long it would be until the current carried him close to land or another ship came by.
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