The Crafters Book Two (22 page)

Davy stuffed the bottle inside his shirt—he could always stuff it in his bag later, he decided—and grinned. “He’d had a sight too much grog, John. Must have. Sea serpents and mermaids ?”

“You deny they might exist, knowing the companions
our
family has?”

“When no one else saw them?” Davy retorted. “Too much grog.”

“Well—remember what he said. It’s a curious world, after all. Come, though; we’d better be abed if you intend to go abroad early tomorrow.” Davy merely nodded. But once he’d settled into an old spare comforter before the fire, John paused on his way to his own bed. “Do keep an open mind, will you? And I know all about the limited space aboard a ship; I’ve been asea once, you know—if only to Boston. I also know you’ve the Talent if you choose to use it, little brother. There may come a time you want to bespeak family, or our small friend here, or even possibly desperately need to. Don’t ask why; I don’t know why. I just see there might be a possibility. A ghost of a hint of a mere chance. I don’t know how any of us could help, either; before you ask
that.
Just—think about it. Honestly, Davy, I don’t think that’s too much to ask, is it?”

Davy gazed up at him for a very long moment. It was an odd request, coming as it did from a man who never exercised an open mind in either his alchemy
or
his furniture-making, however well he performed in both fields. Finally, he nodded. “If you feel so strongly about it.”

“As strongly as you feel about this mad venture,” John said, but he said it so solemnly, Davy couldn’t bring himself to argue his brother’s choice of words.

* * *

John had him up and on the way as the sun was just beginning to cast early golden light over woods and fields. There was dew on the bushes lining the lane; a thin coating of it kept down the dust on the main road. Davy’s ears were buzzing and he had to stuff his hands into his pockets so John would not see how they trembled. His heart was pattering rapidly against his waistcoat as they came onto a broad cobbled avenue and walked down it for some distance. There were gulls everywhere, white against blue sky, raucous voices cutting through the noises of wooden cart-wheels against stone; two women arguing with a street peddler; the distant calls of merchants and customers down a narrow side-street where he could see the high-piled tables of an open-air harvest market. And then the tangy, unmistakable odor of the wharf: a compounding of fish, gulls, pitch and kerosene, salt water, something that had gone well past ripe, exotic odors he couldn’t begin to identify.

John led him down a shaded, narrow alley and once more into brilliant sunlight; Davy blinked rapidly, slowing as his eyes adjusted. Sun reflected off the water to his left; to his right were stone and wooden buildings, barefoot and barelegged men everywhere—men in blue-and-white-striped shirts and pale, short breeches carrying bags and parcels from buildings, across wooden planking that rattled and echoed underfoot. They all had one destination. Davy stopped short, eyes wide, mouth agape. Just before him, rocking gently, stood what must surely be a frigate: a long, graceful ship, larger than any he’d seen before. Three great masts rose to an astonishing height. John nudged him and he pulled his mouth closed with an effort. If anyone of those men had seen him, staring like a bumpkin! Apparently they were one and all too busy, though. He schooled his face to what he hoped was casual interest as they walked on, but he could feel the blood warming his face as he stepped past the bow and was able to read the lettering there:
Constitution.
In something of a daze he followed his elder brother through the door of one of the buildings.

* * *

Midday. Davy’s admiration for his brother had gone up considerably when Captain Hull greeted him by name—John’s chairs and table graced the captain’s cabin, it seemed.
He
had felt exceedingly inadequate when, pleasantries done with, the Captain turned to study him. Davy sat up straight, hoping he didn’t look half the fool he felt. The Captain finally shrugged. “In such times, I ordinarily would prefer not to accept a green boy aboard my ship—the British want her badly, you know; it’s not sense for her to carry any but highly skilled and experienced sailors. But he’s got a look about the eyes, and I lost a man two days past, broke a leg as he came ashore. Not such a problem, save that I’m already short three others this past month. Think you want to join the Navy, eh, boy?”

Davy nodded, swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He flushed as the older man laughed, but it didn’t sound like a malicious laugh.

“Aye, well. I like enthusiasm. It might carry as much as experience, unless the man in question is a gunner. We’ll keep you from the guns though, shall we?”

“I—yes, sir. I’ve—I know carpentry, I’ve apprenticed under my father, I have my own tools—some of them ... .” Davy’s voice faded to nothing, and he bit his lip to keep from stammering on. To himself he sounded like a prattling babe. Captain Hull merely nodded.

“Carpenter, is it? Well, I’ve a full carpenter, but a ship can always use another man with a knowledge of hammer and nails.” Somehow, it was all done: A clerk was brought in from a back room, papers produced. Davy and Captain Hull both signed, with John a witness to his brother’s character and willingness to join the American Navy for a period of two years, during a time of declared war against the British, for a pay of $13 a month. Another hour, and he was issued two changes of rough, slightly too-large clothes and blankets. Most of his bag was left in John’s hands, but he’d another, smaller canvas bag for his tools, and the Captain had been pleased to see his sketching materials. “Perhaps we’ll come one over the British,” the Captain had said cheerfully, “and you’ll record it all for me.” He was gone then, leaving Davy and John alone together. Later, Davy could remember nothing of his last conversation with his brother. There had been a half-dozen men his own age and a Marine Lieutenant Bush to bring him aboard ship, to show him his hammock and where to stow his few personal things.

There had been an odd-tasting, extremely hard biscuit to chew on while several of the younger men showed him around the ship, from the storage and the powder magazines to the galley and the messes, all around the decks. At the Lieutenant’s suggestion, they didn’t try to take him into the rigging, even though the ship was still at port.

By early evening, though, she no longer was: Her hull thoroughly scraped and cleansed of barnacles, her thirty-seven new sails unfurled, new guns in place and a full load of powder below decks, the
Constitution
sailed slowly out into Chesapeake Bay.

Davy was given simple chores—helping to tighten lines; clearing spare ropes from the deck; checking that the boats were all properly fastened into their locks, that the colors had been folded neatly, where they could be quickly retrieved and flown if the Captain so ordered. In the meantime, after the British fashion, the frigate would show no colors at all in hopes of luring an unsuspecting enemy ship into range of its 24-pounders.

He worked with a will, and by the time he went to his hammock felt comfortable with the sailors in his mess—eight young men altogether, who would eat the same meals and share watches. He found the constantly rolling deck a minor annoyance only; fortunately, it didn’t seem to bother his stomach. But there was a distinctly queer sensation under his ribs as he lay back and closed his eyes. Odd. Had John been right after all? Somehow, for the first time in his life, he felt alone. He dismissed that impatiently. He never had been connected, Crafter-fashion, to his mother, his uncle Jeb, his sisters. Not even to John, closest of all his kin. Certainly not to that maddening sprite. That reminded him; he drew the brass bottle from the inside pocket where it had been hidden under his shirt, slid it into a little leather pouch in his canvas tool bag.
Yes, John, I did promise,
he thought drowsily.
But I didn’t say for how long
—
and I don’t see how you’ll ever know, anyway.

* * *

Two days. They were in the open Atlantic now, though Davy could easily make out the coast to port. Lieutenant Bush had more or less turned him over to his mess and several other common seamen, with orders for them to show him what they did and when, and to teach him proper shipboard behavior. The Lieutenant himself was busy working with the gunnery crew, and with repositioning the kegs of powder down in the after powder magazine.

Davy spent most of his first day with Andrew Vincent, a poor city boy his own age from Philadelphia, and with Henry Clay, not much older and nearly dark as a Moor, who’d grown up as Davy had on a farm.

Between them, he learned how to tie down lines the right way, where to go if the ship came under attack and the big guns were brought into play. (“You don’t want to be underfoot, Davy; it’s chaos with men loading and cleaning, powder boys everywhere, and the firing enough to make you deaf. Besides, they’ll have your ears if you
do
get in the way, same as if you so much as
whisper
once a ship’s been sighted. Dead silence from sighting until first shot, it’s a rule from the days against Tripoli.”) He learned how to fold his hammock and stow it in a minimum of time; spent hours before the ship left Chesapeake Bay in scrubbing the main deck where feet had trailed mud back and forth between the after companionway, the main hatchway, and the gangway, leaving dirt, dust, mud and trickles of substances that leaked from the bags going below. He polished cannon; he learned to knock even two-day-old ship’s biscuit against a hard surface before biting into it—and somehow managed not to yelp in surprise and disgust at the weevils that scurried away.

Once they were on open sea, he actually had the opportunity to break out his tool bag, to make repairs on an oarlock in one of the boats hanging alongside. That felt good; he was doing what he knew, serving as a carpenter aboard ship. Immediately after, though, he was sent to mid-deck with oil and rags to polish the huge, spool-like oaken capstan used to weigh anchor.

It wasn’t what he had expected, Davy thought as he rubbed and polished dark wood and brass. Being Navy during a declared war, one would expect more to do with fighting, boarding a captured ship. He’d been issued a dirk, of course; everyone had some sort of blade in case they boarded a ship or were, God forbid, boarded themselves. But most of his time thus far—almost everyone’s time, he realized in looking around the main deck—was spent in cleaning and polishing, repairing ropes and sails. Uncle Jeb had talked about cutlasses, guns, falling masts, fires—nothing about scrubbing planks and steps. Well, but why describe such dull moments to an eager young nephew?

There were a few good things about so much boring, grueling physical labor, however: It kept his mind from wandering onto subjects such as the unpleasant sensation of very deep water beneath the ship; of something
in
that deep water which might not wish men aboard ships well; of the growing unease at being truly cut off from his own kind and an accompanying anger that assured him he was making up such a sense of disquiet. Because there
was
no contact between himself and others of Crafter stock—and those who served the Crafters. Was not and never had been! Unlike his mother and his brother John, who had both had the Talent strong almost from birth.

They’d have been lost aboard a ship. Both of them, Davy realized, were set in Crafter ways—or what they saw as its ways. With them—like most of the rest of his kin—it was everything from that blessed book, no single variation permitted; everything just as many-times Great-grandfather Amer had worked it out.

“It’s Wednesday,” Andrew announced as he came running up, bare feet slapping against hardwood planks. “That means a drill, to see how fast the gunnery crew can set up, and how quickly the rest of us get into position. Stay right close to me for now, unless Lieutenant Morris—that’s him, there, d’you remember?—unless he sends you elsewhere. Pay no heed to what the other boys try to tell you; it’s your first Wednesday and they’ll try mischief. And remember, once Lieutenant Morris gives the first order,
keep yourself quiet.”

No one tried mischief. The Lieutenant passed him several times where he stood with half-a-dozen other common sailors near the mizzenmast, buckets of water at their heels and four of the more experienced ready to climb into the sheets at need. Davy watched in awe as the gunports were opened and the massive weapons rolled forward, as boys raced back and forth across the deck with powder buckets—empty buckets, since there was no danger, and no barrels set out for gunnery practice. The drill went on for well over an hour as the ship continued its smooth, even course northward along the coast. Aside from the slap of feet against decking, the faint screech of a wheel that needed oiling, the scrape of metal as one of the crews opened the port on the cannon, a total, skin-prickling silence held.

As soon as the drill ended, Davy and his group were put to work trimming sail—Davy safely on the deck right at the base of the mast to catch lines and hand them to one of the others to tie off. “Of course, we’ll be rocking madly once we actually engage the British,” Andrew said. “Keep that in mind; since it’s your first voyage you’ll want to find something to hold onto.” He grinned. “Be glad you’re not one of the sheet monkeys, up there in the rigging when the ship’s rolling.” Davy looked up, and quickly back down again. He could feel the blood leaving his face. All the same, if a man knew his way about up there—well, there’d be time and a way, another voyage, wouldn’t there?

The hope faded. Just now, with the drill scarcely over, recalling the grim and unnerving silence in which men and boys had worked to ready the ship for battle—well, all at once, he didn’t feel quite so hopeful about the length of his future.
I chose this? Of my own free will? Mother’s right, and so was Father. I must be mad!

The night was warm, the sea almost calm; worn out, he slept hard, barely woke when the boatswain’s mate came clattering through at change of watch after four hours, and went right back to sleep again.