Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (10 page)

After I'm done, I poke my head out my door and ask, "So what's to eat then, mates?"

What's to eat is burgoo. Burgoo can be a lot of things, from simple oatmeal and molasses, to ground-up hardtack and molasses, to a stew with any number of things in it. Thankfully, this burgoo is the latter and comes with a biscuit. I pack it in with gusto. The others have less appetite after their time in our makeshift surgery. Georgie comes back in and sits down and pokes at his food.

I had done some of that kind of work on the
Pequod.
Being that I was hired on as companion and midwife to Missus Captain, it was assumed that I could bind up the minor wounds that would naturally occur on a whaler—rope burns, cuts that sometimes needed to be sewn up, bashed shins, crushed toes, that sort of thing. They were wrong in that assumption, but I did grow into the role. After all, thanks to the
Dolphin
and the Lawson Peabody, I did know how to sew. What I found to be most effective, however, was the simple laying on of sympathetic female hands, and soft, soothing words.

"Um. This is good," I say with my nose in the burgoo. Someone has gotten me a spoon. I tap the biscuit to deal with the bugs and I put that down my neck, too.

Georgie and the other two boys continue to regard me with some kind of awe. Robin looks like he wants to talk,
but I don't let him. I hear the ringing of Three Bells in the Afternoon Watch from the quarterdeck above and aft of us. I stand and go to the small barrel of water lashed to the bulkhead, lift the ladle, and take a long drink.

"I must go and drill my division. Mr. Raeburne, I'll meet you by the foremast at the beginning of the First Dog Watch."

Then I turn and go out to my men.

They are there standing about the guns, looking watchful, as I approach.

"At ease," I say, as I go into their midst, even though not one of them has snapped to attention. At least the ones sitting on the cannons manage to stand up. "Do we have everyone here?"

"Everyone 'cept Joshua," says Harkness, looking straight at me without deference.
Just 'cause you sewed him up don't make you one of us,
I see in his eyes. He's not giving me an inch.

"Yes. Well, I have placed him on the Sick List for the time being, at least. I am sorry for what happened to him today. I am sorry I was unable to prevent it, but that is the way of it here, and well you know that," I say, chin up, and looking at each of them in turn. I see resistance in some, indifference in others, but in others I see a glimmer of hope. And in Tam Tucker's eyes I see boyish glee.
Ah, God save ship's boys.

"Very well. Take your stations. We shall exercise the guns."

Someone finds his voice. "Pardon, Miss?"

"'Pardon, Miss Faber.' Yes, what?"

"We have never exercised the guns," says the man I recognize as one named Hodge, a seasoned seaman. "We've never been given the powder."

"Then how can you be ready if there's an action?" I say, incredulously. "Have you not even done dry runs?"

"No, Midshipman Faber," says Harkness, rising up before me. "We have not."

This is amazing, and on a British Man-o'-War, yet. The Captain must, indeed, be mad as a hatter.

"Well then, now we shall," I say. "Let's everyone go to what they think is their station."

It is a mess. The men mill about, looking confused and shamefaced. They want to do well and they can't. And no wonder, for they have never been shown.

"All right," I say, wearily. "Line up."

They do so and I address them. "Men, we have four eighteen-pound guns under our care. I am, of course, First Captain, and I will aim and fire the guns. Harkness, you shall be Second Captain. You shall second me and act in my place should I fall. You will stand here, between Gun Two and Gun Three."

They are all looking at me, not knowing that, once again, sweat is trickling out of my armpits and down over my ribs. I had seen the guns on the
Dolphin
readied, primed, and shot a hundred times from my perch up on the quarterdeck, standing with my drum next to Captain Locke as he bellowed out
Fire!
and beating on that drum when the occasion called for it, so I know the routine. I know how to do it.

It's just that I never have actually
done
it.

"Shaughnessy, Roberts, Gibbons, and Dalton on pikes. Stand here, here, here, and here. You'll use your pikes to ratchet the guns back and forth, up and down on my command." They move and stand in the right places.

"Now swabbers and rammers: Ropp, Mill, Rusby, Kelly,
Pye, Nichols, and O'Grady, you stand here and here and there and there. You will ram the powder charges in, then the ball, and then the wad. After firing, you will wet the swabs there on the bulkhead to clean and cool the barrels to make them ready for the next charge. If you don't do it thoroughly, the next bag of powder in it may misfire and the gun may explode, which will cause us all great harm. Do you understand?"

Dubious heads nod. But I see some curt nods, too. Some of these men have fired guns and that gives me hope.

"On the ropes we will have Yonkers, Taylor, Clark, O'Leary ... er ... Hutchinson, Davies"—I'm desperately trying to remember their names from the muster—"Myrick ... Batson ..." and so on.

Everyone seems to be in place. I look down at the willing face of Tam Tucker, my powder monkey. "Master Tucker. We will need more than one monkey for the bringing up of the powder. Go fetch Mr. Piggott."

He races off and is back in a moment with a perplexed-looking Georgie.

"Shed your jacket, Mr. Piggott. Tucker here will show you the way to the magazine. Since these will be dry runs, you will each take a ball from the pile there down to the powder room. It will take the place of the bag of real powder you will be hauling in a real fight. Tucker, you will take your pretend powder to Gun Number One. Mr. Piggott, you will take yours to Gun Number Three, right there. Do you understand?" They both nod. "Very well, then. We will start the drill when you reappear. Go!"

The boys scurry out, the cannonballs clutched to their bellies.

"Open the ports," I say, "and drop the barrels from the lintels. Rope men, haul 'em back! Now, back out the ports!"

I check the flintlock firing device on Gun Number One. It seems to be in order. I then take the long spike that is hanging next to the powder horn on the bulkhead and ram it down into the touchhole to pierce the bag of powder lying in the breech below so it will be open to receive the priming powder, which I will now pour in. I reach over and take the powder horn from its hook on the bulkhead and throw its lanyard around my neck. I open its top and pour a priming directly in the hole. We now have a column of powder leading down from the top directly into the bag of powder, waiting only for the spark from the flintlock to ignite it.

Harkness has taken up his post of Second Captain between Two and Three. "I assume, Harkness, the reason we did not fire out last night's charge is because it's Sunday? I shall have to go ask permission to fire." It's common practice on ships on a wartime footing to leave the guns loaded overnight and then fire out the damp powder in the morning.

Harkness takes a deep breath and clasps his hands behind his back. "Don't bother, Midshipman Faber. The guns are not loaded."

"What! Why the hell not?" I cry. "What if a French patrol boat snuck up on us in the night?"

Harkness shrugs. "The guns are never loaded. We have never fired them."

"
Never?
" I am astounded. Even though I now knew that the men were not practiced in the firing and rapid reloading of the guns, I expected the guns to be loaded, at least. "Why not? You may speak plain."

"I can't speak plain. You might ask the officers, Midshipman Faber. Common seamen can't question orders from above," he says, his tone implying,
as well you should know, Midshipman Whatever-you-are ...

"Well, we shall see about that," I say. "Meanwhile, we shall have dry runs. Here comes the powder. Prepare to fire Number One!"

I squint over the barrel and see France lying out there beyond the portal. Pretending to be aiming at an enemy ship, I say, "Pikes! Ratchet up Two! Pull around One Point!"

One of these things happens, the other doesn't. Exasperated, I say, "Fire!" anyway, and pull the lanyard on the firing mechanism and there is a snap and a puff of smoke. Had there been a charge in the barrel, there would have been a roar, and the gun would have slammed back on its carriage.

"Pull it back! Swabbers! Up now!" The boys come back with their cannonballs, but no swabbers swab, and the guns stay where they were. Several men grab tools that they obviously have no notion of what they are for and trip over one another and fall to the deck. Everyone looks at me blankly.

"All right. Everybody stop. Stand where you are," I say, glaring out from under my hat. I look at a man standing behind the cannon I had just mock fired. "Do you know you would be dead now from the recoil of this gun? Your legs crushed and your back broken?"

He mumbles, "No, Mum," and moves belatedly out of the way.

"Have any of you ever been swabbers?" A few hands are raised. "How about ratchet men?" A few others raise their hands. "Rope and carriage men?" Even fewer hands are seen.

"Very well," I say, "let us start with just this one gun, with the experienced men at their positions." They move to their proper places.

"All right, we will begin. Fire!" and I click the firing lanyard. "The gun recoils and the swabber shoves his swab down the barrel. Do it!"

It is Shaughnessy who pushes the wet swab down the barrel.

"Now the charge! Tucker!" The boy hands his ball to Shaughnessy and Seaman Yonkers rams it down with his tool.

"The ball, Mr. Piggott!" and Georgie hands his ball to Shaughnessy, who drops it into the barrel. It rolls down to touch the mock powder.

"The wad!" Seaman Yonkers looks about for the wad, but they are not stacked in the slot on the bulkhead where they belong. "Pretend, then!" I shout. I pour more priming powder in the fire hole.

He does and I squint over the barrel again and say, "Pike up Three! Swing her tail two points forward. Fire!" Again I snap the lanyard, and the bit of powder ignites and
pops
and I look at my crew and say, "Let's do it again."

And again, and again, and again.

At last I call a halt. We've been at it for two hours and men are beginning to be placed in positions where they might be of use.

"Men," I say, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice, "we've got to be able to fire each gun and reload in under ninety seconds. Right now it's taking us over four minutes. That is unacceptable. We would be destroyed by even the meanest of French vessels."

I tread back and forth in front of them, thinking. At last I say, "Harkness, you shall drill the men for another hour, bending all your efforts to getting the right man in the right position. I shall see about us getting some powder so that we might have a proper exercise of our guns. Carry on."

With that, I spin on my heel and leave. It is possible that I hear the word
bitch
whispered under someone's breath as I go, but so be it.

It is just before the First Dog Watch and Mr. Pelham is on the quarterdeck as Officer of the Deck. I go up to him and salute.

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but I have several concerns."

His eyes roll heavenward, asking, I assume, for deliverance from this pesky female. "What is it, Miss Faber?"

"Number one. Why do we not have powder to exercise the great guns? We are woefully unready."

He stiffens and says, "The Captain has not authorized the powder. It is not for you to question that."

Umm.
I decide to hold my tongue on that. "Number two. As ranking Midshipman, I must insist that the midshipmen be put on the quarterdeck watch schedule. They are not learning anything just sitting around their berth." I gulp it all out. I still am not easy at speaking plain to regular officers.

Mr. Pelham eyes me coldly. "Are you implying by all this that the officers on this ship have been derelict in their duties?"

"No, Sir. I know how things lie on this ship and I have nothing but the utmost respect for both you and Mr. Pinkham, and I admire your fortitude in enduring it all. It is because of my special condition that I might have a little more latitude in the correction of some things."

Mr. Pelham looks down at me, a half smile playing about his mouth. "I'll be damned," he says. He looks off over my head. I know he has very little use for me. I know, too, he was certainly looking for a better post than this when he gained his lieutenancy—a fine ship, a fair and noble captain, a chance for glory. Instead he got this—standing on the deck of a Hell Ship commanded by a vile and sick fiend, talking to a girl. "Very well, Miss Faber, you shall draw up a Watch list for your midshipmen and it shall be added to the Quarter Bill. You, yourself, will start it off by standing the Midwatch with Gunner's Mate Smythe tonight."

I hit a brace. "Very good, Sir. While I am here, I expect to do my duty. I assume the Messenger of the Watch will be sent to waken me?"

"Oh, you may count on that, Miss Faber," he says, and turns away. I salute and turn away and go to meet Robin Raeburne at the foremast.

On the way there, Harper comes up next to me and says, "
Psst! Jacky!
" and pushes something into my hand. I look at it and see that it is a fine knife in a smooth leather scabbard and has a tooled leather belt with a shiny brass buckle.

"Thanks, John, but this is much too fine ..."

"Don't thank me," says Harper, "it's from Billy Barnes. He was too shy to come up and give it to you himself, to thank you for saving his life."

"Ah," I say, strapping it around my waist. It feels good there. I draw out the blade and test its edge. It is sharp as a razor. "Then thank him for me. And one more favor, John, and then I'll bother you no more: I'll be needing sea dads for the four midshipmen. Older men, well seasoned. All right?"

"Sure, Jacky, anything for an old shipmate."

***

"Let us go up to the top, Mr. Raeburne," I say when I meet him at the appointed time. Without waiting for an answer, I swing into the ratlines and head up, and he follows.