Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (17 page)

I leap to Gun Number Three and sight along it. "Ratchet over two! Pike up one! Fire!" and I pull the lanyard and the gun barks out its charge. A near miss, but they're getting worried. I'm sure the gunboat only came out to stir up a little trouble and its commanding officer and crew probably were astounded by how close they were able to get to a King's ship. The miss is all right with me, as I sure as hell don't want to kill anybody, even though they got one of ours. The Frenchies looked so merry, coming at us, flying their colors and singing. It would be a shame to kill them, but that is the way of it, ain't it?

"Harkness. You may aim and fire at will," I say, and look over to Robin's crew. He is furious, mostly with himself, I think, for his failure so far to fire a gun. It looks like he's about ready, though.
Good lad.

Harkness fires again and his aim is deadly. It hits the oarsmen on the port side and again they scramble to reship oars. They are in full retreat.
Let them go,
I say to myself, but Harkness is not in such a forgiving mood. The gun barks again and it hits the boat amidships and men go over the side.

Then Gun Number Five fires, and I look over at Robin, who has fired it. He is leaning over the gun and looking out through the port. The ball arcs through the air and, incredibly, hits the boat square on, and the boat, weighed down by the massive gun, points its bow in the air and then goes straight to the bottom. Maybe some of the Frenchmen are able to reach the shore, but I doubt it. It was a lucky, or an unlucky shot, depending on how you look at it. I look at Robin and he is ashen. He staggers to the rail as if he needs to throw up over the side.
That, Robin, is what killing men feels like.

Had I not been sent to the top this morning without breakfast, I might have joined him there at the rail. But I don't. Instead I stand on the deck and address my men.

"Good shooting, Harkness. Good job, Werewolves, all of you. You should take pride in your actions today. You saved the ship. Let us clean up the guns and make them ready."

I'm putting the matchlocks away when I hear the Captain call.

"You. Faber. Get over here."

Uh-oh...

I go over to the foot of the quarterdeck and wait.

The Captain weaves unsteadily on his feet, leaning on a cane. Now that the danger is past, his sneer is back in its place on his white-stained lips. His officers stand behind him in a state of mortal humiliation, as if it were their fault that the ship was so woefully unprepared for such an attack. I am sure he has told them just that.

"I should hang the lot of you," snarls the Captain to his crew, "and I just might do that, one at a time, starting tomorrow." His tic comes on him, pulling his mouth down into that horrid grimace. "It would be no loss to the Navy, for you are the most pathetic bunch of pansies that
ever
tried to pass for men!"

The tic relaxes, but the eye wanders off. The crew is dead silent.

"That being the case, I now direct that the sailmakers shall fashion skirts of light cloth and every member of the starboard gun crews, every one of you loutish dolts who could not get a single shot off to save your sorry asses, shall wear them! And you will wear them, ladies, till such time as I say you may take them off!"

There is a collective intake of breath from the crew at this incredible insult. I reflect that the Captain, though a cruel and despicable tyrant, is not completely mad—had he made the entire crew wear dresses, there would have been an outright mutiny, no question, but with only twenty-four or so singled out, well...

"Now, as for you," he says, turning and fixing his mad stare upon me, "you are now Acting Lieutenant Faber, Assistant Gunnery Officer."

My gasp is echoed by a hundred others.

The Captain looks sideways at Mr. Smythe, who looks like he's been punched in the belly. "Perhaps you can teach Mr. Gunnery Officer Smythe here something about gunnery."

I think back with horror on the conversation I had overheard between the Captain and Pinkham about fraternization and about him making me a lieutenant so's he could get on me. And now he's done it. My horror is nothing compared to that of the ship's officers, who recoil from the Captain's statement.

"Sir! You cannot!" says Mr. Pinkham.

"Sir, I just did," says the Captain. "Now get out of my way. I'm going below. Mr. Smythe, I'll decide later whether or not you will wear the skirt, too. On yours, of course, we'll have a bit of gold lace put around the hem as befits your rank." He staggers down the ladder, his steward holding his arm.

In shock I turn and go back to my division. All, of course, have heard. They are all still there, even though we have secured from Quarters. All except for Georgie. I look around and spy him standing stock-still a little bit away.

He is watching some men take up the headless corpse of the killed man to bear him below to strip him and clean him and sew him up in his hammock and so prepare him for burial. Those men would be the dead man's mates. Other men come with mops and buckets and start swabbing at the blood. It has already started to clot and turn brown, but it goes all pinkish when the water hits it.

I go over and put my arm around Georgie's shoulder. He quivers and he looks up at me, and a look of horror comes over his face and he tears out of my grip and plunges below.

I had forgotten that I was splattered with the dead seaman's blood and must present an awful spectacle. I move the muscles of my face about and can feel the dried blood caked there. Do I hear it said, or is it only in my own mind?
Bloody Jack
yet again.
Sorry, Georgie.

Before I follow Georgie down into the berth, I go into the gun room, the officers' quarters.

They stiffen as I enter, the hatred and humiliation plain on their faces.

"I know you do not want me here, gentlemen, and I will not stay long."

I go up to the gunnery officer and stand before him. "The shame here is not yours, Mr. Smythe. I hope you know that, and do not do anything rash to yourself. This will right itself soon."

He looks at me with eyes burning in rage and shame. He says nothing, but he nods.

I turn to Mr. Pinkham and ask right out, "There is nothing that can be done? Like a complaint made to his superior officers?" If this be mutiny, then so be it.

Mr. Pinkham shakes his head sadly, totally defeated and caring not that this is being discussed in the open. It occurs to me that these four would have talked about this among themselves many times before. Now there are five officers in on it.

"No, the Captain is always able to pull himself together when he is under scrutiny from above. I have seen him do it. The Flag would agree that, though he is a harsh commander, he is not insane. They would side with him and nothing would be accomplished."

Hmmm.
I think on this for a moment and then I say, "Thank you, gentlemen, for receiving me so kindly. We all know what happened today was a sham and a mockery. I will continue to stay in my quarters in the midshipmen's berth, and I will take my meals there as well. I think that would be best. Good day, gentlemen."

With that I turn and leave.

I go down into the berth and find Ned and Tom already there.

"You two all right?" I ask. They are subdued, but they nod. "Good. Go find the Weasel and tell him to get us something to eat and drink. Tell him I want a half ration of rum drawn for the two of you. You look like you could use it. Oh, and find out if my uniform is ready yet."

I go in my cabin and strip off my silks and wrap them in a bundle and wash the blood off my face and hands and hair and then put on my nightshirt till such time as my uniform arrives. Then I go in to see Georgie.

He is lying facedown on his bunk. He is crying, and he shudders when I put my hand on his shoulders.

"You saw something horrible today, Georgie, but you will get over it."

"No, I won't! I won't never forget him lying there without his head. I'll never forget that!"

"Come. Turn around." He does, and I put my arms around him and he puts his head on my chest.

"You look just like my sister Theresa when you're dressed like that," he says, his voice shaking.

Ah.

"There, there," I say, as I rock him back and forth. The crush of the day does its work on him and soon he falls asleep. I lay him back on his bunk and pull up the covers.

Why did they send you off, Georgie? Did they think it would be like it was in the books? With bright fancy uniforms and flags snapping and all that? Well, maybe it would have been like that if you'd been sent to a grand flagship where you'd be some admiral's pet and set up as a side boy with nothing else to concern you except etiquette and naval rituals and traditions, instead of being sent here to this Hell Ship. But then, the flagships have to fight sometimes, too, so you never know.

I leave his cabin and sit at the table and think about food. And maybe a drop of wine.

Then the hatch door opens and the Weasel falls in, but not with food. No, he is kicked into the berth by Robin, who is red with rage, and who, obviously, has had some of his rum ration already. The Weasel is howling piteously and covering his head with his arms to ward off further kicks from Robin.

"What's this, then?" I say, mystified. I see that Ned has come in bearing my uniform jacket and my trousers. But not my...

"Ask him," says Robin, delivering another kick.

"I warn't doing nothin'," wails the unfortunate Weasel, "just spreading a little joy is all."

"What?" I say.

"The wretch was exhibiting your drawers and charging one penny to ... handle them," says Robin. "Here's his bag of pennies. And there was a line of men clutching other pennies."

I am aghast.

"Kick him again," I say. Robin does. The Weasel howls. "Again," I say. "Penny a sniff, hey?" I pick up my bundle and throw it at him.

"Here are my silks," I say. "You will wash them and you will dry them and you will carefully iron them. You will
not
put them on and prance around. You will
not
wear the pants over your face or anything like that or I will have you lashed to the grating and given twenty. Remember that I have friends in the crew and they will be keeping an eye on you. I know several who would cheerfully slip a knife twixt your ribs. Do you understand? Good. Now, get out and get us some food and drink or I will get us another steward and put you in with the Waisters and the rest of the trash."

The Weasel slinks out, limping.

Men,
I swear.

Soon he is back, seeming all contrite, bearing steaming plates of food, and we fall to. I give Ned and Tom some watered rum to make them sleep better. I send them off to bed, saying Tom will have the Four-to-Eight. I will take the Mid and Robin will shortly go up and take the Evening Watch. He is very quiet.

"Robin," I say, "it is rough, but it is war. They were trying to kill us." I put my hand on his arm.

He doesn't say anything for a while. Then he takes another sip of wine and sighs and puts his hand on mine. "I know, but still. All those young men. Singing and all..."

"That was a lucky shot, your first time aiming a gun."

He snorts. "Aiming? I didn't aim. I just pulled the cord."

"So you see, it was just Providence. God called those Froggies to Him."

He smiles in spite of his gloom. "I suppose..."

"I suppose you should go up on watch, now. I'll see you when I relieve you for the Mid."

We rise and face each other ...
closely
face each other. He is dressed for his watch and I am still in my nightshirt since I'm going right to bed anyway.

"Jacky. I ... I ..." he stammers.

"I know, Robin, I know," I say and take his hand and squeeze it in both of mine. I go on my tiptoes and give him a light kiss on the cheek. "I know, too, that you did very well out there today. Now go on watch, knowing that I am very, very proud of you."

We have the funeral for the fallen sailor the next morning. I was hoping he would turn out to be one of the worthless Waisters, one of Muck's bunch, but no such luck. He was Simon Baldwin, a good man and a good seaman. All, except for the Captain, who is either too sick or too uncaring to come up, turn out for the words to be said over poor Baldwin, and then the plank is lifted and the canvas-covered body slips off into the sea.

After the ceremony, Baldwin's things are auctioned off at the foremast, the money taken in to be kept for any family he might have. I bought his oilskins.

The sailmakers do make the skirts for the unfortunate starboard gun crews, and they put them on. The rest of their friends look about—daring anyone to make a comment. After some snickers and guffaws from Muck and his crew, when it looks like it might come to blows, Mr. Pinkham lets out the word, very quietly, that those men should take off the skirts but keep them tucked in their belts, should the Captain come back on deck and they have to get them back on right quick. I'm coming to have more and more regard for Mr. Pinkham every day—how he could have put up with the Captain's cruelty for so long, and still kept on, I don't know....

The ship returns to its ordinary routine, day after day, watch after watch. I continue to drill the gun crews, being Assistant Gunnery Officer now,
all
of the gun crews, not just the now overly proud Division One. I have put Robin in charge of the four forward starboard guns and he is bringing them, and himself, along nicely. He drills his crew relentlessly and his men are coming to respect him. He really is growing into a man before my very eyes.

We are discovering that there are experienced gunners amongst the crew. I have put Harkness in charge of the four port quarter guns and Shaughnessy, the starboard four. We all drill over and over, every day, but it is back to dry runs—no powder to be used. I am left to do what I want—Mr. Smythe, the Gunnery Officer, has turned to the bottle.

The entire ship's company now calls themselves the Werewolves.

I continue the boys' schooling—it is good for them, as it gets their minds off the past battle. Ned and Tom have bounced back all right, but Georgie still mopes about. If he just had someone his own age to help him through this time in his life.