by Peter Greene
“Thank you, sir,” Spears said, and he reached for his choice.
“It is short!” he said with a grin.
“Then it will be Mr. Spears versus Mr. Moore!” Captain Walker announced. With a smile, he said under his breath, “What are the odds of that?”
There was many a hand not assigned to active duty who appeared on deck once word had gotten around of the match. All watching could see that Spears was slightly larger and also had a longer reach than Jonathan. Some commented that maybe Jonathan was a little out of his class.
“Would ya like to wager on the outcome then?” asked Sean. And four or five of the new crewmen offered up a shilling to bet on Spears as the winner. Steward held the money, laughing the whole time.
“I will pay the winner, but we all know Sean will be a richer man in a few minutes,” laughed Steward.
“The rules are simple, boys,” said the Captain. “Today’s weapons will be foils, so only hits to the front and back torso will be points. Remain on the poop deck. And no striking with hilts! Face to face is the rule of the day, do you understand? First to score three points is the winner.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said, and each received a foil from Mr. Koonts.
“Sir?” asked Lane.
“Yes, Lane?” answered the Captain.
“I didn’t get to choose a straw.”
“What is the point?” asked Walker. “The two shorts have been drawn and you would have gotten a long straw.”
Lane stood at attention, embarrassed, but did not yet realize his mistake.
“Lane, you dolt!” said Lieutenant Blake angrily. “There were only long straws left! And long straws don’t play. Only short straws play. No matter what, you would have gotten a long straw! All the shorts were taken!”
“But, I didn’t get a chance to choose—”
“Quiet!” yelled Blake, “I’ll explain it to you at a later time when you can grasp it!”
Jonathan went to the port side of the poop deck, with Spears going to the starboard.
The Captain asked the boys to salute each other, then held up his hand. “En guard! Prêt! Allez!” he said and backed away quickly.
Spears, not surprisingly to anyone, attacked quickly and ferociously, yet somewhat clumsily, barreling straight ahead, as if to try to bowl Jonathan over like a set pin in an alley. Jonathan easily parried the thrust, stepped aside, and spun around to face his opponent’s back. He did not counterattack.
“Odd,” said Harrison to Captain Walker, “Jonathan could have easily scored a point. Why did ‘e not press?”
Walker watched as the boys lined up head to head, ready for the next action. He also wondered why Jonathan did not score the easy point. Then it occurred to the Captain that possibly, something was going on beneath all this.
Jonathan is a strategist, thought Captain Walker, that is for certain.
Spears attacked again, this time a bit more cautiously. Jonathan parried excellently, but did not riposte, did not counterattack. He did, however, retreat, not allowing Spears to get too close. Jonathan moved backward, farther and farther, until he was against the ship’s rail. He stood still, defending himself easily against Spears’s thrusts and lunges. The crowd cheered wildly.
“Have at him, Mr. Moore!” many of the men said.
“Touché! Score a point!” others chimed in.
Spears was relentless in his attacks, yet he seemed to use too much energy. Jonathan was, conversely, reserved. At one encounter, after a series of attacks and parries, Jonathan ever so slightly lowered his foil as Spears lunged at his shoulder. Just like that, Spears had a point.
“Touché,” called Walker. Some polite applause came from the crowd.
Sean saw what had happened clearly and wondered what Jonathan was doing. It was a beginner’s mistake to lower the blade point like that.
The fight continued, all around the poop deck, the two combatants weaving in and around the officers, the deck guns, and the rigging. At one point, Jonathan went on the attack, but he was slow to it. As he lunged, he disengaged, retreated, and again let his point down and held it there. Spears lunged and score a second touché to Jonathan’s right upper chest.
“Jonathan!” called Sean, “Pay attention and keep up yer guard!”
But Jonathan could not hear above the crew members who were calling out loudly, the new ones cheering for Spears as he looked like a winner, the old Poseidons, as they were called, admonishing Jonathan ever so slightly.
“It is now two to naught!” called Walker. “En guard! Prêt! Allez!” and the boys were at it again.
Jonathan looked calm and relaxed, yet not himself. The bout continued. At one instant, Jonathan had Spears against the rigging, almost tangled in the ropes of the aft mast, and just as he should have lunged to score an easy touché, he withdrew. It was a matter of seconds for Spears to regain his balance, clear himself of the ropes, and attack again. Jonathan simply was too slow, and Spears scored a lucky strike to Jonathan’s chest, ending the match.
The crowd was both ecstatic and disappointed, though none more upset than Sean. Not only had his best friend lost, and embarrassingly so, Sean had also lost three shillings to those who had bet for Spears.
“Midshipman Spears,” said the Captain. “Well done. You are the victor, it seems.”
“T’was easy, sir,” said Spears.
Jonathan approached him cautiously and reached to shake Spears hand.
“Nicely done, Spears,” he said.
Spears just shook his opponent’s hand lazily. “Any time you’d like a thrashing, please allow me!” he laughed.
6
A Loose Gun
The rest of the day proceeded slowly as the crew returned to work, the officers to plotting course, and the midshipmen to navigation and checking the time. Jonathan and Sean had discussed the fencing match and all Jonathan could say was, “I was just not myself,” and bow his head. Sean knew there was more to it than that.
By late afternoon, the Captain called for gun practice. Lieutenant Blake supervised the manufacture of a barrel raft as a target, using the few empty kegs on the ship. They were lashed together, planks of wood nailed to the sides, and a pole with a flapping red rag was secured to complete the target. Now finished with the construction, Blake called for the raft to be set adrift. Men lowered it over the side using the yardarm, then cut the attached rope as the raft touched the water.
As Walker watched the proceedings, he heard a small sound, a rattle of sorts that seemed to be coming from behind him. After listening for a few more moments, the rattling stopped altogether. He could not place it.
“Holtz,” he called, and in a moment, the Lieutenant appeared before him.
“Come up here,” commanded Walker.
Holtz ran to the side of the poop and climbed the few steps to reach the small upper deck. He stood at attention next to the Captain, in silence. Finally, Walker spoke.
“Do you hear it?”
“Hear what, sir?” asked Holtz after listening for a second or two.
“Blast!” yelled Walker. “It was there just a moment ago. A rattling sound, as if a board were loose.”
They remained in silence, listening, but the crew’s activities were noisy. Though Walker believed he heard the rattle once again, Holtz could not be sure.
“Never mind!” exclaimed Walker, exasperated. “Begin the exercise!”
“To your battle stations!” yelled Holtz, and the crews went quickly into motion, each man knowing his place.
Sean ran down the ladder to the first gun deck and then proceeded forward, past all the gold and black weapons that lined each side of the Danielle. He was now assigned as the eyes for the Barker, the same ferocious beast of a gun that was Jonathan’s first assignment. He finally reached his position and climbed to the beams above the gun. It was the third gun on the starboard side, across from Garvey who took a similar position on gun sixteen, called the Wurm. He was delighted to see Sean so close.
“Ah, Flagon! Let us have a contest! Let’s see which of us can land a ball on that blasted flag, eh?”
“I have had enough games for today and am almost penniless besides!” Sean said. “I lost on the fencing and will not recover until payday!”
The crew laughed, remembering that Jonathan had lost the fight and Sean had lost his money. No one saw that Jonathan had arrived on deck just moments before and had heard the comments. As he was noticed, the men stopped their conversations and became both embarrassed and ashamed that they had laughed at their good friend’s misfortune. All hoped he would not be angry with them.
“Gun ports open!” Jonathan called. “Let us see if you can fire these guns better than I can fence!”
This caused the men to start in amazement and after a moment, all laughed heartily. They moved into their positions as they kicked open the small doors on the business end of the guns.
“Wait for my signal,” Jonathan instructed, “and then fire as she bears. Starboard side, you will have the first chance, so let us teach Mr. Spears and the lower deck some true accuracy!”
The men cheered and busied themselves as their powder monkeys, the boys bringing the sock-like cartridges packed with gunpowder from the powder room, arrived at their assigned guns. The cartridges went into the barrels of the guns, the ramming poles shoved them down deep inside each, then balls were loaded and likewise rammed home. One by one, the crews were ready. All paused, deadly quiet, torches above the touch holes. The men felt the sudden change in the ship’s direction, tossing them to one side as the great vessel came about, heading in the direction of the target raft.
Jonathan ran down the starboard side, checking the readiness of each gun and its crew. Then, seeing all was well, he ran back to the bow, slapping each aimer as he passed.
“On my mark!” he yelled as he peered out the forward gun port. Ahead, the raft and the little red flag appeared in the distance, the Danielle pausing for an instant as the wind was now at her side. As the tack was executed, she leapt forward and raced towards the target.
Mr. Harrison stuck his head down the center hatchway and called to Jonathan, “Upper starboard guns! Fire as she bears, but not too early, as we are still out of range!”
“Yes, sir!” Jonathan called as he kept his eyes on the raft. Within a few moments, he called to the gunners: “Ready . . . ready . . . as she bears . . . FIRE!”
The sound was deafening. Explosion after explosion rocked the ship as the guns on the starboard side erupted, one after another, belching flame and smoke and most importantly, balls flying through the air, splitting the distance between the ship and raft with an audible whoosh!
Jonathan watched as the first ball missed, it being fired a bit too early. However, the second and third crashed into the raft and the remaining balls landed more or less within thirty or forty feet from the raft’s debris.
“Hits!” Jonathan yelled, “Numerous hits! Well done, men!” he called, and the crews cheered loudly as they reset their guns in the blocks.
On deck, Walker watched in amazement through his telescope as the little raft was turned into splinters. He lowered his glass and turned to Holtz.
“That was impressive,” Holtz said. “But can the other crews do as well?”
“We will see,” said Captain Walker, smiling. “Have Lieutenant Blake build another raft and we will go again.”
A new raft was put into place and the Danielle and her remaining crews had their chance to fire away. Though none quite equaled the accuracy of the first deck’s starboard side, the crews were close enough to please Captain Walker for now.
At dinner that evening, Sean, Garvey, and two new crew members, Nicolas and Colin Stredney, sat enjoying their stew on the main deck. The Stredneys were brothers, both tall and lean, a few years apart in age. All four boys got along fabulously, bunking near enough to each other in the orlop to become close friends. They discussed the mission to the Caribbean and the possibility of finding pirates. This excited the brothers Stredney, causing them to ask questions, nonstop, for at least one hour.
“Will there be gun battles?” asked Nicolas.
“And pirates? Evil ones? Missing legs and such?” asked Colin.
“You will get your fill of pirates and gun practice, boys!” said Garvey.
“And if you are lucky,” said Sean, jumping up on the table and pretending to swipe a sword at imaginary pirates, “you will face a few of them in a duel to the death!”
This caused all the boys and surrounding crew to howl with laughter and cheer Sean on to victory as he lunged and parried.
“Flagon!” a voice boomed. “What in the world do you think you are doing?”
Sean immediately got down from the table and turned to see that the voice came from none other than Midshipman Spears. He quickly tipped his cap in a salute and bowed his head in respect, as did the others. The entire deck became silent.
“I asked you a question, Flagon!” barked Spears.
“Aye, sir,” said Sean meekly. “Just entertainin’ the crew is all. A little fun.”
“On my table? Are you mad?”
“No, sir, er, I mean, y-yes, sir!” stammered Sean.
“Come here, Flagon! Follow me to the bow sprit! On the double!”
Sean looked about quickly to see if he could find an officer, or maybe even Jonathan—anyone who could come to his rescue. He was afraid of Spears. Since their last tussle, he knew that going away from the eyes of others might be dangerous. Sean knew that in a fair fight, he could handle Spears easily; however, this was a ship of His Majesty’s Navy, and striking an officer could bring severe punishment, even death.
“Now, I said!” yelled Spears, and Sean quickly moved towards the bow.
As they reached the sprit, Spears motioned to a ladder leading belowdecks. Once at the bottom, Sean realized that they were alone, on an area far removed from the rest of the crew, especially at dinnertime.
As soon as Sean turned to face Spears, he was met with a hard punch to the face. He fell to the ground.
“I have had it with your insolence, Flagon!” hissed Spears.
Sean spun around on the floor and stared angrily at the midshipman. Officer or not, Sean decided to take him down right now and take his chances with the Captain.
“Stand up when in the presence of an officer!” said Spears.
And just as Sean stood, clenching his fists, ready to give Spears a bit of “street justice,” as it was called, the hatch to the ladder opened.
“Hoy! What is going on here?”
It was Steward.
“None of your business, Bosun,” said Spears in a way that reflected his annoyance.
“Looks like Flagon ‘ere ‘as a red mark on ‘is eye. Nasty I’d say,” Steward hissed, turning to face Spears. “And it is my business, Mr. Spears, as I, too, am an officer o’ this ship. A lowly warrant I carry, ‘tis true. ‘owever, I don’t care much fer yer rank. My job is to watch all on this ship, and I tell the Captain all I see. And I think I see somethin’ I don’t like. And when I don’t like something . . . I fix it. Do you catch my meaning Mid-ship-man Spears?”
Spears turned red and stared into Steward’s eyes. Neither blinked. As uneducated and at times as ridiculous as Steward could be, none aboard doubted his strength or his ability to put a knock on an enemy. He was a veteran of numerous battles, many resolved in a hand-to-hand manner. He was not one to be trifled with. Spears finally turned away quickly and rushed up the ladder.
“Let’s get ya up and to see the doctor,” Steward said.
“I was gonna knock that lout on the head, I tell ya!” said Sean angrily.
“Now, now, Sean! We all know ya could, but we also know that ya shouldn’t.”
Later that evening, the dark clouds that Jonathan had seen in the morning were upon the Danielle as she sailed westward. Men felt the first drops of rain and saw the sea begin to rise and fall as the waves became bigger and more powerful. The wind crept up, and soon, some men were se
nt below to stay out of harm’s way.
“Moore! Spears!” yelled Harrison above the wind, “Make sure the guns on the main deck are secured. Moore, take port, Spears, take the starboard side. Lane, join Lieutenant Blake and check the first and lower decks!”
Jonathan and Lane ran off right away, but Spears paused, looked at the rain now falling fast, and approached Harrison.
“I am not needed, Thomas. Those two can handle the guns,” he said matter-of-factly.
The wind was now rising and beginning to howl, partly drowning out Spears words, but Harrison understood them well enough.
“Spears, did you just call me by my first name?”
“Well, I-I meant—” stuttered Spears, knowing he was out of line.
“You are not questioning my order, are you?” Harrison asked loudly and forcefully.
“No, sir,” Spears said, “I just see the rain is getting up and with only a dozen guns on the top deck, well, why get wet? Moore can handle it.”
The few hands that remained on deck, Steward and Claise among them, stopped securing barrels and lines and looked up to see how the mild-mannered Lieutenant Harrison would respond.
Harrison stared at Spears for a moment, then took in a deep breath, like a small dragon, and let forth a stream of colorful expletives that rivaled Captain Walker’s best explosions.
“Spears, you ignorant gull-whacker! Get your blooming backside out there and secure those guns or I will have you hung off the yardarm for a week and then keel-hauled! How dare you question my orders? Of all the pretentious, snot-nosed antics I have ever heard, this takes the cake! You moronic buffoon—”
Spears was visibly taken aback and immediately turned and ran off to do his duty as Harrison continued spewing out insults and worse.
“Well,” called Claise over the wind, “Seems like a bit o’ the Captain has rubbed off on Mr. Harrison.”
“Aye,” replied Steward. “If I didn’t know better, and if the timbre was a wee bit lower, I’d ‘ave thought it was the grand dragon himself!”
