Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  The combination of tide and wind gave the craft an unpredictable, rocking motion unlike anything Antonio had ever experienced. The ship pitched hard and Antonio barely managed to keep his feet under him. Burning acid rose in the back of his throat and his stomach knotted again. Then a hand clasped his shoulder so hard that he cried out in surprise.

  “What are you doing here, boy?” First mate Turner’s voice sounded harsh, devoid of the pleasantries of this afternoon.

  Antonio swallowed, but couldn’t speak. The first mate’s powerful grip, a grip strong enough to reef a sail in a storm or lift a hundred-weight keg of powder, tightened its grasp further. He dragged Antonio across the deck, stopping just below the five well-worn steps that led up to the small quarterdeck where the captain stood beside the helmsman. Both stared intently at the dark ribbon of water that lay ahead.

  “Cap’n, look what I’ve found wandering about. It’s that gunner what brought . . .”

  “I know who he is, Turner,” Captain Thomas Stukeley stepped over to the quarterdeck rail to frown down at this latest interruption. “Why are you still aboard my ship?”

  Lifting his eyes, Antonio saw Captain Stukeley’s face, framed by long black hair fluttering in the wind. In the gloom, he looked like one of the gargoyles perched high above St. Paul’s church. The hard edge in the captain’s voice added to Antonio’s confusion. At the foundry, Stukeley had spoken to Antonio’s father politely and far more elegantly than most sea captains who visited the Gunner’s Glen.

  The Pinnace pitched and rolled ever more strongly, and with each movement Antonio’s stomach heaved. He fought against the rising nausea that made him want to gag. Nothing could be worse than throwing up in front of the captain.

  Turner gave Antonio a hard shake. “Answer the Captain when he speaks to you, boy.”

  “I . . . I wanted to sail with you, sir.” Antonio’s voice cracked, and he knew he sounded more like a child than a man. “I want to fight the French and . . .”

  “Are you man enough to fight. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen, sir. I want . . .”

  “You don’t look even 15.” Captain Stukeley raised his voice as the sails flapped louder overhead. “What’s your name again?”

  “Antonio Pesaro, sir. My father is . . .”

  Turner let go of Antonio’s shoulder and boxed his ear, making Antonio’s head jerk. “Just answer the Captain’s questions, boy. And address him as ‘Captain,’ not sir.”

  “Your father charges too much for his guns, Antonio. Maybe he’ll pay something to get you back, and I can reclaim some of my gold. How much do you suppose you’re worth to your family?”

  “Sir . . . Captain . . . my father is not a wealthy man. He has . . .”

  “Your father took plenty of my gold today,” Stukeley said. He placed his hands on the rail and stared down at Antonio. “Perhaps I should have Turner drop you over the side and let you swim for it. If your father ever asks, I’ll tell him I never saw you.”

  Antonio looked up at Stukeley in horror, unable to say anything. The thought of being in the dark water of the Thames, filled with London’s refuse, sent a wave of panic through him.

  Stukeley laughed at the shock his words caused, a rough booming sound that rolled across the main deck, and he softened his voice a little. “Still, I can always use another hand, even a clumsy landlubber’s. Put him to work on the bilge pump, Turner. That’ll teach him to stow away.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Turner’s voice sounded gleeful at the prospect, as he yanked Antonio around and half-dragged him back toward the main deck hatch. “The bilge pump will make a sailor out of you, boy. If you make it through the night.”

  Antonio’s stomach roiled again. He had no idea what the bilge pump did.

  “Turner.” Stukeley’s voice stopped the first mate before he reached the hatch. “Bring him up here.”

  In a moment, Antonio was half dragged up the quarterdeck steps. He would have fallen but for Turner’s grip. When Antonio regained his balance, the captain stood before him, his eyes searching Antonio’s face. “You know how to lay a cannon, don’t you, boy?”

  Antonio nodded. He had to swallow before he could speak. “Yes, sir, I know all about cannons and how to fire them. I can mix the powder and weigh . . .”

  “That’s enough.” Stukeley turned to his first mate. “Mister Turner, take our newest volunteer to the magazine and present him to the gunner with my compliments. Gunner’s shorthanded.” Stukeley started to move away, then stopped. “You can thank me later. I just saved you from a dirty job and worse, more’s likely.”

  Antonio looked at him without understanding.

  “Come on, lad, let’s get you to proper work,” Turner said.

  Clutching the rail, Antonio descended the steps, but halfway down he slipped and tumbled to the deck. He lay there a moment, hearing Turner’s laughter over his head, before the first mate dragged Antonio upright. “Better learn to keep your feet under you, or you’re likely to fall overboard.”

  Antonio’s stomach chose that moment to lose control and he heaved a mouthful of vomit on the deck. With an oath, Turner grabbed him under the shoulders and in two swift steps propelled him to the ship’s rail. While Antonio heaved the rest of his lunch over the side, the first mate kept up a steady laugh.

  “You won’t make much of a sailor, boy, seasick sailing down the Thames in a little breeze. You’ll not live that down, I’ll wager.” He laughed again at his charge, as an oblivious Antonio emptied the rest of his stomach into the black waters rushing beneath him. The first mate’s voice faded out as Antonio collapsed on the deck, unable to move as wave after wave of dizziness swept over him.

  ***

  When he regained control of his senses, Antonio found himself below deck, his face on the filthy planks and with dried vomit on his cheek and lips. A glass-encased candle mounted high on the wall shed enough light to illuminate the entrance to the powder locker, a thick door with a glass square in its center. An empty slop bucket rested beside his chest.

  Antonio pushed himself up to a sitting position, with his back against the bulkhead, and a fresh wave of nausea passed over him. He dragged the bucket close to his face and gagged, but nothing came up and the urge slowly passed.

  Chief Gunner Biggsley came down the ladder, carrying two wooden cups in one hand. “Ah, you’re awake, my lad. Are you good for anything, now that is the question. Mister Turner says you heaved enough for three grown men. Landsmen always eat too much food. Well, you won’t have that problem on board the Pinnace.” Biggsley handed Antonio one of the cups. “Drink this. It’s tea, or at least that’s what the cook claims, not as he’s likely to know the difference betwixt tea and bilge water.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The words came out in a croaking whisper. Antonio reached up and took the cup. He had to use both hands, and even then the cup shook. Thirst overcame his protesting stomach and he took a small sip, then another. The lukewarm liquid soothed its way down his raw throat. When he’d emptied the cup he thought he would need the bucket, but the strong tea, which tasted unlike anything his father’s cook ever made, relaxed his stomach muscles and stayed down.

  “No need to call me ‘sir,’ Antonio.” Biggsley, short and stocky, had powerful arms protruding from a sleeveless shirt. He leaned against the wall, and sipped from his own cup. “Gunner’s what everyone calls me. Cap’n Stukeley told me to make use of you, and, god’s blood, I need all the help I can get. We may be fighting pirates in the morning, and at least you know which end of a gun is which.”

  “Thank you, sir. . . I mean, Gunner. I want to help . . . I’ll do whatever I can to fight the French.” He pulled himself to his feet but kept one hand on the bulkhead.

  “So you’ve heard about them privateers. With Cap’n Stukeley, he may fight ‘em tomorrow morning and sup with them by night.”

  Antonio’s mouth fell open at this slur on Stukeley’s name.

  “You should see your face, boy. I can s
ee you don’t pay attention to London gossip. But you’ve got a lot to learn about our Captain. When no one’s about, he’s been known to put a broadside into a handy English hull as easy as a French or Spanish one.” Biggsley chuckled. “But he saved your hide by sending you to me. As weak as you are, you wouldn’t have lasted the night working the bilge pump. He’s tossed useless stowaways overboard before.”

  Antonio couldn’t believe the Gunner’s words. Captain Thomas Stukeley held the Queen’s commission. He had royal blood in his veins. Surely the son of England’s greatest king would never attack an English ship, or throw one of Her Majesty’s subjects overboard.

  “Time to get to work.” Gunner stepped past Antonio and rapped twice on the door to the magazine. A tattooed seaman, wearing only cotton trousers, slowly opened the door.

  “Aye, Gunner?”

  “Grimes, here’s that foundry apprentice what showed us the new guns today. Put him to work measuring the gun charges. The captain wants ten charges prepared for every gun. And mind what the boy says about the weights for the new guns.”

  The Gunner clapped Antonio on the shoulder, the friendly gesture nearly knocking him back to the deck. “Don’t forget your shoes, Antonio.” He called the warning back over his shoulder as he departed.

  Antonio nodded, then took off his shoes and jacket and shoved them in the corner beside the door. Shoes, especially those with hobnails, might scrape against loose grains of powder and create a spark. He left his shirt on. The smooth, tightly woven material wasn’t likely to pick up any gunpowder.

  “Ever work in a magazine, Antonio?” Grimes, an older man with sagging jowls and a pock-marked face, guided Antonio into the powder storage room, a dark chamber scarcely larger than his bedroom. He remembered that Grimes had listened attentively this afternoon to Antonio’s instructions about the new guns.

  “Yes, sir. My father’s foundry has a powder . . .”

  “Different at sea. Everything shifts from the ship’s motion. Gunpowder’s always working itself loose from the kegs. No shoes, lanterns, or candles allowed inside. Any spark or flame, the whole bloody boat could go up and send us straight to meet our Maker.” Grimes shook his head. “So move easy. Watch your step. Lift everything. No dragging kegs or bags.”

  He worked with Grimes for the rest of the night, both men moving carefully about the cramped and darkened powder room, illuminated only by the dim candlelight filtering in through the dirty glass pane set in the door.

  Grimes set Antonio to loading the serge cloth bags, called cartridges, with gunpowder for the new guns. The pouches’ material, double-crossed weaved, was tight enough to prevent any gunpowder leaking through. Antonio examined the gritty powder first, eying the mix of grains before deciding how much to compensate for the impurities that made each batch vary in explosive power.

  Captain Stukeley hadn’t purchased any gunpowder from the foundry, and what he had onboard appeared decidedly inferior to what Antonio worked with. He used the ladle carefully, measuring the exact amount needed for the ship’s new guns and compensating for the powder’s impurities. Grimes checked the weight of the first two bags, then grunted approval and went back to arranging the powder kegs. The Pinnace had sailed before being completely outfitted and its cargo secured. The gunpowder stores hadn’t been arranged and lashed down properly before the ship cast off.

  When Antonio felt his hands shaking too much, he paused and watched Grimes lift and shift the kegs. The seaman’s work took not only muscle, but care and patience. Kegs couldn’t be dragged or shoved about. They had to be well secured against the bulkhead, so no wave or enemy broadside could knock anything loose. Grimes used ropes and wooden wedges to fasten the heavy casks in place and immobilize them as much as possible.

  Antonio had seen a gunpowder keg explode two years ago. The blast had killed two workers outright and blown the eardrums out of two others. Antonio, knocked down by the explosion, had been just far enough away to save his ears.

  A cartridge pouch could explode, too, likely killing anyone handling it. An over-packed charge could split open the breech of even a new cannon, killing the gun crew and anyone nearby. So Antonio measured and poured carefully, trying not to spill even one grain of powder, and using his hand to sweep the mixing table after he filled each bag. Then he used a wooden needle to sew the serge tightly closed, so the gunpowder couldn’t spill out.

  Grimes watched Antonio finished the first four bags, then placed them gently in a thin wooden box. He lifted the container and stored it in an overhead bin. It wasn’t a question of being helpful. The less either of them moved about inside the magazine the better. Four bags to a box, then Grimes lashed each box to the shelf near the door. From there, the bags could be handed out rapidly to the powder boys when the ship prepared for action.

  The precise work took Antonio’s mind off his stomach. Grimes and he finished their work a few minutes before midnight, and by then Antonio felt as though he might not die. They slipped out of the magazine and Grimes secured the door with a simple wooden latch. Nothing more was needed. Superstitious sailors feared even working near the place. No one but Gunner Biggsley and Grimes ever went inside.

  “You’d best sleep here tonight,” Grimes said, indicating the deck outside the entrance to the magazine. “Swaying in a hammock forward won’t help your stomach.” He went off toward the bow of the ship to catch a few hours’ rest.

  The mention of sleep sent a wave of exhaustion over Antonio. The seasickness had taken more out of him than he realized, and he couldn’t resist the thought of closing his eyes. He used his jacket for a pillow, curling himself up in a ball on the deck. The slow rocking motion of the Pinnace, which had churned his stomach all day, now soothed his way into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Gunner Biggsley woke Antonio by shaking his arm. “Time to be up and about, seaman.”

  Antonio opened his eyes and saw sunlight from the main hatchway streaming into the lower deck. He sat up, and the sudden movement made his stomach lurch. Biggsley pulled him to his feet. Antonio followed the gunner up the steps and onto the main deck.

  “We passed Gravesend an hour before dawn. We’re already in the Estuary. Now you’ll see some real weather.”

  Antonio scarcely heard him. Keeping a grip on the top of the hatch, he took in a world he’d never imagined. The ship thrashed its way through the rollers, lifting and falling like a living creature as it crested the waves. The mainmast rose up overhead, every sail billowing full as the channel wind, unobstructed by any hill or structure, pushed with astonishing force against the canvas, the whole structure creaking under the shifting winds.

  Antonio’s eyes lifted to the top of the mast, rolling and pitching at least sixty feet above his head. A sailor stood atop the main crosspiece, a loop of rope around his waist the only thing securing him to his perch, his body swaying in rhythm with the ship as he stared straight ahead, searching the channel for the pirates.

  White clouds, scattered across the blue sky, appeared close enough to touch, their edges sharp and undiminished by the grimy haze from thousands of coal fires that overhung London and its surroundings. Antonio took a deep breath. He’d never inhaled air so pure, not even in the countryside. The dank smells of the lower deck vanished, blown away by the powerful gusts that might have come from the New World, all the way across the Atlantic.

  “She runs well with the wind,” Biggsley said, standing a few paces away, his body shifting easily with the ship’s movements.

  For the first time, Antonio understood why every sailor talked so loud. The Pinnace spoke in a language all her own. The two big masts creaked in their footings, sails flapped, and the wind hummed as it raced through the rigging. Waves crashed against the hull, shooting spray high in the air, wild drops pelting the foremast and spattering the deck. The crew added to the din, swarming about, feet pattering on the wood planking, every footstep amplified by the hollow deck. The ship was alive, singing a bold song that varied w
ith each moment.

  “She’s beautiful,” Antonio said, unembarrassed by the awe that crept into his voice.

  “That she is,” Biggsley said. “The Pinnace may be one of the smallest galleons, but she can fly over seas like this.” He chuckled at Antonio. “I’ve seen that look on many a face, boys or men who fall in love with the sea. Might be you’ve got the makings of a sailor after all.” He scanned the seas ahead. “We’re just about in the channel.”

  “How many men are in the crew?”

  A frown crossed Biggsley’s face. “She’s built to carry eighty men and a dozen or so boys, but we’re shorthanded now. Only sixty-two aboard when we put to sea, and some are landlubbers. Or sixty-three, now that you’re here.”

  The first of the channel waves buffeted the Pinnace’s bow, changing her motion enough to send a familiar tremor through Antonio’s stomach. But by now he had enough of his sea legs that he merely gritted his teeth and swallowed hard.

  He followed Biggsley to the rear of the main deck on the starboard side, where Nicolo Pesaro’s newest creations rested, ready for action. Antonio gazed out at the rolling swells, fascinated by the endless motion. The last gun butted almost against the stern, and he saw the creamy white wake bubbling and trailing the ship. Behind him the quarterdeck rose up, standing six feet above the main deck that held the Pinnace’s row of eight starboard and eight portside guns.

  “Seaman Durkin is in charge of the four aft guns,” Biggsley said. “Follow his orders, or Captain Stukeley will feed you to the sharks. We could meet up with the Frenchies by midday.”

  Everyone in London knew about the French privateers who put to sea from Boulogne or Calais. Fast and heavily armed, they flew no flag, but swarmed with rogues willing to risk death or an English prison for the chance at a fortune. They’d rush any merchant ship they encountered, board and overpower the crew, and be back in France within twenty-four hours. Within the last week, one English ship had been captured off Margate and another taken near the Isle of Grain. A few more such losses could inflict grievous damage to the English economy.