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.
* * *
Late afternoon. He was in the bow, helping Andrew oil the wheels on the 18-pounder kept there, when a cry came down from high above. One of the men on the foremast had sighted four ships landward; moments later came another cry, from the mizzenmast—another ship off the starboard. Davy came partway upright to stare toward what he’d been told was the New Jersey shore. Andrew touched his shoulder and pointed farther south.
“No colors. They could be the President, you know, Commodore Rogers’ ship and the rest of his squadron. Scuttlebutt has it we’re looking to find him.” He turned to look back along the deck and up at the rigging. “Sure enough, see? They’re slacking, standing off to wait for the seaward vessel to come in.”
“Oh.” Davy considered this. He swallowed. “What if it’s theirs instead?”
“What, all five of them?” Andrew laughed, clapped him on the back and bent again to his assigned task. “Consider what a prize it would make!”
Prize. Davy swallowed again. Perhaps, once he had a moment, he’d go in search of that little brass bottle John had concocted for him. After all ...
The sun went down, and the Constitution moved very slowly forward; the unkno
wn ship was well in from the horizon, not yet near enough to make out markings. Davy, on evening watch with his mess, watched anxiously as the sky slowly grew dark and a few stars came out. At one point the Captain and Lieutenant Morris went by, deep in discussion; the fact that they sounded worried didn’t do anything to ease the pain in his stomach.
Full dark. Half-a-dozen men bearing lanterns scrambled into the foremast rigging, spreading out in the pattern that would mark Constitution to another American frigate captain. No response. The sea all around them remained dark. The boatswain pounded down the deck, returned moments later with half-clad sailors. For all her size, Davy discovered the ship was highly maneuverable; she came about in short order indeed and began sailing south, moving slowly in light wind. Behind her, no sign of light, no sound of movement. They might have been totally alone.
Davy crossed to the rail as his watch ended and spent several long, fruitless moments peering into the night. For the moment, the usual sensation of an underwater presence was gone; buried under crushing dread, no doubt, unless it was the influence of the little charm bottle he now wore. His palms were damp, and he jumped when a hand touched his ann.
“Gently, my friend.” It was Andrew. “I’ve no doubt it’s the President, you know. There’s any number of reasons they might not have responded to the signal.” They both considered this in silence. “Though,” Andrew went on thoughtfully, “it’s known the British use witchcraft of some sort to locate American ships.” Davy saw the motion of his mess-mate’s head as the other turned to look at him, and wondered briefly if he’d been somehow found out. He laughed.
“Witchcraft! Not really!”
“Well—something like it, they say. Witches can’t work on water, of course.”
“What, did the Devil give them special abilities, then?” Davy asked dryly. “Since it’s for God and King, of course.” Andrew chuckled.
“Well—actually, a friend of mine was taken by them, conscripted because they said he looked and sounded Brit, even though he had proof he was born in New York City. Imagine! He says there was a man aboard the Little Belt, kept largely to himself in a special chamber full of bottles and evil-smelling smokes. He wasn’t allowed inside, of course; no one was save this man and his servant. But he saw once, when the door was ajar, bottles and boxes and an enormous book propped against the bulkhead.”
“A book,” Davy echoed blankly. He shook himself quickly.
“I’ve heard of such things,” he went on, hoping he sounded only mildly interested—and not at all knowledgeable. “Men who create magic with written spells and so on. Alchemists, aren’t they?”
“Truly? But why would anyone want to turn lead into gold aboard a ship?” Andrew asked.
“I’ve heard they do other things, besides that.”
“Oh.” Andrew considered this, finally shrugged. “There’s another thing, though—one that’s common knowledge among us, although a landsman might laugh at it.” He eyed his companion sidelong once again. “This ship. She’s lost some of her protection, coming into Chesapeake Bay.” He settled his elbows on the rail and stared at the froth of water trailing alongside the ship. “She—you see, after she was commissioned, the men who built her rubbed the copper sheathing and the planking with oil. Probably coming new to the sea you’ll think it a fool’s gesture, or you’ll think it smacks of witchery. All the same, when Commander Decatur took her into the Tripolitan War he knew, and so did all her men, that it would be well-nigh impossible to take her or sink her. Now—well, Captain Hull meant well. And the hull was thick with growth, barnacles, oysters—he said it was hung about like a grape arbor. So he took her into fresh water to kill off what growth he could, then had her scraped. She’s fast now; before that she sailed like a tub. But when they scraped her—”
“They took away the oil?” Davy asked quietly as Andrew hesitated.
“Just so. You’ll laugh—”
“Not necessarily. There are odd things in the world, after all. If she was scraped though, why couldn’t she have been re-oiled ?”
Andrew laughed briefly. “Two reasons: The oiling wouldn’t have worked well underwater, and the Captain had no interest in trying to haul her out of water. More importantly, he has a mind above such—well, the kindest thing he’s called it is a fool’s notion.”
“I see.”
“I thought you should know, since you’ve signed aboard for two years. And in case the older men say odd things. Some of them think they can sense something unfriendly below the hull, now it’s unprotected. Some think the British will be able to find and take us now.”
“And you? What do you think?”
Andrew shook his head. “I think she’s a good ship, with a good captain and a good crew; they’ll have to fight hard to win out against the Constitution. I cannot feel anything odd about her, or the sea. The Captain claims it to be poppycock and won’t hear any of it.” He sighed. “I don’t think I can feel anything odd. Although, sometimes, in a watch—but a man can imagine anything in the late hours of a watch, can’t he? I forget, you haven’t taken one yet. Well, you’ll see.” He smiled in Davy’s direction, the flash of teeth visible in the very faint lights on deck. “The rest of our mess is below; we’d better go, too. Tomorrow looks to be a very long day.”
Davy thought much later that he couldn’t have understated matters more if he had tried.
Tired as he was, sleep evaded him for some time, and when the change of watch came around, he was still awake—still considering Andrew’s words. Alchemists—there were other alchemists in the world. Oil on the hull of the ship/no oil. Things beneath the water. Alchemists? British alchemists? A number of his relations had returned to England after the war ended; was it possible another Crafter was out there?
* * *
Dawn. The change of watch was still nearly an hour away when the boatswain’s mate came bellowing and clattering through the welter of hammocks on the berthing deck, waking everyone, tumbling men to the planks. He had to raise his voice above the angry rumble but he managed it, and silenced them all with his first words: “Five British ships; we’re surrounded! Up and out!” He didn’t need to say anything else; the men raced onto the deck.
The Constitution looked small indeed with the British full ship of the line before her. Retreat to shore or to the north was cut off by four smaller ships. Davy came to an abrupt halt near the mizzenmast, and in the utter stillness on deck, he could hear Lieutenant Bush naming them. “Africa; carries sixty-four guns. That’s Shannon to her rear, Guerrière off our port, both thirty-eight-gun frigates. Aeolus and Belvedira, thirty-two guns apiece.” He sounded frighteningly calm, Davy thought. By the faces of several of the younger men around him, he wasn’t the only one who thought as much. But Captain Hull was as outwardly unemotional.
“A good catch, if we could take them. Perhaps, however, an extra application of sail, and a strategic turn to the south?” Men were already swarming aloft. But as the ship began to move, the wind gave one final puff and fell away entirely. Sails went limp against the masts, and high above, someone began cursing.
“Enough!” someone else shouted, and silence fell. It was quiet enough, all of a sudden; they could hear the English angrily fighting their own sails.
Captain Hull came down the deck, officers right at his heels.
“Launch boats. Pick the best we have to row them. Get rope, run it out from the bowsprit to each boat.” And as someone began to protest, “Don’t look at me so, man! What choice have we? She moves better than any British tub; we’ll tow her out of this trap. Head south.” He stopped between mizzen and main masts, and looked around at his waiting, silent men. “The rest of you, pay heed. We’ll win free of this, if there’s any way good men and a good ship can.” He passed on; one of the officers gestured to those nearest him. “You, you and you, get all the buckets you can; you and you, begin forming the lines to pass the buckets across the
deck and into the rigging. The sheets have to stay wet; they’ll hold whatever air comes, wet. You, you and you—” He pointed out three of the older sailors. “Below with you, at once. Get whatever help you need to bring up rope, all the spare length we have. Go!” Men scattered, and Davy found himself in the midst of a brigade passing buckets of sea water toward the mizzen.
Later he found it hard to focus on anyone thing. It seemed to take forever, but somehow, slowly, the Constitution eased her way between the British ships, out of the trap, towed by her own rowboats; as she came into open water, gunners ran to open four of the gunports. Thus far, fortunately, the British were holding fire—perhaps to avoid hitting their own ships. Surely that wouldn’t last.
The sun rose; they inched southward, the shoreline scarcely seeming to move at all. Wet sails hung limp and dripping in the morning heat. And now, Davy could look back and see the nearest of the British ships moving, towed by her own boats, oars dipping in and out of a brilliant blue sea. The heat increased; sweat dripped from Davy’s hair into his eyes, from the end of his nose and his chin; the brass bottle was stuck unpleasantly against his breastbone. He could almost make out individual men on the nearest pursuing ship; could see cannon through the open ports.
When the hair lifted from his forehead, he didn’t immediately take it in; others, more experienced, cheered briefly as the breeze bellied the Constitution’s wet sails and she moved out of range. He had wit enough to stay where he was, near mid-deck, out of the way as men with more experience ran to catch up the men and boats as she passed them; he helped coil and stack wet ropes, and prayed they would not be needed again.
The Crafters Book Two Page 21
