by Scott Cook
“Single fire. From forward aft,” She explained. “Load, fire and reload. When we’ve worked to number eleven, we’ll fire a full broadside and load again.”
The men let out a cheer. Many of them had fastened handkerchiefs around their heads against the sun and had stripped to the waist. The first crew spat on their hands and rubbed them together.
“Number one! Cast loose your gun!” Kate called out.
The men threw off the tie-downs and freed the gun carriage so it could be rolled freely. The breech line, a heavy rope secured to ring bolts in the bulwarks was left, of course. This line, turned around the gun’s caskabell, would act as a stopper when the gun recoiled.
“Out tampions!” The muzzle cap was jerked out. “Level your gun!”
The muzzle was levelled to the deck.
“In cartridge… in wad!” Danvers, the captain of number one, slid the flannel pouch of gunpowder into the muzzle and followed it with a securing wad. “Rammer!”
The rammer slid his flexible staff into the muzzle, pushing the wad and cartridge up against the breech.
Danvers slid his pricker into the touchhole to pierce the cartridge and turned to Kate: “Home!”
“In shot… in wad… ram home!”
A six pound ball was rolled into the muzzle followed by one more wad which was rammed home to ensure that the ball wouldn’t roll out again should the gun be depressed.
“Run out your gun!” Kate balled.
Danvers’ two men heaved on the gun tackles, running the eleven hundred weight gun and carriage up to bang against the port sill.
“Prime your gun!” Kate said, glancing at her watch.
Danvers poured powder from his powder horn into the touchhole and shouted: “Gun ready!”
“Point your gun!” Kate said. “Fire when ready!”
Danvers two hands heaved on the train tackles, traversing the gun a little aft to point at the first target. Danvers sighted along the gun’s barrel, adjusted the quoin and stepped aside, bringing his linstock down with its glowing slow match on the primed touchhole.
The gun roared out, leaping back and jerking to a stop with a twang as the breech line checked its way. A cloud of smoke hung over the crew, very slowly dissipating in the still air.
Kate carefully tracked the fall of the shot. It splashed into the water twenty yards beyond the target but perfectly in line.
“Stop your vent!” Kate called. “Reload!”
The rammer thrust his flexible instrument down again, this time reversed with a sopping wet sponge at the end. This would extinguish any remnants of burning wad or cartridge and clean any debris from the piece before another cartridge was rammed home. Once done, the loading process was repeated until Danvers shouted ready.
“Three minutes, forty-two seconds,” She called out and looked at Pitney, who had marked it on his slate next to number one.
There was a nearly inaudible groan from Palander behind her. Kate couldn’t help but agree. Nearly four minutes to load, fire and reload a six pounder was dreadfully slow.
She sighed, “Come on, lads! A well-served eighteen-pounder frigate can fire three broadsides in five minutes! You’re dealing with piddley little pop guns here! Number one, your aim was good, but we need to speed things up. Let’s look alive now, number three. Stand ready…”
Down the line it went, gun after gun. Danvers was the best of the first volley, both in speed and accuracy. Kate resigned herself to the fact that they had to start someplace. Also, she had to admit that this was a slight improvement over the previous day’s drill.
“Target number one, now! Full broadside!” Kate ordered when number eleven was ready to fire. “Take careful aim… fire!”
The broadside rippled almost in unison, the six balls throwing up splashes all around the target. Very close, but none actually hit.
“Not entirely disreputable, lads…!” Kate said. “If that were a hull, I dare say you’d have given them something to think about. Let’s try it again, single fire from forward aft as before! Smartly now! Load and fire when ready!”
This time Danvers and his crew worked faster. They’d now loaded and fired several times and were used to the activity. They ran the gun up, trained it round and Danvers made a minor adjustment to his quoin, glared along the dispart sight, stepped back and brought his linstock down. The gun barked out, and Kate watched in satisfaction as the beef barrel was reduced to flying staves and boiling froth. As before, number one was swabbed out and reloaded. Upon calling out ready, Kate checked her watch once more.
“Two minutes fifty six!” She called out. “Very creditable, number one! Much improved. Give ya’ joy of your hit as well!”
Danvers and his men sent up a cheer even as the number three crew threw themselves into the task. There was a sense of competition now, and there was hardly ever a sailor born who didn’t love firing live. That included their captain, who dearly loved naval gunnery.
Although all the crews improved their speed by over half a minute, none came within thirty seconds of Danvers’ crew. Guns three and five missed entirely, going wide and long. Number seven sent their ball directly into the midst of the floating debris as did number eleven. Number nine, however, contrived to speed things up by missing a step. Although their shot was well aimed, falling only ten yards short, it was also accompanied by their flexible rammer, which had been left in the muzzle in their haste.
“Stand easy at your guns,” Kate ordered. “Wet your whistles, lads.”
The men took turns getting a drink from the scuttlebutts and returned to their pieces, their bare torsos shining with sweat and satisfied grins on their faces. All accept number nine, of course. That crew managed to convey sheepishness along with their good humor.
“Fair,” Kate told them. “Every crew did improve through the evolution. I’m pleased with that. Certainly number one bears the bell away for both speed and accuracy. If there were a booby prize…”
She glanced at the three men standing by number nine. They hung their heads a little. She let them feel shame for a moment before letting them off the hook.
“It’d go to number nine, who managed to double shot their piece,” Kate said with a smile, “but those rammers aren’t simply handed out, lads! I’ll give you a pass on this round, but the next time I recommend you go in after the Goddamned thing or it’ll be stopped out of your pay, you hear me there!?”
That got a hearty laugh from the assembled crew and even Palander chuckled. A small victory in itself from a man who was a bit of a sour bastard.
“There’s still one more target, lads,” Kate called out. “Let’s fire another two rounds from forward and then give it a full broadside if there’s anything left to hit, eh!”
The next few rounds were slightly better, with number nine actually tying number one for speed if not accuracy. Kate felt that it was a good morning’s work all round.
“Creditable, lads,” She told them. “House your guns.”
“Well, Mr. Palander,” Kate said, turning to him. “I wouldn’t exactly call it showing away… but perhaps a few more exercises like this one and our gunnery will be at least as dangerous to our enemies as ourselves, eh?”
Palander scowled, “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain… but I’d prefer we didn’t have to put it to the test, upon my word. This old tub ain’t no man o’war. Just a slab-sided merchantman best suited to haulin’ cargo about rather than going’ yardarm to yardarm with a Frenchman… if I may make so bold.”
Hard assed old sod, Kate said inwardly. Outwardly she remarked: “Why, as to that… I take your point, master… for the time being at any rate. Yet even a merchantman should be able to defend herself. We’ve got hard proof of that standing off our starboard beam. But however… no need to put the cart before the horse. Let’s get the deck squared away and then we can dismiss the watch below and send the hands to their dinner. I’ll be below. Pitney, light along your slate and let’s get these figures on paper.”
Even as
she turned to the companionway, a flustered Perceval Bentley lurched up on deck. He spotted Kate and rushed over to her at once, “Miss Cook! I demand to know how long this din will continue! My word, this is the second day in a row! Mrs. Bentley is in quite a taking over all of this—“
Kate stood rigid on her quarterdeck, her hands clasped behind her back and leaned in toward the man slightly. She had nearly a head of height on him and with her steely-eyed glare, his rant was brought up short at the sight, “You demand, sir? You demand! Do you presume to come onto my goddamned quarterdeck and dictate to me, sir!? And I am to be addressed as Captain… not Miss or young lady! Like it or not, Mr. Bentley, this is my ship and I command her.”
“Well… well I never…” Bentley spluttered indignantly, taken aback by the ferocity in her tone and in her blazing sea blue eyes. “I… a man of my station… a certain respect due…”
“You get what you give, sir,” Kate said coolly. “Regardless, you will maintain a proper respect on my deck, sir, or you will not be invited upon it. Have I made the matter plain to you?”
“That’s right… sour faced old bugger,” Sankey said softly… and coughed by way of cover.
Bentley spluttered a bit more but finally relented and nodded.
“Very well,” Kate said, straightening and assuming a more amiable air. “Then I’m pleased to tell you that gun drill is completed for the day. You and your people are welcome to take the air on deck… for what it’s worth.”
“I see,” Bentley said stiffly, drawing in his breath and his person. “When can we expect to arrive in Charleston, might I ask…? Captain?”
“Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, wind and weather permitting,” Kate said, waving an arm around her significantly. “At the moment, we’re at something of a stand, as you can see. However, Mr. Palander and I expect a hat full of wind to come up sometime in the afternoon watch. Now if there’s nothing else… I’ll bid you a good day, sir.”
She walked past him and down the ladder, followed by Pitney, who flashed a secretive grin at Sankey as he went below.
“Uppity popinjay,” Kate grumbled in the cabin. “I’ll be happy to be shot of em’… we’re attacked, taken and retaken and what does he do? Does he offer any assistance? Not unless registering his displeasure is assistance… Sits there on his pimpled fat ass griping and moaning … God’s my life, Pitney, something wet if you please. A spot of brandy would go down main well by God.”
Pitney poured her a glass and handed it over as she threw herself into Woodbine’s… no, it was hers now and she would do well to remember it… padded elbow chair. She took a bracing sip and grinned.
“Thank you, Pitney,” She said. “Speaking of dinner, what’ve I got?”
Pitney grinned and in a fair impression of the cook’s gruff Seven Dials accent intoned, “Which he can do you up a nice pork burgoo or roast up a prime bit o’ wenison, mum.”
Kate chuckled, “the wenison I think. Let’s get these figures down and then you can jump forward and see all is laid along after you have your dinner.”
“Well Mr. Wiggins,” Kate said, sitting back in her chair and stretching. “I think that’ll do for today. All seems in train… boatswain’s stores, purser’s stores… cargo, passengers… upon my word… I’m going to have a devil of a time writing all this up for the British representative to say nothing of any serving officer or a prize court when we put in.”
“I trust you’re doin’ a fine job of it thus far, Miss,” Wiggins said appreciatively.
Of course, in his shrill and nasal tone it still came across a bit shrewish. It was the closest the old man could come to outright praise. His sharp nose and chin, brought into close proximity by his lack of teeth added to this impression. His unfortunate tendency to munch his toothless gums compounded the issue even further.
Yet Kate could see through him. She didn’t even mind his use of the suffix “Miss” rather than Captain. A man of his age and experience might not be able to accept the nearly ludicrous notion of a late eighteenth century seventeen-year old girl commanding anything outside of a household. That and he was simply too valuable as purser as well as master of the hold and clerk.
“Much obliged for your good opinion, Wiggins,” Kate said, arranging the pile of papers and books on her desk. “I know from personal experience that the greatest part of a captain’s duties revolve not around the plying of the great guns but around the proper application of pen and ink.”
“Oh, aye!” Wiggins enthused. “Captain Woodbine was a fine hand at it. Which he rarely had to have somethin’ rewrote. A fine round hand, he had. A fine gentleman into the bargain.”
Kate sighed, “Aye… that he was. It must discommode you to see me behind this desk.”
“Well…” Wiggins temporized. “Tis a bit unusual, like… but you seem to be amakin’ a fair go at it.”
“Thank you, Wiggins,” Kate said again and pointed at her desk. “Muster book, log book, complete book, sick book, order book all set to rights and man o’war fashion. Just as Mr. Woodbine would’ve had it… just so, just so.”
The muffled sound of seven bells rang forward. Kate would have to go on watch in half an hour. Just as she was reaching for her coat to head up on deck, the cabin door flew open and a wild-eyed Willis nearly spilled in.
“Mum! Mum!” the child half gasped and half shrieked with excitement. “Mr. Palander’s duty and there’s a sail to looward! And… and possibly gunfire, too!”
“Very well, I’ll come,” Kate said, slipping into her coat with an unhurried air. “Please endeavor to contain yourself, Willis. No need to fly into a passion over every occurrence. Remember your dignity. Now cut along.”
The boy vanished and Wiggins followed, cocking a silvery eyebrow at her and munching expectantly.
Kate strolled out of the cabin and up the ladder without effecting any sense of apprehension or excitement. It was undignified for a captain to reveal to her crew that her heart was pounding in her chest. She found Palander in his customary place near the wheel standing behind Wade, quartermaster of the watch who held the spokes in his spotted and hairy hands.
“What do you make of her, Master?” Kate asked.
“Can’t rightly tell as yet, Cap’n,” Palander explained. “Tops’ls up two points off to starboard. Almost dead in our lee. And I swear we heard gunfire as well.”
Kate cast her eye aloft. The wind had freshened, although it was only a modest ten knot breeze as yet. With the wind over her larboard quarter, the brig had all three jibs flying as well as fore topmast stays’l set. Her foremast had everything from course to royals drawing and a tops’l on the main.
Kate glanced at the log board. The last cast, which had been taken at the last bell only moments before showed four knots and three fathoms. She frowned and looked up at the sails again.
“I think she’ll take stuns’ls on the main tops’l lee side and the foremast lee side aloft and alow as well. And let’s double reef the fore course and let a little more wind into the heads’ls, Mr. Palander… and perhaps we might try main t’gallants to boot. I’m tempted to try a sprits’l as well, but let’s see how things lay once more canvas is spread.”
Palander frowned, glanced overhead, glanced at Kate and then made a speaking trumpet of his hands, “Boatswain, pipe all hands to make sail!”
Whitby Castle’s boatswain had been killed in the first action with the privateer. Upon reflection, and due in no small part to Danvers’ recommendation, Kate had decided to rate one of the former black slaves, Mathews, the new boatswain. Although Palander had bristled at the idea of a black man as a department head, Kate had pressed for it. Mathews had a great deal of experience having served under Lord Keith, back when he was still the humble Captain Elphinstone, and his size and strength as well as a good nature would lend itself well to the job.
Mathew’s pipes trilled as the watch below, a pitifully small number of men, poured up through the fore hatch. The men raced aloft, up the weather shrouds of bot
h masts with Mathews supervising and holding his starter limp at his side until needed.
Palander roared out what sails he wanted trimmed and set and the men went to work briskly. They may not be crack gunners thus far but they certainly knew their business when it came to sail handling.
With her new sail plan in place, the brig heeled over a full strake or even more, gathering herself and stretching out in the light air. Off the starboard quarter, less than half a cable’s length, Kate was pleased to see the schooner pick up her pace to maintain her station.
In current conditions, with both jibs flying, her main and mizzen courses and both tops’ls set, the American built ship could most probably sail five miles to the brig’s three. Perhaps even twice as fast. Yet Kate wanted them together. Both ships were lightly armed, and yet together, their twenty-six guns could be used in concert to deliver a shrewd blow. Although both had six pounders between them, ten on the schooner and a dozen on the brig, Whitby Castle had an additional four eighteen pound carronades. Of course, she didn’t have enough men to work them, which is why they weren’t exercised earlier in the day. However, they could be loaded and deliver some hard knocks at least once during close action.
If they operated in a line, the two vessels could bring thirteen guns to bear. Close together and double shotted, that might mean a broadside weight of metal of just over two hundred pounds. Not to be despised and certainly not insignificant under the right circumstances.
“On deck there!” The lookout at the fore mast t’gallant yard called down. “Strange sail is a ship rigged vessel! No… two… no three strange sails! All three masted… two might be French and one could be British! Do you hear me there, deck!?”
Kate grabbed a glass from the binnacle cabinet, slung it over her shoulder and ran forward. She leapt into the foremast weather shrouds and raced aloft with the speed and agility of an ape. Transferring to the futtock shrouds, up the tops’l shrouds and then up, and up and up… Finally she perched on the frail fore royal yard and clung to the masthead with one hand while she trained her glass a little to the right of the bowsprit.
