by M. C. Muir
Knocking the boy’s hand from his shirt, Hobbles placed the square of sheet-lead carefully across the breech of the gun, fastened it securely and dusted it carefully, before troubling himself with the boy’s interruption.
‘What do you want?’
‘The gunner in the magazine sent me. He said I’m to serve this gun.’
‘What’s that you say? Look me in the face when you speak so I can hear you.’
‘I’m to be your powder monkey,’ Tommy yelled.
‘What’s you name, lad?’
‘Tommy Wainwright.’
‘Well, Tommy Wainwright, this here is Betsy,’ he said, affectionately stroking the grey mottled iron. ‘She’s my lady and she’s a real fine Walker lass. She answers to the slowmatch not a flintlock – they can be too temperamental. And fires twelve pound balls like the others down here do. Reliable, she is. Never fails. That’s because I takes good care of her.’
The crew working the gun jeered.
‘All right, he said. ‘And because I’ve got a good crew working her.’
John Muffin and Ekundayo nodded to him from the other side of the gun. Tommy was pleased to see two familiar faces as he didn’t know the other hands who made up the rest of the crew.
‘You’ll learn who they are, if you live long enough!’
Tommy took no heed. It was a relief to be on the gun deck after spending the last few days in the magazine scraping rust from the round shot hauled up from the hold. It was not only a heavy job that left him with aching arms, but it was painful, too, when fine metal splinters stuck in his fingertips. Aside from that, the magazine was a dark, dismal, dusty hole to be stuck in. No one was allowed to visit without the gunner’s say so, and with him being stone deaf, it meant there was no one to talk to.
‘Did he tell you what you’ve got to do?’ Eku asked.
Tommy shrugged. ‘He said when the cannons were being fired, either in practice, or for real against the Frenchies, I was to grab a cartridge from the magazine, stick it under me shirt and run like the hounds of hell was after me and deliver it here to Hobbles. Then I’m to run back and collect another.’
‘And why do you think you stick the cartridge under your shirt?’
‘To keep it tight so the gunpowder don’t fall out?’
‘Not quite, lad,’ Muffin said, casting a glance at the big West Indian. ‘It’s to stop sparks or bits of burning sailcloth floating down on top of it and blowing you and the rest of us to Kingdom Come.’
‘What?’ Tommy asked, not knowing if his mess mate was joking.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll not feel a thing,’ Grimes said, leaning down to check the breechings were tight.
‘So what do I do with the cartridge when I get here?’
‘You stuff it in that box over there, close the lid tight, then run back to the magazine and fetch another.’
‘That’s easy,’ Tommy said.
‘Not so easy with the guns going off all around. You watch yourself when they’re firing. A gun’s got a kick ten times worse than an angry mule.’
‘Aye,’ Tom said. ‘I noticed.’
‘And what if the powder monkey on the next gun, is cut down?’ Hobbles shouted.
‘I’m to run twice as fast and bring powder to that gun too.’
The gun captain nodded. He was satisfied to have a lad who seemed to have a grasp of the rudiments of the job. Better than them, not much older than bairns, who’d hide in a corner snivelling after their mothers, or the ones who’d get lost on the deck forgetting which gun they were serving. In his years in the navy, he’d seen hundreds of them come and go – some cheeky little mongrels, some cocky scoundrels, some wimps, and plenty of youngsters who never deserved to be stitched up in an oversized hammock and sent to the bottom. But, whilst ever there were enemy ships on the high seas, the rules were unlikely to change.
‘Are you scared of the noise?’ Hobbles asked.
‘No, sir, I’ve heard powder explosions before.’
‘You served on another ship?’
‘Isle of Lewis. I sailed with Captain Quintrell to Gibraltar.’
‘Did you now? Then you should know what to do.’
Tommy shook his head. ‘I was sent to the manger when the guns were being fired. I had to make sure the animals didn’t get loose.’
‘Then you’ve not heard the sound of a broadside on the gun deck. Stuff your ears with damp oakum, that’s my advice, or you’ll end up deaf as a door post, like me.’
‘I’ll make sure he does.’ Eku said.
Oliver swished the last drops of his brandy around in his glass, savoured the aroma then swallowed.
‘The timing was remarkably good,’ he said, returning his attention to the afternoon’s gun practice. ‘Were you satisfied with the divisions, Simon?’
The first lieutenant paused before answering. ‘Reasonably, though several of the gun crews are not yet performing to their best.’
‘Then, while we have ample sea room, I suggest they practice every day until that is achieved. Tell me, did Mr Atherstone’s division meet with your expectations?’
‘Indeed, his gun crew performed admirably,’ Simon said, but his tone lacked conviction.
‘Why is it, then,’ Oliver said, ‘that you are not convincing me of your opinion? Perhaps I should rephrase my question. Would you say that Mr Atherstone is capable of discharging his duties most expediently on such occasions?’
‘I cannot say, sir. He begged to go below to report to the surgeon just prior to the practice.’
‘What?’
‘Mr Steele, one of the master’s mates led the gun practice for Mr Atherstone’s division. I have recorded that fact in my daily report.’
Oliver scratched his claw-like finger along the peeling varnish of the tray in front of him. ‘Pray tell me,’ he said cynically, ‘what malady beset Mr Atherstone so suddenly that he had to leave his post? Is he not aware that this type of behaviour is not permitted in action? You disappoint me, Simon. I am surprised you permitted him to withdraw.’
‘He claimed he had a pain in the head which made it impossible for him to think or indeed see clearly.’
‘And you believed this?’
‘I did, on this occasion, because there was an expression on his face which convinced me all was not right with him.’
‘Then I shall say no more until I have spoken with the surgeon. But in future, I expect nothing less than he behaves like a seasoned midshipman should, and a gentleman to boot. I care not whether he has a pain in the head or in any other organ of his body. In future, I expect to see him remain with his division even if his head has been blown clean off his shoulders!’
Hobbles picked up the length of slowmatch from where he’d rested it on the edge of a half-barrel. Lifting the smouldering end to his lips, he blew across it till the embers flamed and sparks spat from it.
‘Fire!’ was the distant call coming from the quarterdeck.
‘Fire!’ repeated the midshipmen in charge of the other divisions.
‘Fire!’ yelled Mr Atherstone to his gun crew.
The men were ready and standing clear. Hobbles, having watched the word Fire mouthed by the midshipman, touched the slow-match to the black powder in the bowl. A quick step backwards, despite his stiff leg, took the gun captain clear of the carriage’s path.
Instantly, the powder flared sucking the flame down the tube to the cartridge which he had ripped open to allow for instant ignition. In a flash, the gunpowder exploded within the cast-iron bore, the force of the blast shooting the ball out from the barrel on a tongue of orange flame, followed by a burst of thick acrid smoke. The sound was deafening.
As if alive, and with a mind of its own, the gun jumped from the deck and recoiled, throwing itself backwards on its wooden trucks till halted by the restraining ropes that prevented it from careering across the deck and colliding with a gun on the larboard side. The twelve pound ball hissed, as it flew over the water for almost a thousand yards, but any
view of the shot, from the gun port, was blanketed by the choking smoke depriving the men the satisfaction of seeing the results of their labour.
‘Reload!’
‘Reload!’
On the second firing, the gun leapt back with greater ferocity, as if to bite the hand that had touched it. The breechings twanged, snapping tight, the blocks squealed and the carriage creaked, thumping down on the deck, after jumping several inches. The eight men, who made up the crew, knew to keep their distance until the gun had calmed itself, then they grabbed the lines and hauled it back to reload. The smoking chamber was quickly wormed and swabbed to snuff out any residual flames, then a new cartridge was pushed into position, a wad of rags added and rammed home, and a ball rolled into the barrel. Now all that remained was for Hobbles to clear the touchhole with his priming iron and pierce the new cartridge. A sprinkle of black powder into the bowl and the gun was ready to fire.
‘Keep your distance,’ Eku shouted to Tommy, who was about to place another cartridge into the box on the deck nearby. ‘Beware! The gun’s getting hot and, if she’s fed too much powder, she can kick so hard she’ll leap up and touch those beams above your head.’
‘You,’ Mr Atherstone called, pointing at the Negro. ‘Stop your yap. And you,’ he yelled to Tommy, ‘stop dilly-dallying and get back where you belong. I mean now! This instant!’
Tommy ran from the gun, weaving back along the deck just as the order to fire rang out. The ferocity of the cannon amazed him, each one punching out like a huge piston, but belching smoke not steam. After each firing, the gun was dragged forward, instantly swabbed and reloaded in a repetitive routine. It was noisy, exhausting, exciting and dangerous. The searing flames flashed like lightning bolts and the thunderous roars were worse than any storm he’d ever heard. The smoke caught in his throat and eyes and, at times, he couldn’t see where he was stepping. After a while, he was relieved to be heading below to the relative quiet and safety of the magazine.
The pimple-faced marine, stationed outside the powder store, asked his name, which Tommy thought was stupid as he’d been in and out at least half a dozen times that morning, but those were the rules. Like the fact he had to wear felt slippers, which he was obliged to pull on over his shoes whenever he entered. But when he had a moment to himself, he thought about the noise a single cartridge made and tried to imagine what the sound would be if the magazine, stacked high with barrels of powder, exploded. If that ever happened the ship would be blown to smithereens – and everyone with it. With that thought in mind, he decided if he had to wear slippers to keep the ship safe, he wouldn’t complain.
The following morning when Captain Quintrell received the daily reports from his officers, which included observations on the previous day’s gun practice, he discovered three charges laid by Mr Atherstone against a seaman in his division. The first charge was for failing to follow orders, the second for talking when he should have been silent, and the third for insubordination.
When asked to explain the charges, Mr Atherstone was adamant that the sailor was a regular troublemaker, a chatterbox and that his constant mutterings had disrupted the firing of the gun.
‘And what is the name of this man,’ Oliver had asked.
‘He goes by the name of Eku. He’s a black Jack.’
Without any other information regarding the events that had occurred, it was Captain Quintrell’s duty to address the charges and dispense the appropriate punishment based on the midshipman’s accusations. But Oliver had his reservations. Prior to this, the accused sailor had never proved to be a problem. He had never made mischief, been drunk or disobeyed orders and, from his own experience of the man on the day he had accompanied him ashore in Valdivia, he considered the Negro to be polite, well-mannered and obliging. Therefore, the charges laid against him appeared to be out of character.
But at sea, especially if under pressure, men were known to change their colours. He’d seen fearless seamen wail inconsolably. He’d seen timid hands sing and dance hysterically in front of other men. While, at times, such abhorrations of behaviour were attributed to excess grog, at other times men were adversely affected for no apparent reason. But with a written report in front of him, Oliver had no alternative but to accept Mr Atherstone’s word, however, this being the seaman’s first offence, he was lenient with the punishment, stopping the sailor’s grog for a month.
‘Perhaps that will render his tongue less lively in the future.’
‘But, Captain,’ Mr Atherstone said, having anticipated a much harsher penalty.
‘But nothing, Mr Atherstone. I have made my decision and there is no more to be said on the matter.’
‘Gun ready!’ the gun captain announced, as another morning’s session of gun practice was about to commence.
The same cry was echoed right along the gun deck. Standing poised, every member of the crew knew what was expected of him. Whether nervous or excited, tired or bored, each man waited for the order to come from the quarterdeck and to be repeated by the division officers at the guns.
The distant call to fire broke the anxious silence, but before the word could be repeated by the midshipman in charge of Hobbles’ division, a deep voice boomed, ‘Hold your fire!’
Almost instantly the orders on the other guns were answered with a cacophony of blasts which thundered from the side of the ship. But Hobbles’ gun remained silent.
Despite his deafness, Hobbles had been alerted by Eku’s cry and stood for a moment, the slowmatch fizzing in his hand above the priming bowl. Glancing from the West Indian to the midshipman, he held his pose.
‘Fire!’ Mr Atherstone called.
‘No!’ Eku cried.
‘You dare countermand my order! Fire, I say. Fire this instant.’
Hobbles read the words formed on the midshipman’s lips and lowered the slowmatch. Instantly, the burning ember touched the powder, the flame whooshed down the quill into the cartridge and the whole bag of powder erupted. Belching smoke and fumes, Betsy spat her twelve pound shot across the water directly towards the imaginary enemy. But instead of leaping straight back, the gun carriage slewed sideways, dislodging one of the cannon’s trunnions, splitting one of the rear trucks and almost turning itself around ninety degrees. In its vicious rebound, the wooden carriage knocked the legs from under one of the sailors, and before he could even blink, the front wheel ran over his leg. The seaman screamed but the gun crew was more concerned when the other trunnion slid from its groove leaving the cannon teetering and in real danger of crashing to the deck.’
Gun practice was immediately halted and Mr Parry was at the gun in an instant. Working as quickly as possible, men fought to release the man’s legs from beneath the carriage wheels, while others attempted to prevent the barrel from overbalancing. But without handspikes or mittens, the heat of the gun burned their hands when they strove to prevent further damage or injury.
‘Get this man below,’ Mr Parry ordered, when the sailor was pulled clear.
By now, the smoke from the guns had settled and the men from the other crews strove to see what had happened, and find out which of their mates had been injured.
‘Secure all the guns!’ Mr Parry ordered. ‘And pass word for the captain.’
But Oliver was already descending the companion ladder to the waist. ‘What happened here?’ he demanded.
Mr Atherstone was quick to answer. ‘This man failed to secure the preventer.’ He pointed to the Negro. ‘It was his fault. He purposely tried to disrupt the practice. And succeeded. He disobeyed my direct orders. He did not perform his duty on the gun and this is the result of his insubordination.’
‘Enough, Mr Atherstone!’ the captain cried. ‘Marines, take that sailor below. I will deal with him later.’ For the present he was more concerned with the welfare of the injured man and the state of the gun deck than the rantings of an irate midshipman. ‘Get the carpenter to attend to the broken truck, then have the gun reseated, the carriage repositioned and everything lash
ed securely. Mr Atherstone, I want a written report of this incident in my cabin this afternoon.’ Then, turning to Hobbles, he shouted directly at his face. ‘I will speak to you in my cabin, as soon as this mess is cleaned up.’
‘What’s going to happen to Eku,’ Tommy whispered, as John Grimes was carried away on a make-shift canvas stretcher.
Muffin shrugged. ‘Three dozen at the grating for all the charges Mr Atherstone’s levelled at him.’
‘But that’s not fair.’
‘There’s nowt fair when it comes to the Articles of War, lad. And it don’t matter whether we are at war or not, them rules are set in stone and if they’re broken, it’s up to the captain to decide what punishment to mete out. Captain Quintrell can only judge on the report he gets from the middie in charge of the division.’
‘But it weren’t Eku’s fault,’ Tommy said, not realizing the midshipman had come up behind him.
‘Bosun’s mate, start that lad,’ Mr Atherstone called. ‘I’ll have no more insolence from another person in my division.’
Tommy tried to run, but with a throng of sailors gathered around to help secure the gun, he was unable to get away from the blows of the rope’s end which beat down on his bare head and shoulders.
‘Come in,’ Oliver called.
Taking off his hat, the bosun entered, rather sheepishly. The captain’s cabin had a different smell to his own dingy locker cluttered with buckets of pitch, tar brushes, bowls of kitchen grease and barrels of brimstone.
Without a greeting, Oliver asked the bosun for his opinion of the afternoon’s débâcle. ‘Did the breechings or preventer ropes cause the accident?’
‘No, Capt’n, it was a loose eyebolt in the hull next to the gun port. The eye was ripped clean from the timber. I called the carpenter to fix it, but he said the whole length of planking – more than eight-feet long – was rotten with dry rot. He said he didn’t know how it had held so long with the stresses it was under every time the gun was fired. He said it was the wrong wood for the job and must have been fitted by a blind shipwright when the ship was built.’
