The pirate's well was turgid and the water tainted by whatever it had run through. It was surface water and barely potable but it was all there was. Shipboard water was generally foul so the users were not unaccustomed to it. Jonas filled the cask and lashed it upright in his boat. Along with the small water keg he should have enough. When it rained—and it would—he could spread canvas and catch more.
Food was difficult. He had no fire to dry fish and the weather, though hot, was far too humid. He had managed some seawater evaporation on broad leaves and he salted down a few fish strips. He loaded aboard a stock of oysters. They lay in water left in the bilge for that purpose. His main food supply would be turtle eggs. He packed them in sand where they could lie as naturally as on shore. First the oysters. Then the eggs. Finally his fish. Before then he should be—somewhere.
His third night at sea Jonas had seen a distant light. Undoubtedly a ship's lantern, perhaps shining from a master's aft cabin. It was miles distant and eventually disappeared. When morning came the horizon lay empty.
Since that single light Jonas had the sea to himself. He dined when he hungered but ate little. Raw oysters and turtle eggs would sustain life but there was no pleasure in them.
Chicken eggs fried in lard was what he longed for. Oven fresh bread with butter and milk cold from a spring house, lordy how he ached for them. With such delicacies at any meal, why had he gone to sea? Roast pork, venison haunch, fat turkey thighs—such eating staggered the imagination and he had turned from them to . . . this? Jonas' stomach rumbled in protest.
Half dozing, Jonas watched the sail for some time before his mind jerked him awake, heart pounding and throat dry.
It was there. Already royal and gallants were above the horizon. Coming downwind a-helling was a square-rigged ship. Jonas let his sail luff and allowed his jolly boat to stop while he determined the ship's exact course.
Oh, she was coming all right. Soon her hull raised the horizon and grew larger by the minute. Straight down his hawse pipe she was sailing; so on course that her masts lined up perfectly. Jonas had only to wait and hail her when she got close.
As her size grew, so leaped Jonas Hawk's satisfaction. Here sailed no salt fish carrier or tub gutted whaler. This was a magnificent ship. Sun glinted from brightwork and sail set touched perfection. Such a ship could speed him to port. Great ships sailed only to important places and from there he could make Philadelphia.
On she came, surprisingly blunt bows plowing steadily without hint of roll. A heavy and steady ship, Jonas decided. He allowed a little wind to catch his sail to position himself just right.
Details became better seen and edginess tarnished satisfaction. What bore down on him was a man-of-war, a frigate of many guns. A flag flew at her mast truck but Jonas could not make it out. He hoped it was not Spanish. They had few dealings with the Dons.
The frigate was rigged for sea and no guns were run out or netting strung. As she came on, Jonas saw men at her forepeak. She altered course a little, as though to run him down.
Like a giant ram the ship came on, and in mounting consternation Jonas snatched at his mainsheet to try to sail from beneath the juggernaut.
From her bow a voice bellowed and on her port gunnel a seaman poised with a heaving line ready. If it could have, Jonas' hair would have stood on end. The warship intended on taking him in tow without slowing a half-knot. For an instant Jonas considered avoiding the seaman's cast, but aboard lay safety—if all went well.
There would be only one try unless . . . sure enough, along the rail other men waited, heaving lines ready in case the first failed. On the quarterdeck officers stepped to port to observe the effort. One appeared to direct small course adjustments to the helmsman who could not see a boat so close inboard.
Like an oaken wall the frigate's bow slid close alongside. The ship's bow wave caught his craft and spun it but at the same moment a weighted monkey's fist landed solidly aboard. Jonas grabbed wildly and gave the stout line a turn around his mast base. An instant later the line came taut and virtually jerked the jolly boat across the water. One of Jonas' repairs parted with a twang and an upper bow plank stood loose from the stem.
Jonas hung on grimly and somehow the battered boat righted and spun bow first into the swiftest ride of its existence.
While Jonas fended his tender gunnel from the ship's side a knotted line dropped into the boat. A voice from the frigate told him to get a good grip and cut the heaving line loose. Obediently Jonas took a firm hold above a knot and stroked his worn-down blade across the rope at the mast base.
Instantly the jolly boat fell away. Jonas stuck his knife between his teeth and grabbed frantically at the climbing rope with his free hand. A foot touched water, then, as though by the hand of God, he was drawn powerfully upward.
Up the planked side he went, dangling like a hooked fish. Somewhere above the line had been run over a netting hook because he cleared the frigate's side until rough hands grabbed and swung him safely aboard.
Seamen gripped Jonas, holding him upright until he could catch his balance. One with a twangy accent asked, "What've we got 'ere, mates? T'ain't human, is it?"
Dog shaggy, clad in rags, with his knife in his teeth, Jonas supposed he wasn't treasure from the sea. He realized the seamen were speaking English and looked quickly about the ship. Sure enough, the British Navy had taken him aboard. He was not sure how fortunate that was. Americans did not stand high in many English eyes.
A taller figure, burly chested with fancifully tattooed arms pushed Jonas' rescuers aside and, fists on hips, stood spraddle-legged studying their catch about as he would a slab of ship's beef.
"Sad looking creature, Bosun. Let's throw it back." It was the same scrawny seaman who had already suggested he might not be human. Jonas knew the type, quick to joke and harmless as a pup. A ship needed one and Jonas did not resent the jibes at his expense.
The tattooed bosun's thick arm extracted Jonas from the rescue party, and a toss of his head sent them scurrying to other duties. Jonas was marched across the deck into the shadow of the poop where the sun was less blinding.
Not unkindly, the bosun asked, "Do you understand English, lad?"
Lad? Jonas Hawk was twenty years old. But, starved to a nubbin' like he was, he probably looked younger.
"I'm an American, Bosun. Off the merchant schooner Ruth Covert out of Philadelphia. Sunk by pirates months back."
The bosun looked interested and thought for a moment. "Your mates reached New Orleans in a longboat some time ago. Talk of the docks for a while." He sank to a locker top and motioned Jonas to another.
"What's your name, lad?"
"Jonas Hawk, Bosun." He hurried on, "I'd like to thank the captain for picking me up and ask how soon he can put me ashore."
The big bosun's features twisted and he looked for a place to spit. Finding none he sighed and spoke in slow and heavy tones so that Jonas would clearly understand.
"Lad, I'm Andrew Woolever, bosun in the Royal Navy.
You're aboard a British man-o-war. That means you are on a ship that's shorthanded. The Navy is always undermanned. Seamen go to merchant ships or stay ashore. Few in their right minds sign on a warship.
"Most of this crew came out of jails and others were pressed, which means kidnapped. A few are old salts who'd feel naked without a crown deck under 'em.
"Like it or not, you've been a King's man since your feet touched oak. Address the Captain? Not likely. The quarterdeck doesn't see what goes on forward."
Involuntarily Jonas started to his feet but a gnarled paw the size of his head pressed him back down.
"Hear me out, son." The craggy features again twisted as though in pain. "I'm a gentle man, 'less I'm stirred. So, I'm doing my best to ease what's bound to be a sad experience.
"Understand, lad, you've no choice. Approach a ship's officer without being ordered and you're likely to be stretched over a hatch grating for a taste of the cat. The cat's a whip with nine thongs, in cas
e you've never heard.
"Now, if you're wise, you'll make the best of a bad turn. You'll clean up and be issued proper navy clothing. I'll march you aft where you'll make your mark on the ship's papers and accept the King's coin. Thereafter, I'll assign you to a watch and treat you the same as the others."
The bosun paused, searching for other points to mention. "You'll be wondering, how long? Only answer is, till they let you go." He looked thoughtful, "A'course, you could dive over the side, but if you were picked up you'd be tried for desertion, convicted, and likely hung. Not many succeed, but then, most can't swim anyhow. Can you swim, lad?"
Jonas' mind was whirling. From the frying pan he had flopped straight into the fire. What a bumpkin he turned out to be. He should have known. But, after months alone, he had been set on being rescued. He longed for his jolly boat and even the turtle eggs.
Bosun Woolever was waiting and Jonas instinctively brought up his guard. He expected the bosun was telling it true but taking the King's penny wouldn't hold him aboard an instant past his first fair chance.
"No, Bosun, I can't swim. Thought scares me half to death." Jonas Hawk began hiding. What they didn't know might help him.
He was given time to shave with his properly sharpened knife. Woolever also ground the knife point to a flat.
"Knife fighting will get you serious trouble, lad, so avoid it. Someone noticed men died from stabbing so some ships don't allow pointed blades. This is one of 'em. Seaman still needs a knife; you keep yours. It's as good as one from our slop chest."
Jonas' hair was plaited into a short queue at the back of his neck. The end was dipped in tar. Again the bosun explained that some ships did it and some didn't. This frigate did.
A supercilious clerk of undetermined rank asked his name and Jonas said, "Jonas Cummens." The bosun looked at him sharply. When he looked away, Jonas thought amusement touched his hard features.
For his signature, Jonas wobbled a clumsy cross. With a sigh of resignation the clerk witnessed that Jonas Cummens, seaman, was signed aboard His Majesty's ship, HMS Hurricane, two days out of New Orleans bound for Jamaica.
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The young American, Jonas Cummens, slipped easily into Hurricane's disciplines. Unlike a merchantman, where the crew sailed the ship, a frigate prepared to fight. Drills were constant and deadeningly repetitive. The beat to quarters sent all hands to stations. Anti-boarding netting might be slung, guns exercised, or the ship maneuvered.
Yet, tasks were simple. A fighting ship had a crew ten times that of a Yankee merchantman. Once or twice through and Jonas knew what to do. Next, he planned to fit himself into whatever duty made escape most likely. Between ports he had little choice, but once alongside, he would be gone.
Not at Jamaica, however. The island was a British stronghold where every hand would be turned against him. He would be as trapped ashore as he was aboard ship.
His majesty's ship's officers also understood the drills. Touch a port, lose men. Every voyage re-proved the old axiom. HMS Hurricane dropped anchor in the roadstead and supplies were lightered aboard. Few crew went ashore and a marine sentry aided the anchor watch in assuring that no desperate seaman slipped overside to attempt swimming the half mile to land.
During the Jamaican layover Jonas found the fighting assignment he needed. To occupy idle time, and perhaps to impress anyone considering an unapproved swim, a pair of marines manned the mainmast fighting top and fired their Brown Bess muskets at a small keg floated off the ship's side.
The range was short and firing almost straight down seemed easy, even with the notoriously inaccurate muskets. But, the keg remained untouched. In their high station the marines loaded awkwardly and handled their weapons clumsily. Jonas expected he could do much better. More important to him, such duties would free him of close supervision. The question was, could the bosun be persuaded to suggest assigning a seaman to a marine's task? Jonas thought there might be a way.
Seamen detested the Royal Marines. Marines despised sailors. Jonas approached the bosun with that ill will in mind.
"Terrible shooting. Bosun."
"Aye."
"I could hit that keg every shot."
"Every shot?"
"Every shot."
The bosun looked interested. "Where would you have learned about muskets, lad?"
"Rifle shooting, Bosun. Born in the woods with a gun in my hand. I couldn't miss even with one of those muskets."
The bosun said nothing, so Jonas fed him more.
"Might be satisfying to make those marines look real bad, Bosun."
After a while Woolever asked, "You want to serve in the maintop, lad?"
It was straight talk. "That's where I'd do best, Bosun. Give me a musket and I'll clean off anything within range."
After another thoughtful pause the bosun again asked, "You sure you can shoot that straight?"
"You can bet your pay on it, Bosun."
The bosun spoke with a mate who addressed another before they both turned to stare at Jonas.
Following more talk the senior naval officer strolled to the marine lieutenant. After a few words the marine's sardonic laughter was loud.
There was a clasping of hands, which Jonas assumed sealed bets. A marine disappeared below, to bring a musket, Jonas expected.
While he waited, Jonas cut a strip from his shirttail and sliced it into square patches. Musket balls fell down the barrel and came out bouncing side to side. He could not provide rifling, but patching his balls should improve accuracy. His greatest worry would be his first shot. No telling where a musket would be sighted. After the first, he could adjust his hold and should be all right thereafter.
The keg had drifted beyond easy range and the marines were coming down as Jonas sprang to the ratlines. He had been given loose balls and powder, which the marines probably believed increased the difficulty, but Jonas preferred his own measurements to perhaps casually-prepared cartridges of unknown age.
Jonas loaded within the tub-like shooting station well up the mast with an ease never forgotten. He placed his patch over the musket's huge muzzle and laid a ball on top. He seated the bullet onto the powder with a single, long, even push of the ramrod, primed his pan and was ready.
Seamen threw out a new keg with a supporting cheer, but Jonas saw an opportunity to gain a first shot that would not be counted against him. Nearly a hundred yards out the first keg floated untouched. No one would expect a hit with a musket at that range. From the fall of his ball, Jonas could judge how to hold on his own keg.
He aimed quickly, cursing the lack of a proper rear sight, and squeezed the trigger until the gun finally fired.
He had held on the top edge of the keg and held solidly. Through the powder smoke, and to his own astonishment, Jonas saw the keg splinter almost in the center and heard the air rent by the spontaneous shout of jubilant shipmates. Well . . . by all the thunders, he thought. Finally, a bit of good luck.
Hawk reloaded with smooth precision and, leaning over his station's edge, drove a ball cleanly into the closer keg. It filled slowly amid cheers. Reloading like lightning Jonas hit it again before it floated, swamped and thoroughly shattered.
Money changed hands on the quarterdeck and when Jonas handed across his musket the bosun looked about as pleased as he was able.
Thereafter, the seaman joined the marines in their shooting bucket. Jonas swore the marines to secrecy and shared with them the trick of patching a musket ball. Under his tutelage the ship's sharpshooting gained a giant leap.
Well and good, Jonas thought. As a maintop gunner he was watched far less. That might prove important one day.
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For almost a year the Hurricane darted port-to-port carrying dispatches or persons of importance. They met no enemy in battle. Never did the captain's caution falter. Jonas saw land only from a distance.
Much as Finday had, Bosun Woolever took Jonas beneath his wing. In a service where many slacked at their duties, a seaman who tried was
noticed. A mine of nautical lore, Andrew Woolever rewarded Jonas Cummens' interest with appropriate kindnesses and continual lessons. Sometimes, Jonas thought the bosun must know everything about the British Navy.
Even more notable was Woolever's ability to get results. If Woolever owned a rope starter, the kind most bosuns laid across recalcitrant shoulders, Jonas never saw it. Woolever's presence somehow brought out the best in even the worst. If ending up on the Hurricane was bad luck, finding Andrew Woolever almost countered it. Woolever made his life tolerable and Jonas hoped that the huge and bear-like man knew at least one seaman appreciated him.
Her bottom foul, HMS Hurricane was hauled and painted, but her crew was off-loaded and quartered on an ancient hulk in the Thames estuary. Maintained for that purpose, the hulk sheltered other crews and was guarded by shipboard marines. A pair of patrol boats circled the moored vessel making certain that no one attempted desertion.
Men fought boredom with carving, knitting, and knotting imaginative creations which were tossed into the patrol boats in exchange for rum and fresh food stuffs.
This was the port for which Jonas had waited. From here, he would attempt his escape. For a year, Hawk had worn his four doubloons next to his skin. Now he might use them to bribe his way free of captivity. There were a hundred dangers in such an attempt, but if another plan had not come, Jonas would have tried.
The new plan was better. Though risky, he need rely only on himself, and if successful, each moment of captivity would be repaid in full.
The crew would be returned to the scrubbed, stored, and refurbished Hurricane. Then they would put to sea, sailing on the powerful ebb tide that swept the Thames clean at each turning.
That would be his moment. And once free? Jonas Hawk planned for that as well.
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PART TWO
Chapter 10 - England, 1802
Hawk's Feather (Perry County Frontier Series) Page 7
