Mean Sun (The Diaries of Daniel Wren, Privateer Book 1)

by Gerry Garibaldi

  I placed myself beside the rail and by the lantern began my reading.

  Chapter 3

  Battle Lines

  Every morning before sunrise the officers reported to the captain’s day cabin to hear the business of the ship. My task was to log notes of these reports, which I did from a bench seat near the stern’s gallery window. The lieutenants made their statements first, which ranged in all matters from ship’s stores to the condition of the ship itself, to reports of petty theft and crew grievances. The captain and first lieutenant discussed these matters between them. Aside from these two gentlemen, Grimmel’s remarks on the navigation matters at the conclusion of each assembly seemed to garner the most interest from the captain. Like most of the other officers, Joseph Brooks seldom ventured observations beyond his narrow sphere of responsibility, which was the main cannon deck.

  Prior to this first session, Captain Hearne had not been seen above deck in nigh two days, but kept to his cabin while the whispering talk of his solitude festered along the decks. It was said that he was one of the finest battle officers in the King’s navy, but he was born of ruthless ambition and had made himself rich by that virtue. While his recent Admiralty hearing absolved him of a charge of profiteering, his desire to retire from the King’s service had been denied.

  The officers and I had been kept waiting for two hours for the captain’s arrival. The men sat, observing their silence for the better part of that time, when Lieutenant Richards ventured a meek observation.

  “They say our captain has seniority equal or above every captain in the navy.”

  The others came out of their fog at the remark, as if they’d heard a musket shot and were calibrating its direction.

  “I just meant,” continued Richards, “that it is queer he has not been considered for the Admiralty. It is the custom, is it not?”

  “Aye,” responded Whitehead. “He may have declined. That is a weighty chair.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Richards. “Quite right.”

  The uneasy silence gathered again, when several minutes later Captain Hearne entered. He came not with a purposeful stride but with a vague, distracted air, as if he had wandered into a strange compartment. He was wigless and his cropped white hair stood out at all angles like an ancient currycomb. His uniform had been hastily drawn about him and, like his general countenance, appeared flummoxed and irritated. I noted his white cambric shirt was adorned with crimson port stains. Hearne’s grey eyes matched port in their redness, and as they took in the faces of those about the table—all standing at attention—he filled his mouth with a small pocket of air and essayed it with a shiver. Wordlessly he lifted his hands and directed us into our chairs. He had only just done so when a second man entered, a gentleman by his dress, who discreetly claimed a window seat beside me.

  “Sir, permission to speak,” said Mr. Whitehead brightly. Hearne nodded. “Speaking for the men, sir, we are all proud and delighted to be in your service and wish to welcome you aboard the Sovereign. We all have much to learn from you, Captain, and hope to undertake our duties in a way befitting this ship and her most illustrious officer. I wish, if I may, to begin the status report of—”

  Here Hearne cut Mr. Whitehead off, messaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

  “You are?”

  “Mr. Whitehead, sir, your first officer.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Hearne. “Honored.”

  “This is Lieutenant Brooks, sir,” said Whitehead by way of nod. “Mr. Grimmel, our master, sir; Mr. Hazleton, Mr. Brawley, Mr. Jameson—”

  “Brooks?” interjected Hearne, his eyes shifting as quick as a starling’s onto Mr. Brooks. “You are the son of the Earl of Essex I’m told.”

  “I am, sir,” replied Brooks.

  “Bit of a black sheep, they report.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your father lent his influence for your post?”

  “He did, sir,” replied Brooks, appearing greatly discomfited. “I intend to serve my country and prove my worth, Captain.”

  “As this is your first assignment as an officer, I would advise it,” said Hearne. He looked at Grimmel. “Mr. Grimmel, I have met, and judge that we are all fortunate that he is the ship’s quartermaster.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Grimmel.

  “Gentlemen,” intoned Hearne. “Being awarded the deep honor of the Sovereign comes as something of a surprise to me, and to you, no doubt. I had viewed unheralded retirement as the more productive option, but find the Admiralty disagrees. Captaincy is a chapter in my life I thought had been read and closed. But…” here his voice drifted off as if into a dark chasm. “Here I am. Aye, happily active again. Amongst all of you, young and vigorous chaps, eager to serve King and Country. Well, I say we get on with it. Aye, let us simply get on with it.” He eyed the sheath of papers before Mr. Whitehead. “What are they, Mr. Whitehead?”

  “Ship’s accounts, sir,” answered Whitehead. “Crew shortages, supplies—”

  “Mr. Whitehead, you will find my appetite for detail is slim indeed,” instructed Hearne. “In future, no report should take longer to deliver than it takes to cinch a noose. Understood?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “This follows with all of you, “continued Hearne. “I do not wish to spend my hours grieving incidentals or foraging through records. I find that officers who know nothing else always know the rules and the facts, and brandish them like marlinspikes. Don’t belabor them, gentlemen.”

  Despite his untidy appearance, I was impressed with Jacob Hearne, for he exuded a natural self-possession and easy confidence. His voice, too, had an appealing cadence and a charm that rose from him like a bird on the wing. There was also the glint of humor behind his eyes. Indeed, this man’s character was expanding away from my first cold observations.

  Hearne turned to the gentleman who had entered along side him and with a dismal, impatient gesture urged the man forward.

  “This, gentlemen, is Lord Douglas Greyson, who will now address you with regard to our mission. Lord Douglas is a representative from the British East India Company, so your respect and diligence is to be expected. I believe, if I am not mistaking, that you and Mr. Brooks here are relations.”

  The men barely deigned so much as a nod to one another. On a closer inspection I noted that Greyson’s dress was modest. His clear blue eyes were a match for Mr. Brooks’, as well as the frame of his face and hair. Indeed, except for their countenance, they might be brothers.

  Despite having seen him steadily over the days aboard ship, I had not taken Mr. Brooks’ measure. As I now observed the two, side by side, I realized that Mr. Brooks was a much younger man than I had supposed, perhaps in his early twenties, as was his cousin. Joseph Brooks was a more delicate model of the family mold. There was an almost feminine sensitivity around the eyes, his long, tapering fingers, a languid cast about the mouth, and a tender gleam of condescension off set by his rosy cheeks. He recalled a portrait in miniature of the English nobleman. My intuition hinted that he had been a victim of those sweet features, as much as the envy of his wealth. In his view, Mr. Brooks’ s elevated position bestowed on him a true vision of wisdom of society’s ills, and for that he was grateful—and obliged. One sensed that the only sound that reached his ears was the loud drumbeat of his rectitude.

  In Lord Douglas, by contrast, one discerned a very different tune. He heard keenly every nuance around him. Not the slip of a shadow escaped his cautious eye. The two likenesses were so different in disposition that they made strangers of themselves.

  “We are, sir,” answered Mr. Brooks after a moment’s hesitation. “Though we have not had the pleasure of a close connection.”

  “My cousin represents the more exulted annals of our family,” Greyson returned politely and in good humor. “Of whom we are all quite proud. My ancestors were somewhat less prudent with their resources.”

  Greyson carried with him an embossed satchel with the gold insignia of the Crown, wh
ich he placed on the table before the officers.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “we will be heading south soon, then east, breaking away from the convoy. We will be on course to the African coast, then to the Indies and China.” He stood and held up the document. “Our orders are to deliver one thousand rose roots on board to the Lady Wen Xi, who will become the concubine of General Zheng Jiing in Amoy. Prior to that, we will rendezvous with the Lark in the bay of Fuzhou to receive dispatches that will further direct our efforts in the East.”

  Grimmel scratched at his wig, then spoke up.

  “This is all a jumble to me, Captain,” said Grimmel. “Why would a ship of the line carry roses?”

  “They’re not just any roses,” replied Greyson. “It’s a hybrid rose, a union between the Tea Rose and our Tudor, to represent the budding friendship between our two peoples. They say the beauty and fragrance of it is remarkable. The Sovereign will make a fine first impression. It is also said that Wen Xi is one of the most beautiful women in China, a rose herself, so to speak.”

  “Amoy is an unfriendly port of call,” remarked Grimmel. “Your general is at war with the Manchu Emperor Kangxi.”

  “And is near to losing that conflict, Mr. Grimmel,” said Greyson, “which is why we must proceed with urgency.”

  “Why roses, sir?” pursued Whitehead.

  “Our true mission is to slip into Amoy and destroy his fortresses, which will enable Emperor Kangxi to land his fleet and his army, presently in Canton, unmolested,” said Greyson. “If we are successful, the emperor will allow an English trading colony to be established in China represented by my company.”

  Doubtful glances were exchanged, but not a word was spoken.

  “Who is to be the governor of that colony?” asked Hearne after a moment.

  “I am,” answered Greyson with equanimity. “With the King’s blessing, the British East India Company has furnished the cost of this expedition. China, gentlemen, is the future of trade for our country. If we do not act, the Dutch and the French will act before us, as they did in India. The Crown recognizes the supreme importance of this undertaking.”

  “Well,” remarked Hearne, “it’s all a gamble, isn’t it?”

  “One more item, gentlemen,” said Greyson. “We are also to keep an eye out for the Seahorse, captained by Mr. Roger Belfry, and if encountered, engage or apprehend him.”

  “Captain Belfry?” inquired Mr. Whitehead, our first lieutenant, somewhat astonished. “Does he not carry a letter of marque, sir?”

  “No longer,” answered Greyson. “Our treaty with the Dutch prevents him from profiteering against Dutch interests. He has sacked and looted two Dutch plantations, which has caused our government some discomfort. And if allowed to continue, could cause us a loss of victualing rights in Dutch ports.”

  “Are you familiar with him, Mr. Whitehead?” Hearne asked.

  “I am, sir. I served under him in the second war. A very able captain he was. Highly decorated and highly respected.”

  “Mr. Grimmel?”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Grimmel. “Spent two year aboard his ship.”

  Hearne, yawning, stood during Greyson’s presentation and took a bench seat not too distant from where I was sitting and gazed thoughtfully out the window.

  “It’s stuffy in here,” remarked Captain Hearne. He reached behind me and pushed a gallery window, which opened with a grating protest, letting in the morning breeze. The sun was up, pouring gold, pink and red shards across our wake. He looked down at my notes and reached over and took them up.

  “Well done, young man,” he said. “Very well organized.”

  “That is Daniel Wren,” interjected Mr. Grimmel. “A fresh volunteer.”

  Hearne turned toward Mr. Whitehead. “What do you make of the Seahorse?”

  “A fifth-rater, forty guns, I believe, sir,” answered Whitehead, “lean and nimble.”

  “Mr. Brooks?”

  “If he stands, we’ll take him, Captain.”

  “Personally,” remarked Hearne wryly, “I’d rather we never encounter him. What say you, Mr. Wren?”

  Inexplicably, perhaps because I was at his elbow, Hearne had directed his question to me in a careless, off-hand fashion. Observing Mr. Brooks’ meek aspect and his surprise, I gathered my courage and replied in a tranquil, considerate tone:

  “If he knows we are after him, I believe he will hide, Captain, sir.”

  “Indeed he will, young man—my thinking exactly. Let us hope he secures a snug hiding place, then.” Hearne addressed Grimmel: “I believe you are right about this fellow, Grimmel.”

  “Thank you, sir,” returned the old pilot.

  The meeting concluded with orders that Mr. Grimmel begin to plot a new course. We would slip the convoy evening next. I was left with a conflicting impression of Greyson. Outwardly his saturnine handsomeness and aristocratic bearing were at a lower caliber than the determination that was aimed like a cannon at anyone in his way. This, if anything, was the gulf between these two cousins. Brooks’ sternness was of less tempered stuff.

  All the officers departed, as did Greyson. I collected my notes and began my report.

  Chapter 4

  The Wolf Pack

  Nightfall was the most hazardous time for a convoy, particularly one of these numbers. As we were the vanguard ship, the moment darkness set in a close order signal went up the main mast. There upon, unarmed merchant vessels would fall out of rank and cluster at our stern like chicks in a brood for protection against marauding privateers. With only stern lamps for bearing, the risk of collision became very great. As many as thirty men, and in foul weather, fifty, were kept on lookout at all times. A clever foe, I was told, would use these obscure hours to slip in among the convoy disguised as one of us, then choose his unwary prize and by craft gently sheer her off to leeward and claim her.

  But it was not in the evening that our first enemy made his appearance, but midday following. The sea was pitching and restless and little could be seen of the horizon. All morning the scudding clouds would appear then vanish with the fast, shifting breezes, and the shadows of the deck shot to and fro. It was the kind of day I hated, for it shunned any commitment to honest weather, and gave only cracked lips and a windy head.

  Suddenly the alarm came down from the lookout. A squadron of ships appeared one league off the larboard bow. An order was given which sent everyone scurrying to his battle station. The chaser cannon at our stern sounded twice and signal flags went racing up the masts.

  A moment later, The Vanguard answered our call, followed by the Resolution.

  The terror in my heart was as heavy as stone. Neither blood nor courage could find passage around it. Mr. Brooks ordered me to cannon number six, giving me a stout shove to carry me on my way.

  “Act as their sixth!” he shouted. “You’ll retrieve the charges.”

  Amidst all the charging chaos I made my way down the slimy companionways to number six. The cannon crews were tossing open all the gunport lids and piking the guns into position. Mr. Stempel and Mr. Hines directed the effort. Mr. Stempel had his head out the porthole to survey the scene.

  “What do ye see?” asked Mr. Hines, his number two.

  “Wolves,” returned Mr. Stempel. “One, two, four, six I count. Fifth-raters all. And showing no colors.” He eyed me. “Spread the sand and on my order follow the other powder monkeys down to the powder chamber.”

  Until now, talk of battles and bloody confrontation had been exotic perfume for a fanciful brain. These ships, however, were not vapors crashing toward us but seasoned timber, warships, fifth-raters, each with 300 fighting men. I could no more harvest my valor from those boyish dreams now than I could pluck an eye from the air about me. I stood there as empty as a clattering bucket. Mr. Stempel seemed to read my thoughts.

  “’Ave ye seen action before, lad?”

  “No, sir!” I shot back.

  “Ye’ll be fine,” said Stempel. “No one dies his first day, for the L
ord protects the youngest of his flock.”

  Mr. Stempel knew the Bible as well as most men knew their hands, and quoted it with regularity. Mr. Hines, on the other hand, who was perhaps half the size in stature to Stempel, quoted himself, volubly, gabbing aloud about himself as if he were always the third man in the room.

  I glimpsed out and saw the rival ships forming two lines, perhaps two hundred yards apart. Their men were busy in the shrouds, trimming their canvas to keep our cannon balls from cutting it to pieces.

  “Spread the sand thick, lad,” said Hines. “Old Gabriel Hines’ foot never slipped in battle. He stood firm.”

  I took hold of the bucket of sand and began to sprinkle it evenly about.

  “Surely we’ll break the starboard line,” said Hines, noting the position of our ships.

  “Not Hearne,” answered Stempel. “With ‘im it’s past the teeth and down the throat.” Then with a glance at Mr. Brooks some yards away. “We’ll see if our new officer can hold his mud.”

  We were now three hundred yards from the enemy. I could see the bows of their ships coming into view. The Resolution’s chaser fired, signaling that all three of our ships were on their mark and bearing down fast. Two lines, two bows, both peppered with shot from past disputes came into view. The flash of musket fire and light cannon could already be seen coming from their bows, though I could not hear their reports. Their salvo grew steadily louder, splintering the wood near the porthole. An instant later, our own marines answered with a thundering volley, like a herd of horses stampeding across the deck.

  “Up on the wedge, “ordered Stempel. “We want a level heel on it.” The cannon was nudged higher. Stempel turned to me. “Now go, lad, down for the cartridge!”

  As ordered I made for the companionway, and was caught up in a tide of activity. I made the lower deck, then finally the handling chamber, where a line of powder monkeys stood receiving cartridges through a set of wet curtains. When my turn arrived a voice behind the curtain called out: