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

by Gerry Garibaldi

  “One-sixth for a dozen words and sleeping on dry land in a soft bed? I say divide that by five.”

  “Yet we have other business to attend, sir,” interrupted Lord Douglas resolutely. “Highway robbery is not the English way.”

  “Very well said, Lord Douglas,” declared Snyder contently, shooting a sly smile at Hearne. “As you weather, your thinking might change, however, young man.”

  “Nonsense. God has never poured as much ambition into two boots than he has into those of Lord Douglas,” said Captain Hearne jovially. “I predict he will be a man of greatness and riches.”

  Governor Snyder turned an appraising eye on Lord Douglas.

  “Perhaps you are the fellow with whom I should be transacting, instead of this tough old cur.”

  Their talk turned to trifles then, until the receding night found its fatigue in their hollow voices. Governor Snyder roused his companions roughly, stood swaying somewhat, and placed his hat askew upon his head.

  “I say, Captain Hearne,” said Snyder. “You do keep a busy ship. All this evening I heard the scuffle of activity. We must now take our leave, my friend. Thank you for a most memorable diversion.”

  As Captain Hearne and his officers escorted their guests out of the cabins and onto the main deck and into the musty vapors, the last net of opium chests was at that moment being hauled on-board. Governor Snyder at first greeted the euphonious sound of ropes and pulleys with a dizzy smile, then, as he focused more narrowly through the fog, his head began to pivot from Hearne to the chests and back again, his lips parted and a choking cry rose from his throat.

  “Monster! Criminal!—”

  “Only a few chests of opium, governor,” responded Hearne evenly. “What is the count, Mr. Brooks?”

  “One hundred eighty,” replied Mr. Brooks.

  “You invite me aboard and plunder my stores!” bellowed Snyder. “You are a low highwayman indeed, Jacob Hearne! A cheat! A fraud!”

  “Oh, come now, Governor. We’re all allies and partners now, aren’t we?” countered Hearne, his voice lowering melodiously. “You can’t expect the British navy to join your battles and extend our friendship without a fair share of the profits.”

  “I’ll have those cannons blow you out of the water!” the governor shrieked, thrusting his shaking hand at the battlements. “The gulls will pick your gassy carcass, Captain!”

  “I think not,” said Hearne with a commiserating smile. “We will put you into a boat without paddles. By the time you rake to shore we will be gone.” Hearne approached the governor. “Now, we have had a merry evening. Let us not part in such foul weather.”

  “You are a shameless housebreaker, Captain!” Snyder growled, then finally perceiving his futile situation: “You exhaust me, sir. Exhaust me!”

  “I would think on any report on this, sir,” advised Hearne confidentially. “You being a fresh governor. Mark it down as an error in accounting that you uncovered.”

  One could almost see the lifeline tossed to him by this lie. The upsurge in emotion ebbed out of him.

  “One-eighty, you say?”

  “Take my advice, Governor,” said Hearne warmly, gesturing toward the rail and the boat waiting below. “Avoid the unpleasantness of an inquiry. It is most taxing, that I assure you.”

  The governor, looking like a pink-faced rabbit, glared helplessly at the wolfish Hearne as he was lowered into the boat. After he cast off, Lord Douglas turned hotly to Hearne.

  “You risked this theft and betrayed our port of call, Captain—”

  “Belay your remarks,” said Hearne, wearily. “The governor will not believe a word of it. When he learns I spoke the truth, he will be open to an even bigger deceit. Remember this, my lord, the Crown only measures failure.” He then looked over at Brooks. “You did a splendid job this evening, Mr. Brooks. Make sail, sir.”

  Chapter 7

  Along the Latitude

  On the following day as we swept into the westerlies we encountered rough seas. Great watery hills rolled toward us, striking our bow with an explosion, then washed white and hissing across our decks and down the companionways. Yet it was the brooding silence as they advanced on us that disquieted me most; for just as one had passed another was upon us, tipping our bow skyward, then of a sudden we were plunging down a green slope into the valley of the wave. The wall of fast rising water seemed so close a sailor could reach out and touch it.

  The nights were particularly harrowing, for the field of waves would disappear entirely, and we would be struck blindly from one side then another. The Sovereign plunged and wallowed and shuddered relentlessly forward, with the leeward drift stealing the little distance that was gained. Anything not snugly battened down became a deadly missile. All cannon crews were ordered to stand fast at their guns and keep a vigilant eye on their moorings. Still, the captain refused to heave-to.

  By the fourth day the winds had increased, whipping spray like cannon shot, and sounded through the rigging like a deranged organist. I could not hear my own thoughts above it, nor the orders that were shouted only a yard away. On deck men moved about like phantom images in a dream, fading, appearing out of nowhere of a sudden and then gone again. Two men were unaccounted for and word was they had been washed overboard.

  The howling power of the thing became a frightful wonder to me, and gnawed at my courage until I became as mincing as a child at chapel. The management of the ship required Grimmel’s and his mates’ consuming attention. It gave me great relief that it was not I at the helm amid all this menace.

  By the sixth day the seas calmed and serenity returned to the ship. A sultry breeze dried our slimy decks. All morning and afternoon I worked the chain pump to draw the seawater from the bilges, a rank, disagreeable task, for the bilge water was greasy and foul. By mess, my hands were blistered and bleeding and my arms and neck were stiff as hemp. Our rum ration had been trimmed in the view that the crew’s demeanor during the storm had been fainthearted. My only concern, however, was dry clothes. I had none. My skin was as tender as peeled fruit and painful to the touch.

  All that day Grimmel worked his dead reckoning magic. I say magic because, while his mates took their shots and recorded the ship’s speed, Grimmel would only glimpse at the traverse board that kept their record. He took his own shots with the octant then brought out a crude, older instrument at sunset, called a back-staff, to verify his fix.

  But mostly Grimmel stood at the rail carefully watching the water as it passed, considering the wind and gazing up at the sails. By this method several times he altered the knot speed on the board in accord with his instincts, despite what his mates had recorded. There was something divine about his stony old profile, lifted to the heavens, his eyes, nose and ears attuned to the whispers of the gods.

  He charted his course carefully and by the next morning had our position, deep in the Indian Ocean.

  The men on board were delighted by the prize of opium chests taken by Hearne, for they knew each would receive his fair share, and were eager for more. While the men routinely checked the order of the chests, Greyson saw to his roses.

  The roses had gathered mildew during the storm and Lord Douglas directed that they be brought out of the hold and onto the decks. Greyson himself took charge of the effort, like a cat caring for her kittens. The roots, which were tightly bound in sackcloth, were adjusted upright in their hampers and exposed to the light and open air. Crewmembers were ordered to scrupulously inspect and clean the stems of any mold or residue.

  For days there was nothing about us but flat, empty sea. Since our entry into this new ocean the tapestry of the water’s surface seemed to have changed with the subtle alteration of the sunlight. The winds had wholly died away, or so it seemed. Grimmel, however, saw wind where even the lookouts aloft failed to detect it, and made for it.

  Now instruction from Grimmel continued, with tutoring in the mathematics of piloting and the reading of charts. I found the latter much more agreeable than the former, in tha
t the figuring of numbers was grindingly complex, and Mr. Grimmel would frequently lose his patience. Charts and maps and their corresponding descriptions of currents, shorelines and depth contours were far more easily grasped.

  One afternoon he spread several of them out and called on me admire them. Several were written in Dutch or Portuguese, with beautiful renderings of trees and streams, valleys, mountains, rocks and reefs, as well as mythical gods and creatures. All were drawn on thick cotton rag. Looking down on them, I felt like a god peering down from the heavens.

  “Why do you call them sheepskins?” I asked, feeling the linen.

  “It was the old name for them,” answered Grimmel. “A thousand pilot hands have made these charts. It’s a way of showing respect. They are living history of men told with great artistry.”

  The days were long and dry and I made much progress in my studies with Grimmel, but I continued to view him a dreary, humorless man. What he felt for me was a mystery. Despite the long hours we spent together, he never inquired about my views on any subject and showed no interest in my history. What I came to understand was that this old man was building my knowledge plank by plank, and in doing so I grew stronger each day.

  One day, without warning, Grimmel tested my skills before the entire crew. He handed me an old, weathered traverse board and told me to peg our progress throughout the day. By day’s end, he said, it should match his mate Mr. Colbert’s own board exactly. I accepted the challenge with blithe confidence in what I expected would be a simple task far beneath my current ability. A traverse board, Grimmel would say, is safe with a chicken.

  The traverse board served as a memory of the ship’s speed and direction. The device was divided between the compass rose, like that on the compass, measuring all the thirty-two points of direction north to south and east to west, and a lower half of the board kept a record of knots. Each half-hour I was to consult the compass at the binnacle and place a peg in the hole of the innermost ring to log the direction and a separate peg for the knots. At the end of four hours, by the pattern of the pegs, the board clearly showed the direction of the ship. Grimmel would then log and chart our daily progress.

  Beginning at midday, I took my shots at the sun, tossed the log line, even making a show of reading the sails and the passing water, and consulted the compass at the wheel, then set my pegs in their proper holes. When the sand glass emptied at the half-hour mark I repeated the exercise. At dusk I returned the board to Mr. Grimmel. I rocked confidently on my heels as midshipman Mr. Colbert appeared with his. Held side by side it was clear my results produced a record nearly six minutes at odds with his.

  “Well?” demanded Gimmel.

  “His knot count is off,” said Colbert.

  “Perhaps it’s his that’s off,” I shot back, mortified.

  “No,” replied Grimmel drolly, “it’s yours that’s off.”

  The old phantom cut my ration of ale in half and drank that share himself. We repeated the experiment the following day. I fared even worse. Word circulated among the crew and I became a laughingstock.

  “He wants your ale,” snickered Mr. Hines.

  Parched and amid rising catcalls from the crew, the next day I tread the hot deck, tossing the log line and consulting the compass with the intensity of a madman. I noted that the sand glass flow slowed slightly when the ship rolled and even accounted for that. By day’s end, I lowered the discrepancy to two minutes and lost another half ration of ale to Grimmel.

  “I could grow fat on your ale,” remarked Grimmel. “In three days, you have misplaced ninety miles.”

  From that day forward I gained fresh respect for a ship’s speed and practiced the log line at every opportunity. Even more, I began to revere the partnership between instinct and instrumentation. To be a proper pilot, I needed to learn the language of the gods.

  It was the officers’ custom to recreate in fencing exercises in the afternoon on the main deck. On this one particular day Lord Douglas joined them and displayed surprising skill. At the end of their routines, Greyson tossed a friendly challenge to Mr. Brooks.

  “Come, cousin!” said Greyson in a bold voice. “Let’s you and I have a match. I promise to be careful with you; no blood will be drawn.”

  Perspiration was already streaming down Mr. Brooks’ face. The sword looked heavy in his slender hands. At this moment all eyes were fixed on him, officers and crewmen alike.

  “Go on, Mr. Brooks,” remarked Mr. Whitehead, laughing, “give our ambassador a thrashing.”

  Brooks glanced around him as though seeking a path of retreat, but the crew was crowding around them now, hungry for this little theatre. A claque chimed in, most on the side of Lord Douglas.

  With the tip of his sword, Lord Douglas knocked the hat from Mr. Brooks’ head.

  “Square off, man,” said he.

  Mr. Brooks’ mouth hardened at Lord Douglas’ arrogance. What I saw in him was not fear but rage, an age-old rage that chased back to his childhood, the ire of a man who had been hounded and hectored most of his life.

  Both took their positions, and then engaged. The flash of swords commingled with the shouts and cheers of the audience. Greyson parried Mr. Brooks’ thrusts with easy grace, plainly enjoying the sport, while Brooks’ effort was clumsy and heedless. To further incite Mr. Brooks, Greyson began to slap him with the broadside of his sword—on the leg, the shoulder, then squarely on his bare cheek, leaving a pink mark.

  “Oh! What a swordsman, you are, Joseph!” declared Greyson mockingly in the heat of their fight. “Isn’t he, boys? He’s a fury with that blade! Oh! Watch out now!”

  Mr. Brooks stumbled and Greyson hoped to end the game by stepping on his sword and knocking him off balance and onto the deck. He set the tip of his sword against his cousin’s chest. There was a smattering of applause.

  “Concede, cousin?” said Greyson. “No hard feelings, now.”

  To my surprise, just as quickly as the rage had seized him, it left Mr. Brooks. Angry determination took its place.

  “No,” said he. “I’ll take my sword.”

  The two men squared off again, with similar results. Mr. Brooks again refused to concede. Now the captain was on deck watching the combat. Both Brooks and Greyson were soaked through with sweat. Each time Mr. Brooks lost his match he demanded another. All humiliation in Mr. Brooks was heaved aside to make room for the abiding anger in his spirit. Greyson’s victory seemed to wither on his face.

  Their audience grew somber; some returned to their tasks, while others gazed in growing sympathy at the hopeless pride of Mr. Brooks each time his sword fell clattering to the deck. Soon barely a person took notice anymore. Mr. Whitehead interceded.

  “Captain says your sword play is at an end, gentleman.”

  Both of them now gasping for air, the pair obediently halted. Lord Douglas managed an arrogant smile.

  “Saved!”

  “Saved, nothing!” Mr. Brooks hotly returned between gasps of breath. “You would have gained more begging my favor, which is more in your nature.”

  The stars, however, were aligned against Mr. Brooks. From the day of our first dispute against the pirate ship, when he had betrayed his cowardice, the men along the main cannon deck had taken to a quiet rebellion. Their insolence took the form of exaggerated cheerfulness at any order. “Yes, sir!” would ring out and the others within earshot looked on and snickered openly. Solomon Lamb, perhaps one of the most villainous members of our crew, quickly grabbed the lead in this crusade. One morning Mr. Brooks noted an empty fire bucket and held Mr. Owens to account, cutting his ale for the day. Mr. Lamb stepped forward and claimed responsibility, upon which he, too, lost his ale. Two more men merrily protested that they were the guilty parties and begged to be punished with their chums.

  The following morning three more fire buckets were discovered empty and eleven men happily went ale-less for the day.

  These small infractions grew in number and Mr. Brooks escalated the punishments, but the fati
gue of these proscriptions began to wear away his sense of authority. When Mr. Brooks inclined to leniency for a time in a change of strategy, the discipline sank even further until the men understood that they were now in charge and slighted orders entirely. Mr. Whitehead and some of the other officers became aware of conditions on the main gun deck, but were loathe to interfere with another officer’s command.

  One afternoon the revolt came to an abrupt end when Mr. Lamb, on a foolish, high-spirited lark, cleverly snatched a cannon ball from the garland and rolled it at Mr. Brooks as he passed, upending his legs and dropping him to the ground.

  At mess I was sitting with Mr. Stempel, Hines and the others at cannon number six, where a board was dropped daily to serve as our dining table. I looked up suddenly to see Captain Hearne standing behind me, flanked by six marines with loaded guns.

  “Gentlemen,” said Hearne in a stern voice, addressing all those within earshot, “an officer has been assaulted. I will have the name of man who did it, or you will all go without food or drink until he is delivered to me.”

  No one said a word, but Hearne stood patiently, glancing sharply from one man to the other. When his eyes met mine, I blurted out—

  “It was Mr. Lamb, sir.”

  “Which of you is Lamb?”

  Mr. Lamb stood. “I am, Captain.”

  “Is Mr. Wren telling the truth?”

  Mr. Lamb hesitated several moments before answering, the whole time keeping his eyes fixed on me.

  “He is, sir,” he finally whispered.

  “Take him!” declared Hearne to the marines. “The punishment is keelhauling.”

  Lamb was immediately marched above deck. Not a word was spoken by any of the men. I had never heard the word keelhaul before, but by their dreadful stillness I sensed it was a serious affair.

  “It just came out,” I said to Mr. Stempel.

  “All your words are true; all your righteous laws are eternal,” replied Stempel.