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

by Gerry Garibaldi

  “From today on, this ragged garden will be British soil,” Greyson announced. “This is where Mr. Brooks will be buried, in home ground.”

  Chapter 19

  The Sovereign Returns

  Three days had come and gone when finally the Sovereign arrived in Canton. Word was sent and we all scrambled down to the docks to see her just making her way into port. The ship was in a frightful state. She was listing precariously to her larboard side, having taken in sea through the damaged areas below her waterline. Both the fore and main spars had been shot away, leaving long needle-like splinters in their places. Her mizzen was still remarkably intact. Raging fires had turned much of the quarterdeck to cinders. Her starboard side was shot asunder. It was a marvel she was still afloat.

  The moment she docked, Woodman, the others and I reported to Lieutenant Whitehead, who was standing on the dock at the entrance of the first boarding ramp.

  “So you found Canton, Mr. Wren,” said he.

  “Aye, sir,” I replied, delighted to lay eyes on him.

  “And your cargo?”

  “Safely delivered, sir,” interjected Mr. Jacobs.

  “I’ll report that to the captain. He’ll be most pleased.”

  “How did the crew fare?” inquired Mr. Woodman solemnly.

  “We lost thirty-two men, including marines,” said Whitehead. “Forty others were wounded. We lost Lieutenants Brawley and Jameson—” he looked to me. “And Mr. Grimmel, I’m afraid. He took a splinter. We hoped he might survive, but I’m afraid he didn’t. In any event, they were buried at sea. Mr. Wren, Mr. Grimmel bequeathed to you some navigation instruments and such that were his own. You may collect them at any time.”

  At the news, old Grimmel’s face came to mind. I only wanted to thank him. From the day I first set foot on the Sovereign, he had made me stronger by teaching me that true courage was built from steadfast patience. It is a work, as Uncle Levi might have said, that is never complete. I wished Levi and my intrepid little sister Ruth could’ve met this man. I imagined proudly escorting him into our little shop, and introducing him to them by saying: Uncle, sister, please meet the man who believed in me. They would all embrace as happy friends.

  “She’s a valiant old lady,” remarked Woodman of the Sovereign, awaking me from my vision.

  “The damage is extensive,” said Whitehead, turning back and eying her. “The captain has decided to scuttle her in the river.”

  A second and third boarding ramp was lowered and men began to stream down them on liberty. I was expecting an exuberant crowd, but what trooped down the dock past me were exhausted, hollow-eyed creatures. The shuddering pictures of Amoy were still blazing across their vision. A few nodded greetings to me, and several of the marines embraced Mr. Woodman. I waited and waited for Mr. Hines, but I did not see him anywhere. When I enquired from one of the master mates, I was told he, too, had been killed at Amoy.

  I came to comprehend the reason for the hardness about some of the men with whom I had been serving, particularly Mr. Grimmel. Men came and went in one’s life with devastating regularity. When sailors looked into a mate’s face, however friendly and dear, one cold feature was always reserved—that man’s death, which could come at the tip of a splinter or an iron ball. I understood that Mr. Grimmel had been as open with me as the bounds of his nature allowed. It was a measure of his fealty and kindness that I felt measurable grief at his passing.

  Grimmel left me an oak box, with his initials carved onto the lid. In it was a lovely quadrant on an octant frame, an ivory and jade inlaid traverse board, of a quality I have never seen again; an old astrolabe, a vintage backstaff, charts, a compass and five leather-bound diaries that he had maintained since his early days as a ship’s master. The only other item was a silhouette portrait of a young lady in a simple tin frame. Her name, written at the bottom, was “Emily Rose.”

  Our barracks was now teeming with men from the Sovereign, but our liberty was a short one. Captain Hearne gave orders that the ship would be scuttled and that every item of value aboard it would be salvaged. For weeks on end we labored in the heat to break down our guns, piece by piece-by-piece and deck-by-deck, and cart them off in wagons hauled by great, lumbering oxen. Several of the warehouses at the trading post were repaired with lumber taken from the Sovereign. At Lord Douglas’s request, several of the thirty-two pounders and a number of the small guns were arranged on their carriages as a battery along the riverfront. The flag from the ship replaced the crude one that hung on the flagpole. The remaining store of cannons was stacked atop one another like logs. Spare sail, trunks, lockers, tools, iron chain, cord, cannon ball and powder were collected and transported as well. All the brass on the ship was stripped and tossed into a heaving pile.

  The work was grueling and relentless and by day’s end we could only stagger back to our lodgings to take a meal and sleep.

  When we had completed our salvage, the local Chinese merchants sought to salvage whatever we left behind, swarming over the ship like locusts. They pried loose the decorative panels, taking even the rusting nails and broken glass from the gallery.

  The day before the scuttling, a number of us went aboard the old ship for a last visit. We reverently wandered her carcass like children in a churchyard. On every deck I saw messages carved into her timbers from sailors on her earliest voyages; prayers for a calm sea, curses for a cruel officer now long dead, the bawdy figures of naked women along with their pleasures. Even within my own small history aboard her I could recall voices and sounds and the animation of life. Now this little trumpeting theatre would settle onto the bottom of the Pearl River in perfect solitude.

  Early the next morning, the mast-less Sovereign was towed to a deep spot down river and set ablaze. All I could see of it from the dock was the twisting black smoke that rose over the treetops. After an hour it stopped.

  Whatever the travails of the crew, Captain Jacob Hearne never appeared in lighter spirit. He had survived Amoy without a scratch, and an aura of invincibility hung over him. The scuttling of the Sovereign only contributed to his expansive humor. Sinking her had discharged his command and he was at liberty to set his own course once again.

  On the very day of his arrival I was told he had paid a visit to the lovely palace I had seen on my morning excursion. He had spent the entire day there and returned to the barracks at dusk while the servants were arranging the crew’s evening meal. He stood atop one of the tree roots and surveyed our faces. Seeing me, he strode through the crowd and approached.

  “Well done, Mr. Wren!” he declared effusively.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I have come from Wen Xi,” he said in a confidential tone, “and affirm that she is under the Emperor’s protection. Messengers have been dispatched to her father, the duke, and it is expected that he will send troops to escort her back to her home.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be happy, Captain.”

  “As we speak, it is reported that General Jhang Jiing is being driven from Amoy,” he said with delight. “The Emperor is most pleased, which I trust will be conveyed in tangible gratitude.”

  “What will become of us, sir?” I inquired.

  “The Admiralty will shortly be informed of our status, Mr. Wren,” said he. “The crew will be reassigned to other ships. And you, Mr. Wren, will advance to master’s mate upon my recommendation.”

  “I am most grateful, captain,” I replied. “But I was wondering when I might return home.”

  “To Bristol?” he asked, somewhat appalled.

  “Aye, sir, to Bristol.”

  “Wren, your home is with us now,” he said. “Leave boyish expectations behind. You will have a rich future, Mr. Wren. Indeed, I predict you will rise through the ranks and make yourself a great fortune and a glorious name.” He placed his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Wren, nowhere can a penniless man of ambition discover opportunity equal to that in His Majesty’s navy. I am material proof of that.”

  “Aye, sir,” I
replied tepidly.

  Here our interview ended.

  Copper coin cash was used as the local currency in Canton. They were minted in assorted sizes with square holes at their centers. I had no notion of their value, but often saw merchants wearing strings of cash around their necks, and even the poorest beggar appeared to have a copper or two in his pocket.

  Apart from the copper cash, gold and silver were employed in trade. Their weight was measured in tael. A tael of silver weighed near fifty of our English grams. Coins of silver were called “sycees” and were minted by the local goldsmiths in weights of fifty, ten, five and one gram. With fine artistry, they shaped them in decorative representations of boats, tortoises, flowers and so forth. As near as I could estimate, one string of a thousand cash coins was equal to one small silver sycee. India silver rupees appeared regularly in the stalls and shops, as did the occasional English coin.

  One afternoon a wagon drove up to our barracks escorted by twenty armed soldiers. In the cart were three chests; two large and one smaller one, shoved together like a contented family.

  Two burly fellows slipped long poles into the slats on the sides of the chests and one by one carried them into the courtyard and laid them beneath our cypress tree.

  When we arrived back that evening after a day of salvaging we found Captain Hearne and his officers standing before the three chests, which had been tossed open for general inspection. The two large chests were brimming over with copper cash coins of every description and variety, while the third, smaller chest contained species of gold and sliver, and some ingots as large as a baby’s hand. Rows and rows of copper coins had been neatly laid out across long wooden benches in straight, tall stacks.

  It was the sight of the silver, however, that excited the keenest interest in my fellow crewmen. Several merrymaking fellows made a show of snatching up a fist of silver and hiding it under their shirts to roars of laughter. Captain Hearne sat in a great teak chair taking amusement in our delight.

  “’Tis the payout!” exclaimed the men around me in shrill whispers. Every face beamed with anticipation.

  Whitehead hopped atop one of the benches and ordered silence, which came in an instant.

  “Gentlemen,” said Whitehead, “Captain Hearne has generously allowed his prize for Wen Xi’s return to be shared out to his loyal crew for their courage. As we all know, Captain Hearne is a river to those who serve under him—” Here a thunderous cheer was sent up and a loud series of salutes to the captain, who modestly waved them down from his chair. Whitehead continued after the hoopla subsided. “Every man here, according to his rank, will share fairly in the prize. Beginning with the seamen and marines, each and every one shall receive two hundred Chinese coppers!”

  All eyes grimly shifted to the stacks of cash coins along the bench. Mr. Jacobs picked up a pair of coppers from a stack and held them to his eyes and peeked through their holes.

  “And what do we make of these?” he inquired with a surly edge.

  “They are Chinese currency and may be used in the marketplace,” said Whitehead. “Much like our own English sovereign, they can purchase wine, food, women, if you wish, or any item that meets your fancy. Step up, gentlemen, and collect your shares.”

  The ordinaries and marines, which included me, made a grumbling formation that led out into the dusky street.

  “’A river,’” he says, mocked Mr. Rollins. “More like piss from a goat, I’d say.”

  Mr. Moody chimed in: “A woman wouldn’t trade a whisker for a whole sack of them coins.”

  I waited my turn and caught the stack of coins in a pocket I made in my shirt. Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Woodman were each given four hundred coppers. The payout in sliver included the petty officers, warrant officers and lieutenants. It was rumored that ninety ingots of silver was left behind for the captain himself.

  Most of the men were eager to spend their small fortunes on whatever diversion presented it.

  For my part, I was directed by one of the servants to a goldsmith not far from the waterfront. The shop was the size of a larder, with two old men working elbow to elbow on sundry ornaments in different metals. I had been told the Chinese word for silver and, with gestures, made the men understand my business. After much haggling, they agreed to trade my store of copper cash in exchange for three small sycees, barely five grams of silver in total. Still, it was the first coin that was my own and I felt as rich as a king.

  Chapter 20

  The Phoenix

  Not long after we scuttled the Sovereign, British ships began arriving in Canton with regular frequency. Men were reassigned to other ships, while others boarded merchant vessels to work their passage home. The British East India Company supplied Lord Douglas with funds to begin the construction of his trade post. Soon hundreds of Chinese workers were rebuilding the docks and warehouses and adding new structures. Lord Douglas worked beside them day and night.

  As our numbers dwindled in the barracks I began to fret over my situation. Several large ships of the line had come and gone—the Excelsior, the Vigilant , the Trident—impressive second-and third-raters with large crews. Mr. Woodman, Mr. Rollins, Mr. Jacobs and all of the marines and officers had been reassigned. I stood on the docks and watched with gloom as their ships departed.

  Except Mr. Moody, Mr. Wouk and a handful of others, all strangers to me, there were few sailors left. We shared company in the evenings, passing the time playing card games or storytelling, yet all of us felt a private unease at having been left for the last.

  Captain Hearne remained in Canton but had taken a house outside our precinct. The house was said to be lavish and well attended with servants, and thus we saw very little of him but received reports from those who did. Captain Hearne was set to depart aboard the Noah, one of the company vessels victualing in Canton. The captain was an old friend who was on his way home to England with a full belly of Chinese trade goods.

  The night before his departure, to our surprise, Hearne came striding in from the darkness and into our ring of lanterns at a table where Mr. Moody and I sat smoking tobacco and brooding. We both sprang to attention as he came into view.

  “Relax, gentlemen,” he said as he leafed through a handful of sealed envelopes that he had taken from a satchel. “Let’s see now, Mr. William Moody and Mr. Daniel Wren.” From the stack he plucked out two, held them under one of the dipping lanterns and then held one out to each of us. “It is fortunate I find the two of you together. You are both assigned to the Phoenix. These are your orders.”

  “May I inquire about the ship, sir?” asked Moody.

  “She’s listed as a sixth-rater,” said Hearne. “But she’s as small as a wasp and should be unrated insofar as I’m concerned. She’s this new specie of ship called the attack sloop, twenty guns. She’s been recently launched and already has made a busy history for herself.”

  “Her captain, sir?”

  “Robert Henchly is his name,” replied Hearne. “I’ve never met the fellow, but understand that he’s young and ardent, as is his crew, which he handpicked himself. You, Mr. Wren, will be his new master’s mate. His last one was shot through the head unfortunately in the Gulf of Benegala.”

  “Aye, sir,” I said dismally. “Thank you, Captain.”

  He spread out a document and handed me a quill and ink that he fished from his satchel.

  “I need your signature here,” said Hearne, indicating the paper. “It means you accept your promotion.”

  Before I signed, Mr. Moody discreetly tossed an elbow into my side.

  “Don’t despair, Mr. Wren,” said Hearne with a laugh. “I heard tell this is an enterprising, lively bunch.”

  He took the signed document; rolled it up and tucked it into is coat.

  “When does she arrive, sir?” I asked.

  “She should arrive within the next day or two,” answered Hearne. “I have, alas, no other intelligence for you, gentlemen.”

  Hearne gave us a proper salute.

  “I
t has been a pleasure to serve with you, gentlemen,” he declared. “Remember to visit me in London should you find yourself there.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” we both replied.

  “We are all sorry about Mr. Grimmel,” he remarked to me, pausing at the afterthought. “He was a good advocate for you.”

  Mr. Moody turned to me as the captain disappeared.

  “You’re not a bloody midshipman, Wren!” said he. “Why did you sign?”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Most master’s mates are passed-midshipmen, commissioned junior officers,” he shot back. “You signed as a warrant officer. That’s seven years, man! At nineteen shillings!”

  A knot rose in my throat.

  “Seven years?!” I repeated in a withering voice.

  The Noah departed early the next morning as the tide was shifting to sea. Before leaving, Captain Hearne had sold our junk to a Chinese trader and pocketed the profit.

  “I’ll not be paying a visit to him,” remarked Mr. Moody, watching the Noah ease up river. “He’ll set the dogs on us.”

  Chapter 21

  Our New Family

  A fierce thunderstorm deluged the city the following day, driving everyone to shelter. The rain hammered the roof of our barracks and raced along the channels, pouring down into the courtyard in noisy, gushing streams. All the while thunder and lightning broke overhead so loudly it made the heart cower.

  Like his name, Mr. Moody’s spirit plunged to fresh depths. He stood at the corridor watching the turgid skies rage above. William Moody, I learned, was from a tiny hamlet outside of London. He had signed on to the navy in his sixteenth year and was presently in his third as an ordinary seaman. His mother had given birth to seven children but only he and a sister had survived. His sister was employed as a maid on an estate where she lived.