Mean Sun (2 page)

Outside I suddenly heard a wagon arrive. The men departed their barrels and gathered behind us.

“Up on yer feet,” the swordsman demanded. The others roughly drew us up. One held the unconscious boy about the waist, shaking him vigorously. The boy issued a weak groan.

A shadow passed and a man entered, followed by two armed marines in uniform. With the help of a cane the stranger now turned into the sunlight and I saw his face clearly for the first time. Perhaps thirty years of age, he was handsomely dressed in a naval officer’s uniform. Everything about the man seemed to gleam, from the texture of his skin to the shine of his boot. He performed a graceful albeit impatient bow to our captors, then took a stride across our ranks, carefully observing each of the boys present.

“Six hardy lads, Mr. Whitehead,” said the group’s leader. “Blue water captains every one.”

The gentleman paused before the unconscious boy.

“This one?”

“He took a knock, but will be himself shortly.”

Mr. Whitehead then addressed my fellows and me.

“Good morning, young men,” said he. “You must all be alarmed by these turns of events. Do not be afraid. The worst has passed. It is good fortune that blows you in our direction. We are proud of you as you will be of yourself.”

“What do you do with us, sir?” asked the redheaded boy plaintively.

“You are hereby impressed into His Majesty’s Navy, young man,” announced this Mr. Whitehead. “Your country ardently requires your service. The convoy about to depart and you will serve aboard the
Sovereign
as an escort. You shall be defending your nation and your King. And there is pay for you.”

“But our families—” began one of the other boys in a wild, trembling tone. One of the men gave him a rap.

“Leave him speak,” interjected Mr. Whitehead with unexpected kindness.

“My mother,” the boy exclaimed, tears bursting forth. “She is alone but for me. She’ll not know what has become of me, sir.”

“Once your documents are secure and you are aboard we shall inform her, my boy,” replied Whitehead. “There is a sailor’s pay, and a rich signing bonus of five shillings, which can assist her situation. Any among you read and write?”

The question resounded in our ears as if there were no answer for it. Then I spoke up.

“I do.”

Mr. Whitehead approached me, extending his hand. His handshake was firm and his eyes held to mine with sincerity and resolve.

“Your name?”

“Daniel Wren,” I replied.

“Your father’s occupation?”

“Dead,” I replied. “I live with my uncle and aunt. His employ is as a limner.”

“Very good,” said he, then remarked to one of the marines: “He’ll go to Mr. Grimmel.”

The name meant nothing to me then, but it would come to mean a good deal in the years to come. For the next several minutes he interviewed all of us while the marine recorded our names into a ledger. We were required to sign documents and take an oath to King and country. Events were moving so swiftly that they crowded out all deliberations and reasoning. However black it was, it was a great relief that we now knew our fate.

Soon we found ourselves prisoners in the wagon, guarded by the marines, speeding along the quay. The redheaded boy’s name was James Lockwood. The others were William Beal, Michael Desmond, Jacob Flowers, and Henry Boles. The unconscious boy would not gain his consciousness again, and by the second day at sea would be cast overboard with cannonball bound to his feet and prayers in his ears.

The marines proved no less brutal than our captors. We saw the pommels of their swords at intervals throughout. The quay was chock-a-block with wagons, carts and porters on their way to fill the hulls of the ships about to venture west, much of it livestock meant for the ships’ mangers; pigs, chicken, geese, sheep. There were crates of ironwork, smelter pieces, tools, anvils and sundry implements.

Then I saw her—
The Sovereign
, a warship unlike any I had ever seen. A first-rater, perhaps in her youth a flaming beauty, but now she was beyond fifty years old and weathered by every day of it. All the rich gilt, frets, and much of the lavish decorations of gods and goddesses that had once made her gleam like the sun itself had been worn away or blown asunder during the long Dutch wars. The
Sovereign
had been a three-decker, but was found cranky in rough sea and so top-heavy that she’d been cut down to two decks, and her old torso appeared maimed. One hundred guns had been lightened to seventy. She was what the old salts called a
“weeper.” Indeed, every eye seemed to be bleeding tears. Her most singular feature was that she had been designed with royal sails. Only once before this had I seen this manner of design. They were bare of canvas, however. Despite all this, her bones were beautiful.

As we approached, the leader of our captors turned to us in the wagon.

“The captain’s name is Jacob Hearne. He’s one of the darkest jewels in the King’s Navy, boys. Brooks no remorse, so serve him well.”

“When will we return, sir?” asked Henry Boles.

He did not favor him with a reply.

The wagon came to a halt, and like lambs we were driven up to the gangplank by the marines. Mr. Whitehead took the ledger and brusquely stepped up to the accepting officer.

“He is with Grimmel, sir,” said he, indicating me, adding, “The others will work the cannon crews as powder monkeys.”

“I hope they’re better than the last lot,” remarked the officer.

“Has the captain arrived yet?” inquired Whitehead, anxiously reconnoitering the dock in every direction.

“No sign of him, sir,” answered the officer. “We can’t depart without our new captain, can we, sir?”

Whitehead turned on his heel and made his way up the gangplank.

The accepting officer eyed us, then surveyed his list once more. “Arthur Grimmel is hard to overlook. Look for a large man, missing an eye. You two report to Mr. Dodge, cannon number fourteen; you, cannon twenty-two; twenty-seven. This one ‘ere, lay him on deck ‘till he rouses.”

Before starting up the plank I shot a word to the scoundrel, who was still standing alongside the cart.

“You, sir, I will see again,” I said bitterly through tears. “That I promise.”

“When you see me again, you will be a man,” replied he. “And much will have altered. Best wishes on your voyage, Mr. Wren.”

The marine extended his blade against my kidney and sharply prodded me along.

The moment we passed the deck rail the order was given to prepare to slip the cables and block the gangplank to all visitations.

All was chaos and bloody confusion on the decks of the ship as the crew reported to their stations and made ready for open sea. My ears were stunned by the peal of a score of boatswains’ whistles blasting out all about me, and the shouting, swearing, and crying of orders. There was no refuge from it. Many of the men appeared as decrepit as their vessel. For the next quarter hour I was jostled and cursed and shunted aside by sailors, officers and idlers alike. Not one could direct me to this fellow Grimmel. I roamed the upper deck, but found no one resembling the creature described. All the passages to the lower decks were dark and jammed with clashing, shoving, grousing sailors. I found myself stumbling and skipping over numberless ropes, tackle, winches and blocks. I was lost.

At one point my foot caught in a cord and I fell against one of the winches. Before I could find my feet, a burly, bare-chested bear of a man cracked me violently on the head, and glared down at me.

“’Ave we a fool or a traitor ‘ere?” he bellowed. “Loose that cannon and there be hell to pay, man.”

He seemed to be deciding on a second blow when a young lieutenant in a smart blue uniform intruded.

“What’s your business?” he demanded.

“I am to find Mr. Grimmel,” said I.

The officer’s name I would learn later was Joseph Brooks. His uniform, and those of the others, meant little to me in terms of rank or stature. He took me by my hair and gave me a vicious tug.

“Address me as
lieutenant,
” he hissed. “What is your name?”

“Daniel Wren, Lieutenant,” I stammered.

“I see you have been impressed, Daniel Wren. Well, you are in my line, mister. Remember yourself. You’ll find Grimmel on the upper deck by the wheel.”

I backed away and retraced my steps to the upper deck with great alacrity. The clear air above was a prodigious relief. Every man seemed to wait in great anticipation for the arrival of Jacob
Hearne. Every snippet of conversation I could overhear was about this man who had been newly assigned to the ship.

I picked my way carefully along until I noticed a man of noteworthy appearance not three yards from me. He stood full sixteen hands high from foot to crown. Though perhaps sixty years, the lean muscularity and vigor of his body suggested a much younger man. His uniform was tight and grimy. I noticed his larboard eye was an open pearl. The most remarkable part of his furniture, however, was a greasy periwig that sat delicately atop his naked head, high above the watermark, giving him a curious air of priggish refinement.

I was about to sing out my horror when Grimmel turned and reconnoitered me.

“I am Daniel Wren, Lieutenant, sir,” declared I. “I was ordered to report to you by Mr. Whitehead.”

Grimmel lined me up in his sights with his wick eye. He noted the lump on my head and the blood running from it. He wiped it with his great thumb and scrutinized me more closely.

“I am not a lieutenant, mister,” said he, dryly. “I am the ship’s quartermaster. Can ye read?”

“I can, sir, and write, too.”

“We shall see,” said he. His aspect was decidedly reserved in his judgment of me. “Wren. Well, Wren, those weeds you wear must be swapped out. See the purser, name is Riley, on the lower by the mizzen. Tell ‘im I send you.” Given my recent encounters below, I stood there, hoping he would draw the most direct course, when he took hold of my arm and pointed to each of the jutting masts of the ship. “
Fore! Main! Mizzen
! Now off with you!”

“The lower deck, sir?”

“Lowest deck, just above the hold. You’ll smell gunpowder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The proper response is “Aye, aye,” said Grimmel. “That means understood and acknowledged.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I retorted.

Thus, the first profit I saw from this wretched day was a set of plain togs, which were coarse and bilgy. Mr. Riley, a plump, pale
fellow who resembled an oyster out of its shell, informed me in a sympathetic tone that my mess number would be nineteen, that I had to stake my own hammock, and that Mr. Grimmel’s first watch was at six and twelve bells. His words were a bosh to me.

“When do we depart?” I asked Mr. Riley.

“When the captain gives the order,” said he, dryly, extending a fistful of receipts I was to initial. “Only he hasn’t arrived yet. Coming from London, where he stood before the Admiralty Court on charges of profiteering. Not the first time either.”

“How long will we be away, sir?”

“Two year, maybe three,” answered Riley. “Maybe five. Who’s to know? You have a bit of luck.”

“Luck?”

“Old Grimmel is not a bad sort, roughhewn as he is,” said Riley. “Must mean you read and write.”

“I do.”

“There’s some advantage there,” he remarked. “Lighter duty.”

Then a voice came singing out from somewhere above: “All ‘ands on deck!”

“You’ll be wanting to go, lad,” said Mr. Riley. “Top deck. Make haste. I expect the captain has arrived.”

I made my way up to the lower deck and was immediately swept up in a current of noisy seamen rushing up to the main deck. We poured into the bright sunlight and fresh air. The naval officers in their glistening uniforms were arrayed along the poop deck. Below them on the quarterdeck, in their motley red uniforms, were the marines. The ship’s musicians struck up a whistling tune. It was then at the rail that I caught my first glimpse of Captain Jacob Hearne as he swept past me.

What an extraordinarily hard face it was! The very soul of this man was impressed upon it. He was a slight gentleman; so very low in stature that the dark, richly embroidered cape he wore made a shell about him. Poking out beneath were a pair of handsome shoes adorned with amber stones. Atop this somber elegance his face glowed like a tallow candle, blemished and brindled with age. His lips were set in a deformed grimace that exposed a fence
of yellowed teeth with all the boards on both sides angled sharply toward the center; its chief property was suspicion.

With little more than a curt nod to only the most senior officers, Hearne shoved through their ranks and quickly disappeared into the gallery and his cabin. The band’s compliment was concluded, and an instant later the order came to cast off.

The ship listed slightly and soon the Sovereign was swept into the skittish, chattering currents of Bristol Channel. I turned to catch sight of my last view of Bristol. Though not a single cheering voice on that dock was there for me, as I beheld that sea of upturned faces and felt their cries washing over me, the significance of the voyage I was about to make suddenly took hold, for a moment sweeping aside the maelstrom of events that had befallen me.

We had left Avon mouth and were soon in open sea. All about us ships were converged together, hundreds and hundreds of them, five, six, perhaps seven hundred, cast like apple blossoms. Their profiles spanned the entire ocean and rolled off into the horizon. This was the great convoy to the new world I had heard tell about.

Our ship reached the furthest edge of this assembly. Before us was flat, empty sea. Both our sails were furled and the
Sovereign
waded to a rest. A nagging object, glistening in the distance off our starboard perhaps a league away, diverted my attention. I turned my head and saw beside us the
Vanguard
in a lustrous golden cloud—not a ship but a king’s crown set upon a watery brow.

“What is that ship?” I inquired of the young sailor beside me.

“
The Vanguard
,” said he. “Launched but a year ago. What a pretty lady she is. But we were aboard her instead of this old cow.”