Mean Sun (3 page)

With this, the first officer gave the order to sound the cannons of our signal battery and a thundering, pounding, booming, thudding chorus of explosions followed. Every timber of the ship shuddered from the violence of it. The
Vanguard
answered our signal with her own volley of all her one hundred guns, engulfing that golden crown in a billowy wreath.

Chapter 2

Learning the Ropes

My first days aboard ship nearly resulted in my starvation, for I soon learned that new crewmembers were told nothing about the daily schedules and routines of the day. My first watch began at four in the morning, in the black before dawn. I was instructed by Grimmel to report to the wheel where I was given sundry tasks, little of which had to do with Mr. Grimmel himself, who took no notice of me whatsoever. Indeed, I discovered that no sailor was ever idle, for if there was not oakum to be picked, rust to be scraped, sails to rove, rigging to inspect, overhaul and repair, varnishing, greasing, oiling, painting, tarring, hauling, climbing and knotting to be done, there were rats in the hold to kill or the round house to be swabbed, and all navigation instruments kept groomed and accounted for.

If there was an elite among the crew, it was petty officers, those men who had the knowledge of raising the sails aloft, reefing and furling, for without them the ship could not sail or be maneuvered on the high seas. The naval officers showed high regard for these men and saw to it that their orders were promptly obeyed.

Lieutenant Brooks was good to his word. On my first afternoon he approached with a sailor toting a large clumsy bucket. The man’s burden was so great it caused him to groan and grunt, with his pink tongue sticking out.

“We need a holystone on deck,” Brooks barked. “Work the taffrail, Wren.”

“‘Old out yer ‘and, yer lordship,” said the sailor, “and I’ll give ye a prize.”

The man slapped a large wet stone in my hand about the size of a Bible.

“The taffrail,” he instructed, “is at the stern on the poop. Get along now.”

For hours hence I toiled on my hands and knees beneath the hot sun, scrubbing the deck about the taffrail. The heat and work soon left me with a frightful pain in my head. My hands and fingernails bled from a hundred tiny scuffs and cuts which the lye and salt water turned to fire. All was done in silence and under the watchful eye of Brooks and other officers.

At eight bells I was famished and approached Brooks with great deference to inquire about the schedule of meals.

“Your meal?” laughed the gentleman. “Why your mess has already eaten. There’ll be none more ‘till the ‘morrow.”

When nightfall came on my second day, which was a repeat of the first, I found one of the young men who had been pressed with me, William Beal, collecting his hammock. He was the one among us who had not been suffered a drubbing, but now appeared as fatigued as myself. Leaning close he inquired:

“Where do you sleep the first night?”

“In a bloody coil of ropes,” I answered. “Have you eaten yet, William?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “Our mess is served on the sixth watch. Listen for it.”

“I am most grateful to you,” I replied. “What of the others?”

“I see little of them,” he said. “Desmond and Flowers are on cannons fourteen and twenty. Jacob Flowers has been beaten by one of the warrant officers.”

“For what offense?”

“Talking while at his post.” Beal lowered his voice to barely an urgent whisper. “They say there are rumors we will engage.”

“I’ve never seen fighting, have you?”

William Beal shook his head.

“How do ye fare, Daniel?” he asked, keeping a sharp eye out for officers.

“I believe I would rather die than suffer this cruelty any longer,” I responded with bitter misery. “I will escape the moment I can.”

“What do you make of Mr. Brooks there?” he asked nodding discreetly at that gentleman.

“I despise the man,” I said.

At this, William wordlessly handed me one of the hammocks. On those first days William Beal was my only sympathetic ear, particularly on the subject of Mr. Brooks.

I found a place in the coolness of the lower deck to hang my hammock. This, however, was where the stenches of the ship’s deposits were stored. They drifted through the darkness like the oily skein of a dead pond; the mawkish grey-green of the ship’s bilge, the fetid blues of mold and rot, the acrid yellow of vermin, and, of course, the damp purple of decades of human cargo.

With not a small amount of dexterity I pulled myself into my hammock, which was coarse and musty. Once in, the sides enveloped me, so that my liberty of movement was restricted. My right ankle was exposed below my pant leg and this caused me considerable discomfort, as my naked anklebone chaffed against the canvas until it became bloody raw and burned like a hot coal had touched it. All about me I was visited by the cranky sounds of ship. Beams cracked and groaned, unnamed pings, snaps and thuds resounded everywhere. The busy feet of sailors drumming down the steps lasted throughout the watch.

Still, on that second night were the first moments I had to consider my plight. Time and all the swirling crosscurrents of my life had come to rest in this gloomy chamber. I welcomed the comforting glow of the single candle near Mr. Riley’s store. A vision of my uncle’s and aunt’s faces rose before me. I saw them wandering the docks searching for me, along with my sister, my dear sister. What agony must poison their expectations of ever finding me? I held up the measure of my affection to them to the daily torment they would endure. Death would be a better repose than this canvas sack. Tears streamed down my cheeks. To drain away those melancholy images, each night for weeks I thought of Joseph Brooks and savored my hatred of him. It became so that the hard labor of my days was light duty against the toiling strain of my reflections.

Two days hence, I thought my connection to Grimmel had all but dissolved. He had approached me one time and tested my
ability to read and write by dictating paragraphs from a book while I wrote them down. He read at first at a temperate pace, but then faster and faster as I struggled to keep up with him. He gave me no indication how I fared, but simply closed the book, took up the writing implements and disappeared.

That night, I felt a hand gently shaking me awake. The visage of Grimmel, lantern in hand, hovered above me like a ghastly bloom.

“Wake, Wren,” said he. “We have business to attend.”

Up the gangway I went close on Grimmel’s heels. Grimmel took great, leaping strides, which caused the light from the lantern to dance crazily about.

“Sailors’ shifts are four on duty and four off,” said he over his shoulder. “You shall lose one rest shift, beginning with the dog-watch. I’m obliged to teach you something of piloting. It’s peaceful then. Those hours you will read and study. At the end of that shift you will attend Captain’s morning briefing.”

“Briefing, sir?”

“Aye,” continued Grimmel, “I assured the captain that you had skills to keep a record. You will record the minutes of each daily report.” He slowed on the upper deck and turned to me. “I ‘ave observed your mettle, mister. You are not what I might ‘ave chosen. I advise you to be circumspect in whom you confide. Do you understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I said.

Grimmel paused to look me directly in the eye.

“Rumors and gossip is all the theatre a sailor knows,” said he. “Never answer a question until you ‘ave seasoned it dry.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. Grimmel, sir.”

“And do not make the fool of me with the captain, for I have promoted your abilities highly.”

Grimmel led me up to the forecastle deck where a lovely breeze awaited us. The heavens above, black as a witch’s cauldron, poured out a shower of stars all about us. Onto the water’s surface they flew, dancing insanely. They shone in the fittings, streaked
across rails and glinted in our eyes. It made me drunk with pleasure to take them in.

Grimmel lit his clay pipe and puffed. When it was blazing to his contentment, he swept off both hat and wig and glimpsed up at the shimmering firmament.

“How many stars do ye see, Mister Wren?”

I stared up; I could not know. Grimmel made a sweeping circle with the stem of his pipe.

“Out of all of it, there are only fifty-seven stars that will guide you true. With those are four planets, the sun and the moon.” He aimed the stem of his pipe again. “There, she’s Vega, that’s Spica; the bright one, she’s Regulus. That pretty one, straight up, she’s Aries. She’s my favorite. There’s been many ‘o time, through cloud and fog, when that kind lady has taken my hand.

“The sun, well, he’s strong, but he moves too fast across the sky. And the moon wanders.” Here he leaned close to me. “The first rule of being a good pilot is ne’er forget where you are. We are but the smallest of flies in this great place, but we can figure.”

Grimmel removed what appeared to be in the dim light a small, tattered cloth-bound book, which he handed to me. I was utterly perplexed.

“This ‘ere will teach you on navigation principals, written by our own Admiral Forester. From it you’ll learn seasons, tides, phases of the moon, speed, the operation of a quadrant. The trickiest, and the most important, you’ll learn by me. That’s
Time
. She tells how far you ‘ave traveled, east to west. Out ‘ere there is no true time, for no clock works on a pitching sea…” He saw my blank expression, and tapped the book. “Commit it to memory. I’ll see ye in the quarter galleries, next watch.”

He handed me the lantern and departed. I did not know what to make of the man. There was a severe, sullen wariness about him, too, like a stone fence around a rocky pasture. I espied, I thought, something of an obdurate integrity about the man that reminded me of my uncle. Try as I might to leaven our exchanges with friendly conversation, however, Grimmel each time seemed braced
for this eventuality and to them gently pulled the gate closed and slipped the catch.

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.