Mean Sun (5 page)

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:

“Gun?”

“Six!”

“Six. Thirty-two pounder.” My cartridge was promptly shoved through the drapes. “Keep your shot garlands full—and mind yer step!”

I turned and proceeded up the steps to the lower deck, properly yelling out the warning “cartridge” to those I passed. Suddenly an impact of astonishing intensity and duration brought me staggering to a halt. I gripped the stair rail and drew myself up.

“My God!” I cried out to the powder monkey behind me. “What was that?”

“Cannon balls,” said my companion. “We took our first broadside. They hit us both larboard and starboard.”

He had no sooner uttered those words than the thunderous roar of our own cannons sounded. As I reached our deck the sight
I beheld was one of complete confusion. The smoke was so dense it was as if a hand had wiped the features of the ship away. Men charged about through smoke and debris to the wounded amidst a babel of shrieked orders. Mr. Brooks suddenly came charging out of the mist. The light of fear was upon him. Across his cheek and along his throat was a ribbon of blood—someone else’s blood, for I saw no wound. He was gazing about at the deck, utterly lost in confusion. His eyes lit on me. His voice scattered over me like a musket round.

“They require that cartridge, Wren! We lose a round because of you, sir! Because of
you
! Your incompetence!”

His voice crackled with near hysteria. I was too terrified to respond.

None of my crew was injured. They were working the pulleys and picking the gun back into position. With his ladle still in his hand, Mr. Hines accepted the cartridge and shoved it into the cannon barrel.

Hines then addressed Brooks, who stood beside him. “The second ship, sir, is standing in closer, we’ll need your order. Should we fire down the roll, Mr. Brooks?” Brooks just stood there, silently peering out the gun port, unable to grasp the sense of it. Hines regarded me calmly. “Gabriel Hines will need another charge, Mr. Wren. On the double, he says.”

I made for the companion way again, and could hear the starboard guns of the
Vanguard
sound. Wounded were being carried down to the surgeon. Narrow trails of blood ran along the steps and decks. I took up my second cartridge and quickened my step toward the middle deck when I suddenly became aware of something—silence. I saw men standing idly by their guns, holding their linstocks, rammers and sponges with rapt attention. Then one of them let out a mighty yell:

“
They break and run
!”

A great cheer rose, above deck and below. I joined my comrades at the gun-port and spied our adversaries had broken rank and were swiftly turning close-haul and hoisting their sails, scattering in all directions. The lead ship appeared to be on fire.

“I don’t think we’ll be requiring ‘at, lad,” said Stempel. “We’ve ruffled their feathers.”

At four bells a small ceremony was given on the quarterdeck for the six men who had died in the exchange. Each of the dead men was snugly sewed up in sailcloth and laid out next to the other on deck, so only their faces showed. They were common sailors all. Among them was Jacob Flowers, one of the pressed boys. One by one the bespectacled Chaplin blessed each man, and then two marines tilted the planks on which they were placed and slid them off into one of the boils on the green sea.

That night as I set about my studies I wondered how young Jacob Flowers might settle. How deep was his tomb? How long would he fall? Of all the places to be buried, I thought the ocean depths were the most fearsome, for it was a region utmost removed from the pulse and breath of life—the friendless, forsaken soft palate of oblivion. Perhaps even an everlasting God could not reach down that far. I trembled anew at what might be in store.

In the morning as I was on my way to the daily briefing I noticed a tendril of smoke in the distance.

“What is that, sir?” I inquired of the midshipmen.

“’At’s the lead wolf,” replied the man. “’Captain gave orders to hunt it down and kill it.”

This was the first I’d heard that were on the chase of the squadron leader. We were bruising the sea at seven knots, but the fifth-rater was smaller and faster and steadily gaining distance. Overtaking it before nightfall would seem impossible. If she kept her lamps extinguished, she could easily slip away in the darkness.

Lord Douglas and Captain Hearne were engaged in a warm dispute about the day’s events when I took my seat near the windows. Greyson’s cheeks were rosy with anger and his voice sounded as taut as a bowstring.

“—This would be a delay of two, maybe three days, to chase pirates, Captain Hearne,” Lord Greyson was saying. “And nothing to be gained!”

“If they are happy marauders, ” Hearne remarked firmly, “so much the better that we end their game now. They will bite again.”

“Presently you are under the royal orders, Captain,” said Greyson with a chiding smile.

“Recall yourself, my lord,” replied Hearne sharply. “You are but a company emissary with a bag of roses. These judgments are mine to make.”

“I only wish to concentrate your effort on the mission before us, Captain Hearne. So there will be no dispute at mission’s end.”

“Dispute away, my lord,” Hearne shot back. “I have weathered those, too.”

“Indeed, Captain,” Greyson volleyed. “
Four times
you have seen the Admiralty bench for disobeying Fighting Instructions.”

“I believe in hard fighting, sir,” said Hearne. “Not tactical pedagogy from tired old men. I toss the book when it suits me, sir.”

This tempest subsided as all the officers arrived. The remainder of the meeting was given over to damage reports on which Hearne made little comment. Lord Douglas took his seat by the windows and stared sullenly and heedlessly out at the clouds. When they were complete, Hearne addressed Mr. Brooks.

“Lord Douglas indicates to me that I should not have pursued this matter, Mr. Brooks,” said Hearne. “What say you?”

“It’s not my place to make any observation, sir,” responded Brooks tactfully. “But I disagree with my cousin. A navy’s first responsibility is the protection of its country’s shores.”

“Spoken like a true patriot, Mr. Brooks,” Hearne exclaimed.

Greyson, impassively staring out at the receding sea, remarked: “Without my uncle present to secure it, Mr. Brooks’ opinions in these matters are of little consequence. I suggest Mr. Brooks address himself to weathering the crucible of cannon fire.”

The comment visibly stirred Mr. Brooks’ resentment, but he remained silent.

At midmorning, after I had put my records in order, I was summoned to Lieutenant Brooks. Brooks met me on the quarterdeck with a marine. Mr. Grimmel was standing beside him.

“You’ll spend the day in leg irons, Mr. Wren,” said Brooks with a salty smile. “Perhaps that will teach you to keep your thoughts on your business during a battle.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant Brooks, sir,” I replied, giving him a level gaze and evincing no fear. I felt impugned and outraged, but bound my anguish inside me.

“Objections, Mr. Grimmel?” Brooks inquired.

“None, sir,” said Grimmel.

“I wish to have the captain informed—” I cried out.

“—and three lashes for comeuppance, Sergeant Boyle.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the marine.

My chest was stripped bare and I was set in the leg irons beneath the hot sun for the next six hours. The marine, Boyle, administered the lashes while both Grimmel and Brooks looked on. The pain of the lash and the boiling sun only add to the humiliation a man feels as he is left out to wither under the gaze of his fellow sailors. My ankles were welted and bruised, and my back burnt, and my heart scarred, when I was finally released near sunset.

At dogwatch I was back into my lantern and book, though my discomfort was near unbearable. I had just settled in, peeling away my bloody shirt to let in a cooling pocket of air on my back, when Greyson appeared out of the darkness. He regarded me kindly.

“I see you have made an enemy of my cousin, Mr. Wren,” said he, softly.

“That cannot be helped, sir,” I answered in the same tone.

“Mr. Brooks can smell pride on a man,” continued he. “Men like he despise it in the poor man, for they fear it. Power has made his principles unassailable, Mr. Wren. Succumb to it; pocket away your resentment.”

“And how might I do that, my lord?”

“Never challenge him, in word or look,” he said. He tapped my book with his finger. “What is that you study?”

“The stars, sir. The art of piloting.”

“Well, then you will learn how to plot the safest course.”

“Aye, aye, my lord,” I replied somewhat confused by the line of his thinking. “May I ask what the country of China is like, sir?”

“I have never been,” answered Lord Douglas thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming from the reflection of my lamp, “but I am told it is a country of unusual beauty, and rich beyond measure. Those who have been there report a treasure of fine silks, spices, and tea. And an abundance of precious stones, many of which we have never laid eyes on. In the countryside there are vegetation and flowers of remarkable splendor. Their ancient cities are built like palaces and are the homes of emperors. It is an old country and a new one…”

I sensed Greyson wished carry on our talk, but Grimmel stepped into the circle of light, carrying a wooden box in his hand. He peered down at me with irritation then gave a cordial nod to Greyson.

“You have a fine pupil here, Mr. Grimmel,” Greyson remarked.

“Aye, my lord,” replied Grimmel. “This evening we shall gauge his efforts.”

“Mr. Wren and I were discussing China.”

“The name conjures a magic, doesn’t it, sir?”

“Indeed it does, Mr. Grimmel,” replied Greyson. “Well, I will not slow your progress here. Good evening, gentlemen.”

With this, Greyson strolled off toward the bow and into the shadows. When he was out of sight Grimmel directed his attention at me.

“I cautioned you to care who you confide to, did I not?”

“I confide only to you.”

“One other,” said he cleverly.

Then I recalled one treacherous face.

“William Beal,” I muttered.

“Aye,” said Grimmel, with a distorted grin. “Did you not note how quietly he came along with the press gang? Mr. Beal serves this ship and was shuffled in among you to spy on those pressed. He reports to Mr. Brooks.”

I understood now why William Beal bore no marks on that morning in the warehouse. Grimmel kneeled beside me and opened the box. From it he withdrew a quadrant of singular quality and beauty.

“I was impressed myself, many a year ago, Mr. Wren,” said Grimmel, inspecting the instrument’s parts. “So long that I skip over sentiment and forget those days. It’s all awash in the brine.”

He placed the quadrant delicately in my hands.

“This ‘ere little fellow is a quadrant on an octant frame. It will give you the exact altitude of a planet or star,” he instructed. “Take Saturn up there. First you find the horizon through the sight vane, here; when she’s level, ye sight the planet and line her up with the horizon glass. You must swing the vernier so she’s dead even with the horizon. Tonight we are lucky, the bright moon gives us a clear horizon. Go ahead, Mr. Wren, take your first shot.”

I stood, took a deep breath, and placed the sight vane to my eye. The line of the twinkling horizon was pitching wildly in and out of view. I struggled to keep her level, but my vision grew teary and the tension in my hands caused them to ache. Saturn was no more than a bucking horse.

“Once you fix your altitude,” Grimmel quietly continued, “for every nautical mile you move closer to an object the angle will increase by one degree. What do you ‘ave there, Mr. Wren?”

What I had was nothing, not level horizon, not planet, only crimped hands and a frenzied eyeball.

“I have twenty-three degrees, sir, “I said.

“Twenty-three degrees?” said Grimmel, scratching his head thoughtfully. “Well, then, I say, Captain, we should veer sharp to the west or risk beachin’ on the sandy shores of Iceland.”

Grimmel took the instrument and placed it properly in my hands, against my chest just above the heart. I peered through the vane again.

“Don’t fight her, Mr. Wren,” he gently counseled; “let her stray ‘till she’s ready. Trust her. Embrace her tenderly, like she was a butterfly. She’ll respond.”

The horizon settled down somewhat, but was still heaving beyond measure.

“Be patient,” Grimmel continued. “The greatest danger for a pilot is what we call a false horizon. In high seas or in battle, a skittish navigator will mistake the tops of waves in the distance as
the horizon line. Then you’re lost, sir. Two degree off can send a ship a hundred miles or more away from her course. A crew could perish.”