First Voyage Page 15

He met Roger on the ladder as he was going down and his friend was coming up.

  "You've made it!" Roger cried. "I came running as soon as I heard. We weren't sure where you were because you were due back yesterday and the captain was in a fit to have us bound for Gibraltar. He had the crew jumping about like long-tailed cats in a ship full of rocking chairs."

  "Lemondrop was wounded and couldn't fly," Alexander explained. "It took him an extra day and he barely made it as it was."

  "Then he got in the air not a moment too soon." Roger grinned. "Gibraltar! Can you believe it! It's supposed to be semi-tropical. Can you imagine such a thing! Well, I'm on duty again in a moment but you must tell me all about it later."

  Roger clapped him on the back, and then scurried up the ladder. Alexander climbed down into the gloom below decks. His nose was accosted by the familiar smells of the ship—damp wood, sea salt, fresh-baked bread from the ship's ovens. He had nearly forgotten those smells, and in remembering that he had forgotten them he felt a pang at how much he had missed them. Only now did he realize how much danger they had faced in flying into France. Yet the danger had been worth it because they had rescued Lord Parkington and Lemondrop—and he had met Chloe.

  He passed through the gun deck to the ensigns’ quarters at one end and entered the narrow doorway. Sitting at the table in the cramped mess room was Fowler. He had his dagger out and was spinning it point down on the table like a long, sharp top, ignoring the fact that he was gouging a hole in the surface. Alexander froze as Fowler looked up.

  "Hello, Hopeless. That's quite a hero's welcome you received. Pity they've wasted it on the likes of you."

  Alexander felt a flash of anger run through him like a hot wire. "What do you mean?"

  "You think you have us all fooled, don't you? Captain Bellingham and all the rest think you're a hero, but deep down you know the truth, which is that you're a coward."

  "How dare you!" The protest sounded weak to his own ears, because it was true that he felt like an impostor who wasn't worthy of the attention he had received. He would have liked to lash out and strike Fowler, but the older boy was much bigger and technically he outranked Alexander. Striking a superior was forbidden in the navy.

  "Come now, snotty, don't play the offended little gentleman with me," Fowler said, still twirling the big knife menacingly. "You've got a secret you're hiding from the rest of us. I can tell, because there's something about you. Something I can't quite put my finger on, but I will. There’s been talk among the men that you’re some sort of elemental. I've got my eye on you, Hopeless. I'm going to ferret out the truth."

  Alexander walked past him to his hammock, feeling Fowler's eyes boring into him all the while, sharp as the dagger he toyed with. He pulled his sea chest from under the hammock and opened the lid. There was no lock on anything aboard the Resolution, save for the grog room and the armory that held the pistols and swords. Alexander had brought precious little from home, except for the clothes on his back and the silver cloak pin he had given to Chloe. Inside the chest was a leather-bound book—a history of the defeat of the armada that he had borrowed somewhat permanently from his uncle's library at Kingston Hall, without his uncle's knowing.

  In the very bottom of the chest was a spare shirt, and wrapped in that was the wristling that had once been his father's. He took it out now and held it up, amazed at how the sliver glittered in the dim light as if the surface was flecked with tiny stars. Then he wrapped it up and closed the chest.

  The excitement of their escape from the enemy was over, so that now waves of exhaustion washed over him. Gratefully, Alexander climbed into his hammock and slept.

  • • •

  When Alexander woke, he sensed immediately that something was different about the ship. He heard the sea rushing past the wooden hull just beyond his head—the current had changed, or their direction. He ate a quick breakfast of biscuits and butter with hot coffee mixed with cream and sugar, then went up on deck.

  The winter sunshine was brilliant, though the low, slanting sun defined all it touched in sharp contrasts, as if the edges of everything were cut by a knife. To his surprise, he found that he had slept the night through and no one had awakened him for his watch—captain's orders, as it turned out.

  "The Irish coast, lad," said Jameson, who was busy shifting barrels so that they could be lashed tight against the gunwales. Beyond him could be seen a rocky coast and hills that looked deeply green, even in winter. "Nothing in Ireland but banshees, wicked red-haired lassies and potatoes, though the whiskey is tolerable good."

  Liam was standing nearby, and he snapped out in his distinctly Irish accent, "Belay that talk, Jameson, and see to your work, why don't you?"

  The huge sailor only chuckled. "Aye, aye, young sir." The other men worked in pairs to lift the heavy barrels, but Jameson picked one up as if it weighed no more than a baby and set it in place.

  Alexander turned to Liam. "Ireland?"

  "We're passing the coast where your famous ancestor Sir Algernon Hope wrecked the armada with a storm two hundred years ago," Liam said. "He saved England almost single-handedly, though I don’t have to tell you that, of all people. Without him we’d all be speaking Spanish, I suppose. The survivors who made it to shore—those who weren't clubbed to death by Irish thieves or eaten by wolves—settled down and that's why they have what we call the Black Irish today. Those are the ones who have black eyes and black hair on account of their Spanish blood."

  "Like you, you mean."

  "There are rumors about that on my mother’s side," Liam said, his coal-black eyes flashing good naturedly. "My father’s family is descended from the Normans who conquered England and Ireland." It was no secret that Liam's grandfather was the Earl of Kildare—an old and distinguished Irish family, indeed, though they were not close family to the king as Lord Parkington was, and it was Liam's cousin who would be the next earl. What Liam said next surprised Alexander, as did his bitter tone. "Before the Normans came along, my ancestors were kings. They ruled the whole of Ireland. If it weren't for the English and bloody King George running things, my family might be kings of Ireland again. Ireland would be a free country, and not under the English boot heel."

  Alexander was surprised to hear Liam sound so angry toward the English. What was he doing in the Royal Navy if he hated the English so much? Liam moved off to make sure the men lashed down the barrels properly, and Alexander decided that a discussion of Irish rebellion wasn't a conversation to have on the deck of a Royal Navy ship of war.

  Alexander reflected that conquest was the way of the world. Ireland had fallen despite its wild nature—Alexander couldn't shake the image from his mind of shaggy-haired Irish Celtic warriors or the great savage wolves that had once roamed the island, terrorizing the survivors of the armada shipwrecks.

  Spanish, Normans, Scots, now the French—it seemed at every turn that someone wanted to invade and conquer England. Some had, or nearly had, which made the threat of Napoleon seem so urgent. Given half a chance, the enemy would come storming across the channel. What would be England's fate?

  The king would lose his throne and would possibly lose his head. The guillotine might be set up in every English village square. Aristocratic families would lose their lands—even Kingston Hall might be seized and occupied by some Napoleonist. Gryphons would be taken away and forced to fight for the French. The armies and navies would be disbanded or made into mercenaries for Napoleon. Every Englishman would lose his rights—they would be nothing but Bonaparte's slaves. The thought made Alexander shudder.

  "Pray tell what is wrong with you, Mr. Hope? You look as if you have just met your own ghost."

  Alexander realized he had nearly walked headlong into Captain Amelia, who was busy supervising as a flying harness was put on Desdemona. "Nothing's wrong, ma'am. I was just thinking."

  "Haven't you learned by now that thinking will get you into trouble in the Royal Navy?" Amelia turned back to her gryphon. "Come now, Desdemona! Hold still
, my girl!"

  Amelia's gryphon, long and lean as a greyhound, was antsy to get into the air, shifting from foot to foot and beating her wings, so that the gryphon crew was having a hard time getting all the straps buckled.

  Alexander looked up at the blue sky, clear of clouds and with a fresh but gentle breeze blowing. "It's a beautiful day for flying."

  "Every day is a beautiful day for flying, Mr. Hope," the gryphon captain remarked. "It just so happens that I'll be leaving you. I'm to go to London to see where I'm needed next. I want to get off this ship while we're still within an easy flight of the coast.”

  "I am sorry to hear that, Captain," he said. "I had hoped you would be going to Gibraltar with us. I suppose it might be some time before we see you and Desdemona again."

  Captain Amelia tugged at a strap. "Now don't go getting teary-eyed on me, Mr. Hope. I have a way of turning up when least expected. Like a bad penny or even a toothache, some might say."

  “A toothache?”

  “I am being metaphorical, Mr. Hope. Look it up or ask old Hobhouse what that means.” She gave him a sidelong look. "Hmm. There is something I've been meaning to say to you. Now seems as good a time as any. I’ve mentioned it before in passing, but I want you to give my proposal some serious thought. I know you signed on as a navy ensign, but you do have a talent for flying. No fear of heights and barely a teaspoonful of good sense, because what fool volunteers to strap himself onto the back of a flying beastie with claws and a beak that can crack a skull? You're also a bit rash, Mr. Hope. You take crazy chances with your own neck, though you're not half so foolish as Rigley, and thank Jupiter for that. What I'm winding myself up to is that I wondered if you might ever consider a transfer to the Royal Flyer Corps? For the good of the service, mind you."

  In reply, Alexander managed to stammer, "That's out of the blue, Captain."

  "Like a gryphon, ha, ha! Well, think it over, Mr. Hope. And don't tell Bellingham I've asked you. He won't be happy with me trying to poach his crew. If you tell him I put you up to it, I'll have Desdemona peck your gizzards out."

  “With all due respect, last time I believe you were going to have her peck my heart out.”

  “I’ve raised the bar, Mr. Hope. Having one’s gizzards eaten is far more painful.”

  Amelia finished checking the various straps and buckles, and then climbed into the saddle. Without so much as bidding farewell, she flipped the reins and Desdemona leapt over the side, fell for a moment, then spread her wings and caught the sea breeze. In three powerful beats of her wings she was already higher than the mainmast. In another minute Captain Amelia and Desdemona were a mere speck, bound for home. Alexander watched them with a mixture of sadness at seeing them go with excitement over Amelia's suggestion. Become a flyer? It was something to think about.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Captain Bellingham assembled the men, then stood on the quarterdeck to address them. "Today we shall practice our gunnery!" His booming voice was very much like a cannon shot in itself. "Many of the enemy ships are larger than ours and have more guns. Therefore, it is essential that if we should meet them in battle that we fire at a faster rate to even the score. The French shall know that when they meet an English ship, that they have met their match!"

  A great swell of voices shouted its approval of the captain's boast.

  The captain took out a massive silver pocket watch and held it up so that it glinted in the winter sun. "One minute! That is how much time you will have to load and fire accurately. We will be firing at a raft. Whichever gun crew sinks that raft shall have a gold guinea apiece and roast beef for dinner!"

  Another cheer went up. Aboard the Resolution, food was always as much of a motivation as gold.

  "Lieutenant Swann, let away the raft, if you please." The lieutenant moved to oversee the lowering of the raft, lashed together out of barrels and scrap wood, with a mast flying a pennant on its makeshift deck. "Gun crews to your stations!"

  The men swarmed across the deck. It was customary for ensigns to be given command of a section of guns or “division”—Alexander was to oversee three of the guns on the larboard side, on the gun deck below. It was a daunting task, considering that he had never fired a gun before.

  Everyone else seemed to know what they were doing, and where they were going. Sailors streamed down the ladders to the gun deck like ants. They had a trick of not using the steps at all, but gripped the outside rail with their feet and slid down. Alexander tried it and landed in a heap, with more sailors getting themselves tangled up with him. Someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him to his feet.

  "Come along, young sir. You'll only get trampled there!" He looked up to see Jameson, who then held onto Alexander's coat and dragged him along in his wake as he plowed through the crowd like a bull. Ever since Alexander had risked his own life to save Jameson, the sailor had been extremely loyal to Alexander. It was a breach of etiquette for a sailor to drag an ensign along the gun deck, but Alexander wasn't about to argue.

  They moved toward the stern of the ship and came to the last three cannons. "These be our guns, young sir," Jameson announced, and to Alexander's amazement, he tugged his ensign's uniform back into proper order and then stood at attention beside a gun. "Awaiting your command, sir."

  All Alexander could do was stare at the cannons. Each barrel was nearly the size of a tree trunk and longer than a man was tall. They were set on a wooden frame or carriage with small wheels at the bottom, so that after the big gun recoiled across the gun deck, it could be rolled back into place to be fired again. These were twelve-pounders—meaning the round shot they fired literally weighed twelve pounds. It was an awful lot of iron moving at incredible speed. The cannonball would punch through the oak sides of an enemy ship, mangle a mast—or certainly sink a floating raft if they were lucky enough to hit the target.

  He reached out and touched the massive iron barrel, which felt cold, heavy, and deadly. Alexander was dumbfounded. Five sailors were assigned to each gun. Here were fifteen men staring at him, waiting for him to tell them what to do. He didn't know what to say. The silence stretched on as the crews around them fell to work.

  "Sir?" asked one of the sailors.

  "Await my command for the broadside!" shouted Lieutenant Swann, who had overall command of the gun deck. Alexander's men watched him expectantly.

  Then Liam was at his side. "The men know what to do," he whispered into Alexander's ear. "Just tell them to make ready."

  "Make ready!" Alexander shouted. The three crews sprang into action and took up their positions.

  "The rest is easy," Liam whispered. "Load and fire. In between it’s your job to aim."

  "How am I supposed to aim a cannon?"

  "You'll get the hang of it. Just make sure you're not standing right behind the beast when it goes off or it will run you over."

  Liam dashed back to his own guns, and Alexander took his advice, shouting, "Load!"

  Again, the men had done this many times. A linen sack of gunpowder was brought and rammed down the barrel. Then the cannonball was rolled down the barrel. Liam had told him it was his job to aim, but he had no idea how to do that, and each cannon already had a gun captain who worked a lever to raise or lower the barrel. Alexander was only expected to check their work. Out the gunport he could see the target raft bobbing in the distance.

  "Ready?" Lieutenant Swann cried out.

  "Ready, sir!" came the replies from the other ensigns, one by one. He heard Roger's voice, and then Liam's.

  "Ready, sir!" shouted Alexander. His battery was the last to answer. He felt a lanyard being pressed into his hand by a grinning sailor, who whispered, "To make it go bang, sir." The lanyard pulled the "trigger" on the flintlock mechanism that ignited the power in the barrel, like an oversized musket.

  "Fire!" shouted the lieutenant.

  Alexander took one last look along the barrel of the cannon, noted where the raft floated, and yanked the lanyard for all he was worth. Someone grabbed him by
the collar just as the gun went off, its heavy bulk suddenly occupying the space where Alexander had stood an instant before.

  "Beggin' your pardon, young sir," said Jameson, setting him gently back down. "You'll not want to stand directly behind the gun."

  His ears rang. The whole ship shook. Geysers of water erupted all around the raft. He couldn't wait to do it again!

  He soon discovered that firing a cannon was a lot like aiming a musket or a fowling piece that had no sights on the barrel. You generally pointed it at what you wanted to hit, sighted along the barrel at the target, and used instinct and experience to aim.

  They fired again and again. Each time, Alexander aimed carefully, adjusting the elevation of the barrel based on where their last shot had splashed down. The men seemed somewhat put out that he was taking so long to aim, but it was his theory that each shot should count. Firing blindly wouldn’t sink the raft—or teach him the art of aiming a cannon.

  He was just lining up the next shot when the raft exploded in a shower of splinters. A great cheer went up from Liam’s battery. “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  “Nelson’s hat, but they’ve gone and sunk the raft!” Jameson said. “I thought for sure our next shot would have done for it.”

  Lieutenant Swann was clapping men on the back. He looked in fine spirits. "I dare say we shall soon have the best gunnery in the fleet. Ha, ha! Now that’s what I calling shooting, lads!”

  • • •

  The gunnery practice left Alexander feeling exhausted but exhilarated. He didn't mind at all that Liam's gun crew had won the prize. He found himself wishing that instead of a raft in their gun sights that it had been an enemy ship. He said as much to Liam.

  "Oh, you'll get your chance soon enough," said the Irish boy, one of the few ensigns who had seen action. "We're not going to Gibraltar on holiday, you know, though half the crew acts like it. It's much easier to fire away at a bunch of barrels lashed together than it is to fire at an enemy ship that's shooting back."