Chapter Eight: Morning Watch
There was a shove on my right shoulder, and then another, and my sleeping mind shook them off gruffly. "Rise up, ya loafer," laughed Andre, pushing me all the harder to get up.
"All right, all right," I moaned, shooing him away with a wave of my arm. "I'll meet ya up on deck."
"Better make haste. Heard Captain's gonna be holdin' an inspection." With that, he left me to slowly rise from my hammock and don my boots and hat.
Yawning and stretching my arms as I sat up, I noticed that I felt something wet in my trousers, not to mention that I felt strangely bloated. Then it hit me like a rock on the side of my head. "Oh, dammit!" I muttered leaping up and turning around to check my rump for any stain. My dreaded bloody monthly visitor had arrived.
There was no red blotch on my backside, which was all due to the coarse and rather water resistant pirate trousers of mine. I knew though, that my undergarments would be stained, and so I hurriedly went to my sea bag, grabbed what I needed to treat my "condition," and scurried off to the head. I might have looked and acted like a man, but Mother Nature always seemed to catch up with me and remind me that I was, indeed, a woman.
With that taken care of, I went from the privy to the top deck and found the lads forming straight lines as the captain made his way across, his green eyes narrowed for precise examination. Hurriedly, I took my place beside Andre at the end of the line and he nudged me with his elbow. "You're late and he seen it. He'll have a word or two with you when he comes by. I'm sure of it." Only heeding half of what Andre said, I straightened my back and placed my feet together, with arms rigidly at my sides ready to deliver one swift salute as soon as Captain Carlisle made his inspection.
"Jack Barlow," said Captain Carlisle as he looked down at me with his very powerful stare. "Late, I assume?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, casting my head low out of respect.
"Seven weeks on sea under my command, and I have the dishonor of having you arrive tardy. I believe you are in need of reinforcement about the importance of being prompt, Barlow. Lieutenant Thorne," he said, still looking at me as I grew more disappointed at myself inside. "Bring Barlow down to my cabin where he shall wait until I return."
"Aye, sir," replied the white-wigged lieutenant as he broke me from the line and dragged me down below to the captain's quarters.
"Stand there, say not a word, touch not a thing," commanded Thorne as he pointed to a spot in front of Captain Carlisle's desk. The man apparently had been doing much writing, for his desk was not neat, as I expected it to be, but littered with papers and blots of ink everywhere.
"Make way for the captain," came a voice outside of the doors to the cabin and Thorne stepped forward and parted the doors as Captain Carlisle made his grand appearance with not a hint of pleasure or pride at my sight.
"The Forenoon Watch is yours, Thorne," was the first thing Captain Carlisle said as he entered. Then, turning to me, he said: "You are how old, Jack? Thirteen?"
"Aye, sir."
"Assistant to Doctor Cavanaugh, correct?"
"Aye, sir," I repeated.
"What else must I have you do, lad, to make you habituated to the regulations of my ship?" he questioned irritably. "Are you looking for a career as a seaman, or have you simply registered for no apparent reason? Honest answers, Jack." Shyly, I looked him in the eye, only to look down again. The man surely had his hold on power.
"I… I never mean to be disobedient, sir. I…" Refusing to hear me stutter my answer away, he quickly exposed his plan to help me.
"I believe your problem, Jack, is that you do not recognize your limits as a mere ship's boy and therefore expect to be respected when in truth, you deserve none. Everyone is above you, and under those circumstances, you must and will comply with every order given to you. You are naïve and fairly inexperienced, with barely any nautical background, and if you are strictly dedicated to your duty, you shall have no further problems with me or the other officers," he stated firmly, his face tightened in the determination to change me from a free-spirited and disruptive boy to a civilized and dependable man.
"Aye, sir," I said again, bobbing my head in agreement.
"You will abandon your duties as doctor's assistant and resume your duties as a full-time ship's boy. Cavanaugh has been too lenient on you. I shall put you under the constant supervision of…" He paused, finally looking away from me and skimmed a few papers on his desk. "…Midshipman Griffith." My heart stopped. I still had the scar on my right eyebrow to prove that being under Griffith's control would be a microcosm of the war we were fighting in.
Captain Carlisle then shook his head as he rethought his order and to my relief, said, "Perhaps… Perhaps I shall put you under Midshipman Bennett." He paused in speculation. "Yes, yes. Young Mister Bennett is capable of coping with you."
"May I ask you to tell me any precise date when I will be able to return as surgeon's assistant?" I posed timidly.
"When I have seen improvement, then I will answer your question. You are dismissed."
I saluted to him before opening the door and walking back up on deck. Captain Carlisle was certainly not a merciless brute and was very considerate when deciding what to do with me. It was best though, not to befriend him any further, or I'd be forced to tell him about my true self unknowingly.
"Mister Bennett!" I hailed as I spotted him up in the rigging of the mizzenmast. His top-hatted head turned around and after a few looks around him, he finally averted his vision south and found me waving up at him.
Upon nearing him, he extended his arm to help me, which had become a habit of his, and I readily accepted the help as he pulled me up to sit amongst the rigging with him.
"Hullo, Bennie," I chimed as seated myself comfortably on the yardarm of the mizzen topmast.
"Greetings to you as well, Jack," he replied, with little enthusiasm. "Any reason in particular as to why you've come?" he asked, vaguely irritated in his tone.
"I'm not gonna be doctor's assistant anymore," I said proudly, which caused Bennett to quirk an eyebrow at me.
"I thought you appreciated your duty as Mister Cavanaugh's assistant. Why return to ship's boy?"
"Captain made me. Said I wasn't very much of a seaman yet… so he put me under your wing."
"Is that so?" remarked Bennett, amused.
"Aye. Captain said you're to show me the ways of a fine able-bodied sailor."
"It may be a bit more work for me, but at least you'll benefit," he consented. He sighed and took off his top hat and I asked if I could see it.
I placed it proudly on my head and turned to him for his opinion. "How does Midshipman Jack Barlow sound, eh, Bennie?" I kidded, uncurling my smile into a hard line on my face and tipping off the hat to him.
"Too soon to dream about that, Jack," replied Bennett, taking back his hat. "But I wouldn't be surprised if you achieved that title one day."
"There's always a possibility, Bennie. Always." I gave him a few pats on the shoulder before I left.
Andre and Roland were back to spending their musical selves appropriately during their leisure time. They were gathered amongst some of the other idlers who had some of their instruments out, playing various tunes that Roland, Andre and the other lads would try to sing to. "Jack!" greeted Roland, waving an arm at me. "Come join us, brother."
I walked in and the men made a gap in their circle of entertainment to include me. "Ya know any songs, lad?" asked one.
"Been on the sea for barely two months an' ya think I know a sea chanty. I ain't that good, boys." There was a weak laughter about them, and I was glad to say that they all seemed quite welcoming, save for one.
The cove who wasn't including himself in the merriment was a middle aged man of average height. He was not fat, nor skinny, but surely had some sort of layer of blubber around his abdomen, and he was very ruff about the face. His jaw and the area around his cracked lips were bristled with specs of wiry dark grey and black hair, and his nose was slightly flat, but short. In the middle of his brow were two permanent notches caused by old age and wrinkling skin. His eyebrows were scattered and thick and his eyes were gleaming with an eerie and vaguely intimidating darkness.
He was currently looking at me, a toothless grin on his grimy face and at once I felt uneasy and gradually scooted closer to where Roland and Andre stood.
"I know one," said Andre. "Hawley, ya know how t'play 'Dear Annie' on yer fiddle?"
"O'course, lad," replied a sailor, positioning his fiddle beneath his chin and scraping his bow against the strings.
As soon as Andre became accommodated to the beat and tune, his light feet began to dance away and his voice began to sing:
A storm's a- brewin'
The lines are a-breaking
And I'm wishin' for God to save me soul.
'Cause my feet are slippin', my limbs a-shaking
Bring me back to Annie and me home.
Oh, why is she weeping?
Oh, where is she going?
The ship 'derneath and Annie in the cold.
For I have left my dear dainty Annie
For the locker of dreaded Davy Jones.
Hawley stopped his fiddle, making the last note linger in the air, and Andre slowed his graceful steps to a stop and threw his arms up in the air. "Not bad, aye?" There came a deep chuckle of agreement among the men and amidst the levity of it all, I failed to take notice that the dirty, sly cove that was giving me looks, was still giving me looks.
While the sailors were mostly occupied talking with Andre, I snatched Roland's attention and whispered, "That man over there keeps lookin' at me funny." I cautiously switched my eyes in the said man's direction and Roland followed the look with a suspicious squint.
"That's Lonan," replied Roland softly, knowing very well to keep our conversation concealed from other ears. "Lonny some call him. Don't know much about him other than he's a gunner. Don't know half of what he's like. Ask Andre. I'm sure he knows him better."
"I don't want to know him," I said bitterly. I sent a hidden glare in Lonan's direction, before breaking away from their circle of frivolity to find relaxation elsewhere. Sadly for me and for the other lads, the enemy had chosen to finally reveal herself at the exact moment I separated away from the crowd.
"Send word to he captain!" bellowed Bennett from his spot on the mizzen. He was already well on his way down the lines, and the deck was suddenly galvanized at possible battle.
Bennett jumped onto the top deck in a deep thud and asserted his authority as Senior Midshipman to organize the crew. "Beat to Quarters!" he yelled. "All Idlers below, and bring up the Starboard Watch!" Swiftly, with easily said orders, he marched up to the larboard bow of the ship, and as he passed by, Roland quickly followed after him, knowing where his duty lied. "Mister Turner!"
"Aye!" returned Roland.
"Inform the captain, if you please. Enemy sighting two points off the larboard beam. We're going to have to come about and turn around, or he'll hit us straight at our hull."
"Aye, sir" replied Roland. "What of the gunners?"
"I'll meet you down there as soon as fire has instigated. Jack," he called, on a different note.
"Yes, sir?" I asked, trudging up to him and Roland.
"Down below to Doctor Cavanaugh, now."
I nodded repeatedly before spinning around and sprinting to Doctor Cavanaugh's cockpit.
"Doctor!" I called, winding my way through the constant bustling of gunners to and fro across the gunroom.
I went further down to the deck below and found Doctor Cavanaugh hurriedly setting up his operating room in the surgeon's cockpit. There was a long, dark table set in the middle, its surface stained with the muck of dried blood. "Quickly, Jack. Retrieve my tools," he demanded.
I scooped up the bundle of operating tools cleanly wrapped in a cloth and spilled them on the table.
"What you have learned will be tested today, Jack," said Cavanaugh shakily, fearing that I'd fail him somehow.
"I know," I replied. "But don't worry, Doctor. We'll do fine."
Shortly after, there came a distant rumble, its angry roar growing louder until it was muffled in the side of the ship. The boat rocked a bit from the blast, creaking as it adjusted to the new wound in its side. The eyes that wandered in fear and painful anxiety only grew in amount amid the idlers huddled on the lower deck with Doctor Cavanaugh and me.
"Why have we not returned fire?" I asked quietly.
"Most likely out of range, Jack," replied Cavanaugh.
"Well, if the enemy can hit us but we can't hit them back, then why the hell did we even Beat to Quarters? They're gonna sink us anyway."
"Naval tactic, Jack. The Resolve will not sink. She will rake fire."
"Rake fire?"
"He will aim for the bow of our enemy. That is why we are turning." I left the subject off at that, too green to understand anymore of what he could possible say.
The operating table was sliding as the ship made another sharp turn.
"Jack!" grimaced Doctor Cavanaugh as he gripped one side of the table, and the patient on it, tightly to keep it from moving. I grabbed the other end, my sleeves rolled up and my arms covered in blood.
"It's holding, Doctor. Continue, I'll make sure the table don't move." I winced as he resumed cutting away at a sailor's wound, and I shuddered as the sailor's eyes were popping from gasps of pain. Blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth, creating a pool of red beneath his sweating head.
"Hold him down, Jack," ordered Cavanaugh, struggling to operate as his patient thrashed about in extreme suffering. I pressed harder on the man's poor shoulders, but in my mind I was saying, "I can't. I can't. I can't." I refused to look at Doctor Cavanaugh as he inserted tool after tool in the sailor's abdomen to keep him from bleeding. Nothing seemed to be working.
Another jumble of feet thumped down to the surgeon's cockpit and in walked Roland, supporting a wounded Andre. My head shot up at their sight and I would have abandoned my post if the sailor had not suddenly choked on his own blood and spewed the warm crimson bile onto my quivering arms. Some of it splattered onto my face, some into my mouth, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep my own self from vomiting.
"Sand, Jack," said Cavanaugh urgently. "More sand." Stupidly, I took a quick step forward and slipped on the blood flooding the area around the table, and now covered in the mess, I hurried to get the sack of sand and pour it around the operating table for more friction.
When I returned, already bending low to scatter the coarse salty grain, I realized Cavanaugh had ceased his working hands and stood beside his patient, bloodied hands being wiped on his soiled apron. The screams of the patient were gone and his body lied limply on the brittle wooden table, his eyes wide and pale as his life was drained away.
"Jack," sighed Doctor Cavanaugh. "Get him off the table and set him beside the other dead. Newton, let me take a look at that head of yours." Andre made his way through the moaning throng of the treated.
As Andre wearily collapsed onto the table, his hands pressed to the right side of his head, I set to dragging the sailor's body to the growing pile of the deceased, and at the sight of their open but blank eyes and flaccid limbs, I felt my eyes sting.
"Depression of the skull," said Doctor Cavanaugh as he pried Andre's hands away from his bleeding head. "Minor. I should be able to fix it." He sent me off to get a bandage and carefully wrapped Andre's broken skull in the cloth.
"I can't see, Doctor," said Andre feebly as Cavanaugh urged him to get up and sit down with the other wounded lads. "I can't—" As soon as he stood on his feet, he swayed to the side and knocked into me. I reacted quickly and managed to catch him before he bumped his head again on the ground and pulled him to the other lads.
No more shots were fired. The endless thunder erupting in the space between two ships had finally faded, and the Resolve had come out of the battle neither victorious nor defeated, for our enemy had taken refuge in a strange phenomenon of mid-morning fog.
Nearly a quarter of the crew was jammed in the surgeon's cockpit, moaning, bleeding, dying, and aching. I leaned against a wall, exhausted and dour from what appeared to be an enormous debacle in my eyes.
My arms were crusted with lines of blood that were not my own, and my clothes would forever be tainted pink from the life-sustaining liquid that squirted and streamed out of each sailor's wound. Even when Roland had come down again and informed us that there was a cease fire and unsure victory, I still shook from the horrors of operation. When Cavanaugh was impelled to cut open another patient for the umpteenth time, I could not stand it anymore and I abandoned him to vomit into an empty barrel. And while I retched, I took the time to finally shed the tears I kept inside, knowing that my femininity would be safely veiled through my gagging coughs.
The battle might have been over, but there was still so much to clean up, and to add to my enervated and depressed self, I had to worry over Andre's condition, bold enough to wonder if he would join the pile of the dead.
"Jack," said a voice.
I lay in my hammock with my head resting on the back of my hand, and I stared at the wooden floor, scarcely enjoying the gentle swaying of my hammock as it moved in unison with the wobble of our injured boat. I had cleaned my arms and face from any blood and grime, but my clothes were still stained, and I bothered not to wash them for my own sake. I had no other clothes to wear but the ones I had on my back at that moment, and therefore I'd have nothing to wear to conceal my body while I waited for my attire to dry. "Jack," it repeated.
"Roland," I sighed, shifting in my hammock so that I faced him. He looked pretty grieved himself. His hair was clumping in the evident weeks of dirt and grime, and on his face were a few scratches, not many, but he still got some physical injury from the battle, if not more.
He sat on the opposite end of my hammock. Taking off his hat, he looked at me, giving me his full attention, and I finally felt comfortable enough to speak. "Roland, was it like this when you were on the Paramount? I-I-I just can't..." I choked on my own words.
"Jack," he began, his eyes wandering off to find the right words. "Easy there, brother. I'm sorry you had to be right beside the dying. You'd think that with men's lust for adventure, we'd have enough valor to never be discouraged, never feel defeat, but to be honest, after the first battle, me and my mates were silent for days. We saw everything differently."
"But I don't like how we do so much for nothing," I croaked, feeling my eyes flooding again. "You think you're in control but everything slips out of your grasp like sand through your fingers. I feel bad that I couldn't have helped save more men, Roland. They died like flies in that room."
"Sacrifices are needed, Jack. Every man who boards a man-of-war has vowed to fight for indomitable Britannia until he dies, and that is exactly what these men have done. We don't have control over anything, Jack. Trust me. I thought the same thing; and as life resumed, as the more experienced sailors tossed away the terrors of a sea battle and went on with their lives, I realized that certain things will always happen and it is up to us whether to embrace what has come our way or continue to equivocate it." He patted me reassuringly on the shoulder, and I had become so overwhelmed by everything that I had to excuse myself from his company. I couldn't allow my tears to be seen by all of the ailing men in the area. It would have been too bizarre for their eyes.
By the time I had recovered from my sobs, I returned to my hammock and found Bennett lingering about the area, speaking with another sailor. He seemed to notice me come forward and issued his greetings cautiously. He must have noticed that I looked a wreck.
"Greetings Jack," he said. "Well done today."
"I suppose so," I replied glumly, looking at the ground. It was obvious that I was not in any mood to be talking, and yet, like always, he persisted. However, this time, he wasn't uncommonly forward.
"War's not something easy to get accustomed to," he began. "I was twelve when I killed a man and fired a gun for the first time. And when you come out of battle rather unscarred, you begin to feel very fortunate."Then you must feel like the luckiest man in the world, aye? was what I wanted to say, but I couldn't.
"Here," he started, sitting himself down on a nearby crate and shrugging. I only looked at him with a befuddled expression, and he eased my terrors about war with a brief show of some scars on his arms and the stories behind them. After growing comfortable speaking to him about such things, we switched topics and I gently began to find myself asking about his personal life.
"Ya have family up in England?" I questioned..
"Yes," he said simply.
"What do you do up in England when you're there?"
"I haven't been home since I was twelve, Jack. Besides, I really have no intent on returning to Portsmouth."
"But yer family's there. Why'd you want to—"
"As far as I see it, Jack, I have no family in Portsmouth. My father cares more about his damned slave ships than his own children. My mother has left him for another man and to that man she has given six children, compared to my father's disgraceful three," he huffed. "My older brother, Charles, is a first lieutenant in the Navy and is stationed in the Mediterranean. He is wed to a fine young woman and he has deserted my father's discreditable business for a more civilized life on the sea. He has been my only worthy exemplar and it is my wish to follow in his footsteps."
"You said there were three of you. Who is the other?"
"My younger brother. Charles is twenty seven and my younger brother is the offspring of my father and his new wife of six years. His name is Maddox, and he is the sole pride and joy of my father, for he knows that he is the only one left to learn the loathsome trade of slavery. Both Charles and I made it clear as soon as we could think for ourselves that our father's trade was bloody, murderous and barbaric."
"How old is your father then, Bennie?" I questioned. If his brother was twenty seven and he was seventeen and Maddox was six, then how old could their father possible be?
"He is forty seven," answered Bennett, not the least bit ashamed of his father's age. "Let the old man rot. It is strange that he has remarried to a woman younger than Charles."
"My God, that is frightening," I gasped. "How old is your new mum?"
"Twenty five. She was married to him when she was nineteen and he, forty one." He laughed mockingly at the fact. "Funny world we all live in. To have a mother younger than your brother. It is very strange indeed."
"What would you do in Portsmouth? I know you wouldn't go to taverns and get as drunk as Davy's sow, but still… you must have found someway to occupy yourself."
"I read, wrote, played my instruments. At times, I'd go to festivities. I'd play cricket whenever Charles came home."
"Cricket?"
"Yes. Have you not heard of it? Quite popular in England. I'm not sure over here."
"Never heard of it," I replied, wrinkling my eyebrows at the thought. "But you said you played instruments. Did ya take lessons? What do you play?" I asked eagerly.
"I play violin, flute… some piano, and the like," he replied, not the least bit proud of what he could do. The lad dispirited himself too much. For all the times he failed to give himself credit, I'd flatter him until he did. "I had a friend who new more than I did and came by often to teach me. He was from the North, a Scot, but very talented." At the mentioning of a Scotsman, my eyes lit up and I stood up eagerly and faced him.
"What was the Scotsman's name? Ian?" I demanded. Bennett was bewildered at my sudden excitement and he grinned out of the rather uncomfortable situation, though I had a feeling that any time I was too excited was uncomfortable for him.
"My God, how do you know that?" he exclaimed, his face contracting in an odd mix of amazement and perplexity.
"I know him! He's the husband of one of my friend's sisters! Heard him playin' his flute last Christmas and… and…"
"He was in Port Royal during the Christmas season, Jack. He told me he had celebrated it with his wife's family, the Lockes."
"And the Turners!" Realizing the mistake I had just made, I clasped my mouth shut with both my hands and backed away from him, certain that he would question how I knew Ian was in Port Royal if I had never been there myself.
Bennett approached me slowly, understanding my sudden desire to get away from him as soon as possible. His slow, steady steps though only made my feet stick to the ground where I was trapped with a clueless mind. "Jack, I thought you said—"
"Forget what I said!" I shouted through my hands.
"No, Jack. I am certain you have told me that you have never been to Port Royal and I doubt that by your behavior that Roland could have ever had the time to inform you about Ian." He paused right in front of me and I grew weak at being so close to him. "Jack, why have you been lying?"
"I haven't!" I squealed behind my clasped hands.
"I think you are," said Bennett, reaching up to my face. Panic struck me because I was so afraid of him getting me to spill out the truth. As soon as his fingers grabbed hold of my hand, trying to move it away from my mouth, I stumbled backwards and fell over a crate, landing hard on my back.
"Dammit!" I grumbled. On instinct, Bennett reached down to help me, but for once, I declined his help. "I'm fine," I said, dusting myself off. "I think I'll go get myself some dinner. Goodbye, Bennie," I spat hurriedly before running off to elude Gareth Bennett's sure to be baffled face.