Chapter 23: Ancient Ruins
I was given my orders as soon as I returned to Carlisle's cabin, which, to my relief, was not so full of officers. He stationed me at Division Eight on the first gun deck, and I was to be commanding it during drills and battle. The previous commanding officer was a fairly learned, but lazy, Midshipman Blevins, a young man of about twenty-two or so. But he would be taking my place as commanding officer if I had to attend to Doctor Cavanaugh, for Captain Carlisle still wanted me to assist in surgery, finding my knowledge vital on a ship.
That night I dined with the captain and his officers, eating my first exquisite meal since leaving Portsmouth about three months ago. It was delicious and the men were very merry, even Thorne, who I assumed was only merry because he was getting as much wine in him so as to not remember the night he had to dine with Jack Barlow, a rotten boy in his dark eyes.
Some of them spoke of their wives or sweethearts, and as drunk as they were, one had the nerve to ask if I had a lass back home and I replied that thankfully, I didn't. I discovered that Carlisle had a wife in London who was with child, and that Lieutenant Johnson was engaged. I found it all quite heartwarming to hear the men focus on their loved ones in the midst of raging sea battles and war. They said not a word that offended any of their women and spoke only of one, so I knew the men I sat with were loyal, laudable gentlemen. Unlike some men on board the ship.
There was a toast to me and three cheers, and after the drink was finally drunk to empty bottles, the captain dismissed us all, and I returned to my new quarters in the midshipmen's berth. Of course, I did not go there without paying a visit to my old hammock and a pleased John, who finally had it all to himself.
We shook hands in parting because we both knew he might be taking orders from me, so it was best to leave as the mates we were. Then I went off to sleep for four hours until I was called up for the Middle Watch. And thankfully for me, Griffith was on the First Watch and therefore could not enjoy his sure to be euphoric pleasure of having Jack Barlow as a midshipman and within an arm's reach.
When the time came in the morning for drills, I was given a quick lesson from Second Lieutenant Johnson about manning the guns. He directed my division the first time, pointing out the order in which the guns should be fired when under attack.
Including me, the commanding officer, my division consisted of seven men. There was of course, the ship's boy acting as powder monkey, who was in charge of carrying the explosive gun cartridges up from the magazine to the guns. There was one sailor to pass the ammunition, then next was the swabber, who dampened the freshly fired barrel to prevent sparks. One sailor loaded the gun, with another who turned and raised the barrel in a specific direction, and lastly was the gun captain who monitored his men and fired. I, too, was given authority to fire a gun if more than one needed to be ignited, but for the first few drills, I let the gun captain do his job.
It was also my duty to keep my men's morale up in times of battle, to give their courage support and to give patriotic words of victory and prize. That was something I could easily get done, though wouldn't the men be steaming if they knew they were taking orders from a woman.
Lieutenant Johnson had given me one drill to command to see how I faired, and it was time to see how well Midshipman Barlow could lead.
"Run 'em out, boys!" I yelled, raising my arm in the air. I'd swing it down to signal the moment to pull the cord, light the fuse and fire the cannon in a glass-shattering explosion.
The men pulled on the ropes to bring the gun back out the port hole after recoiling from previous shots and the gun captain bowed before gun number one, his hand ready to pull and his eyes aiming at the open sea. "Fire!" I screamed, and with one swift pull, the gun erupted with a 'boom' and bucked back, smoke streaming from its barrel.
"Reload!" I commanded, grabbing the gun powder horn and moving over to gun number one. I ordered the gun captain to aim and fire off gun three, and he went off to do so while the rest of the men filed to reload gun one. "Worm and sponge!" The barrel was cleaned of sparks and instantly the gun cartridge went in along with the cannonball. And while they did their job with much ease, I poured a bit of the gun powder into the quill by the fuse and locked it in place before laying my hand on the cord.
The lads were over before I was, and they had backed away from the gun as they were taught and waited for me to fire. I narrowed my eyes on an imaginary French ship in the distance and with a yank, sent a whistling cannonball into the blue sea.
"Well done, Barlow," said Johnson, stepping forth from his spot of observation behind me. "You might want to be quicker with the powder but you did fairly decent for your first time. You call the orders now." He bowed his head, and I thanked him for his assistance before turning back to my division who was awaiting my command.
"Cast loose the gun!" I yelled and the boys jumped to it with just the slightest bit of a grumble. Oh, but you will, I repeat, will, learn to take orders from this puny middy, yes, you will. And after a few more circles with the guns, the lads were beginning to get used to my control, and I began to see the strange sparkle of top authority in my eyes.
A few days passed. I improved in my skills as a midshipman, and my gun crew grew remarkably more welcoming of my authority as the days flew by. Some of them would even stay behind after drills for a while to chat with me and to discuss better maneuvers to fire more efficiently. However, even if my own gun crew was treating me with respect, the division under Griffith and Lonan's leadership continued to ridicule me.
And Griffith, with his natural superiority amongst the crew was hailed as the exemplar for all of us, and so whatever he did, the others were encouraged to do the same. And so, as soon as he began mocking me, other disagreeable crew members began to do likewise. But my division was not about to tolerate the jeers with mere ignorance. They fought back, often with curses and a few threats, and it appeared as if each time it occurred, the harsher the threats became. And although I appreciated my division's defense for me, I regarded it as a red-hot warning that a mutiny was bound to happen soon, and it wouldn't be particularly over power. In the simplest of terms, any revolt would have occurred because of me.
My gun crew and I had just finished another few hours of drills, not to mention a brief war of words with Griffith's disgraceful lot. Charley was the ship's boy assigned in my division and he looked up at me with a frown.
"I'm sicka those lads teasin' us, Jack," he grumbled. "I mean, Mista Barlow. Sorry, 'bout that, mate."
"Nay, Charley. I'll still be a ship's boy at heart. Ye go ahead and call me Jack if ye want. Just not in front o' the other officers."
"Aye. Awright then. But those coves are jus' bein' bloody arses, they are. They can't stop and be nice for once an' I'm sicka hearin' their stupid jokes. I jus' wanna beat the face of that pretty fairy Griffith." He clenched one of his hands and slapped it into the palm of his other flatly, and I couldn't help but chortle a bit.
"Aye, a fairy he be, Charley. Don'tcha jus' wanna sock his pretty face in?"
"Ye don't know how much I want to."
John was coming from his own division as the men began to separate and go off to their other duties, and he waved a sooty hand at Charley and me as he approached. As was common between ship's boys, Charley and John greeted each other with a few soft punches on the arms and perhaps a few mild taunts towards each other. And after saying hello to me, John went off to attend to his watch and Charley followed after, leaving me to be reminded of where my duty lied, which was with Doctor Cavanaugh.
For the remainder of the afternoon, I stayed in the company of the beloved ship's surgeon. He continued with teaching me more about operations, tools and the like. I was already quite adroit in the operating situation. I could hand Cavanaugh his tools swiftly and work nimbly with a patient in pain. It never occurred to me how many occupations on board the ship I had to balance. I had been a ship's boy and was still very much of one. I was recently assigned as an officer and was so being educated thoroughly about naval decorum, and I had been learning about the human body, nature, medicine and vital operating procedures since the beginning of my first voyage. All of that and I doubted any of the lessons would be helpful when I finally turned pirate with my good old Jack Sparrow.
But in order to do so, I still needed to get (safely) off this damn ship.
That evening, as the majority of the midshipmen were gathering in our berth, we all sat down to our suppers at the very narrow table that had to fit all ten of us that were present. We were all quite squashed in, but thankfully I was wedged between my brother and Dobbin, so I had nothing to fear.
A steward brought in the food and some bottles of wine and rum. I didn't drink as I ate, knowing I had to be careful around so many men. I couldn't afford getting drunk. The other mids though, had a jolly time drinking and eating until they were red in the face and laughing at absolutely everything. Even Dobbin and Roland had taken a few drinks and were all enjoying the merry atmosphere rather well, and I soon desired to be accepted in their fun, and I seriously considered taking a few drinks myself.
"C'mon, Jackaroe," sputtered a chuckling Griffith. "Have a shot of rum, would you?" To make the alcohol all the more appealing, he popped the cork out of a new bottle and took the first long swig, and then afterwards he offered it to me, his wild eyes ordering me to say yes.
I remembered the taste of rum as I stared at the bottle. It was such a good drink. It was spicy and hot as it went down my throat, yet at the same time it left me cool and refreshed, not to mention entirely care-free. It was exactly what I needed to get my mind off of Bennett, and my hand trembled as it inched to the bottle. Only, I couldn't reach it because of my short arms. Griffith took note of this and got up and pushed Dobbin out of the way and sat beside me, grinning simply. "Easier to hold now, isn't it?" he said, taking my hand and forcing my fingers to wrap around the bottle. "Drink up, Jackaroe."
I heard Roland mutter something behind me, and Dobbin was still conscious enough to shake his head at me. But I'd only take a few sips. Just a few. I brought the bottle mouth to my lips and was about to take a gulp when the door to the midshipmen's berth swung open and in walked Bennett.
"Drinking are you?" he asked, almost as a laugh and the other lads all cheered in agreement as our Senior Midshipman made his way in. "You don't mind if I join in, right?" No one protested, and so while I was about to go on with my first untaken sip, Bennett swiped the rum bottle from my hands and chugged nearly half of it down before standing still for a few minutes, dazed and with tired watering eyes.
"I needed that," he said, burping afterwards. He then went off to his cabin, leaving me insulted, and the other lads entertained. And if it were not for his interruption, I would have taken my gulp of rum and condemned myself to the gallows. But perhaps I had been condemned from the beginning.
The following morning, I woke to the sound of an echoing bell. I calmly interpreted the sound as an indication that we were switching watches again, and so I got up from my hammock, yawned with a stretch of my arms and lazily donned my coat and shoes as I decided to see what the men were up to. I grabbed my hat from my sea chest, fitted it over my head and was about to take a step onto the ladder that led up to the main deck above me when the ship rocked violently to the side and the air boomed with a stunning explosion.
I was caught so off guard that I tumbled to the ground, and as I rose, still in a state of utter bewilderment, I heard the shout to Beat to Quarters, and I turned back to my sea chest and grabbed my sword. Some of the mids were still snoring through the blast and I was quick to shake them up or slap their faces real good in order to get them up and to their divisions. For Pete's sake, we were being attacked while caught completely unawares!
As the other lads hurriedly dressed and went up the ladder, through the hatch and up to the main deck, I did not follow. Instead of going up with them, I went down to the orlop deck, knowing my first position as surgeon's assistant.
"Who fired? What's happening?" I asked as I gathered his operating tools and retrieved countless bottles of liniment, sedative and anesthetic.
"The French through what I've heard. It's a foggy morning and not even the sailor with the best eyes could have seen the cannon fire coming," replied Cavanaugh. "But I assure you that Carlisle has had enough of this. He will take that ship or die trying."
"What do I do if we ram her bow?" I asked shakily, fearing the worst and the worst was what indeed came.
Cavanaugh, dear Cavanaugh, looked at me with an expressionless face that only ended up relenting to a smile. "Why, you gather your division and slaughter those French like no tomorrow." He grinned and I felt my throat tighten.
I had been in battle before, but I was always ensured some sort of safety. As a ship's boy, I wasn't one to go into battle head on. And my challenge to that French captain long ago was just a selfish act to flaunt my skill, which was odd because I had none whatsoever. Only now, as an officer, I was expected to be valiant. I was expected to die for my country. But back then when I had challenged the French captain, I wasn't afraid of dying because I thought the only way I'd die was through the gallows. And during that time I thought I'd never get discovered.
But secrets had leaked out. Conspiracies were being schemed into existence and my duty was to fight for men who would only kill me in the end. "Cavanaugh," I said, looking up at him. "I have a confession to make." For a moment, the doctor stared at me with wide eyes, brought to a complete halt at such a misplaced statement.
"Jack, I believe you should wait until after battle before you—"
"No, please. I need to tell you this if anything happens to me during battle. I'm not who I say I am."
My voice was pummeled into nothingness as the Resolve returned fire to her enemy ship and the gun decks above us roared with consecutive detonations. It felt as if the world was bristling with rage and disappointment at us and all the lies and secrets I had told to protect my already sentenced self.
Yet, through the booms, Cavanaugh seemed to understand the words that never came out of my mouth, and he nodded. "You do your duty now, and we will discuss this later. Is the table prepared?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is the water ready?"
"It is."
"Is the sand nearby to supply friction?"
I nodded.
"Good. Now grab your sword and meet the men above. This battle will be won for Britannia."
My heart was pumping and my mind was overflowing with thoughts and orders and memories and predictions, but I kept my eyes focused directly ahead of me. Our enemy had fired at us again, and the starboard side of our hull had received a crippling lesion that sent jagged little knives of splinters flying in all directions—into arms, and legs and faces, and puncturing vulnerable human skin.
I hurried onwards past the second gun deck and to the first above it, where my division was awaiting my order. I knew some other midshipman was covering for me, but my gunmen had grown to accept me with more than just forced obedience. They looked to me as their leader, although I feared that I would fail them.
Rising from the smoke of gunfire, I stepped onto the first gun deck, scurrying past the different firing crews and looking for my division. "Charley!" I yelled, knowing my loyal ship's boy would be the first to respond at my arrival.
"Jack?" came a frail cry from where my men were supposed to be firing, but the boy's voice was overpowered with a growl.
"Get moving, Barlow!" it yelled. I saw Lieutenant Kempe shouting at me, and I saluted speedily at him as a form of my apology.
Through the smoke, I managed to find Charley and he was delivering a cartridge to one of the guns and I made my presence known. "Level the gun!" I commanded, pushing one of the men forward to the gun I was directing them to. "Peterson, Lovelace! Take out the tampion and prime!"
The gun was loaded and directed in the said position. "Guns two, four and six, fire under my command!" I bellowed, moving towards gun six and grabbing hold of the lanyard. From behind I heard Lieutenant Kempe shout, "Fire as she bears!" and my eyes were focusing on any glimpse of the gleaming bark of our French enemy.
And then we saw the enemy's fine hull gradually come into view.
The divisions to my left fired first, and mine followed. I heard nothing but the thunder of the guns and the injuries crashing upon the French ship, but my body had grown accustomed to the movement of battle. I paced along my division, yelling for guns one, three and five to fire while the ones just used were being reloaded.
Charley came stumbling back up, panting and covered with soot as he handed the gun captain another cartridge. "Ram home shot and wad!" I screamed, feeling the smoke burning my eyes. The men seemed to complete the orders blindly, but with saving speed and Kempe once again ordered for us to fire, only this time, we were to aim for the rigging and sails.
The demand proved insufficient, for the French had narrowly missed our shots and the majority of the gun crews failed in hitting a target, but I repeated the orders to reload and readjust, and the lieutenants on our gun deck began to get frustrated.
Lieutenant Thorne stormed up to Kempe in the ashen mist, his face scratched from piercing splinters. "Aim better, dammit!" he barked.
"Our enemy ship is faster than we are, Thorne. You can't expect—" Kempe's bitter defense was severed as our ship was mauled by a damned good hit from the French on our larboard side.
The wall exploded in a hurricane of perforating fragments of wood and two whole divisions were hit dead on, with the men collapsing to the ground like flies, their moans and screams lingering in the arid smoke. As the sound of the blast echoed away, Lieutenant Johnson's voice rose from the larboard gun crew which he commanded.
"Divisions three and four injured, Mister Thorne. Inform the captain if you please!" His last word was battered into oblivion as our clever French opponents fired again, sending grapeshots careening through the massive holes already present from their previous attacks and lodging the hot, round little masses into the limbs of fresh British subjects.
I shrank away from the larboard side of the ship and my division was caught as dumb as I was for they worked only under one's command, and I had not uttered one word. Divisions two and one were hit badly, along with the already injured divisions three and four, and Dobbin was part of that division.
My worries were prohibited and considered stupid, and before I could even ask about Dobbin, Kempe pushed my head to look at my division and to resume my duty as Thorne ran above decks to send word to our captain.
Charley reappeared from below decks and came up to me, bearing another ammunition cylinder in his tiny hands. "Half o' the divisions on the second gun deck are injured… badly, sir and men are filing down to the surgeon's cockpit like water."
"No talking, Charley," I snapped, grabbing the ammunition and passing it to the gun being loaded. "Back below. You keep your eyes on your duty, nothing else, understand?" The boy sniffled and ran off, and I was heartsick to see him go, so innocent and young yet covered on the outside with filth that would be hard to wash away.
I turned to Peterson and gave him the right to fire under Kempe's command, and I went to find our governing lieutenant. "Sir, half of the divisions below are sacked and—"
"Aye," he growled, pushing past me and sticking his head out of one of the portholes. When he brought his head back in swiftly he turned to me with a nod. "Starboard battery ready?" he questioned, yelling it to me.
"Aye, sir!"
"Johnson! Muster your men! Ready larboard battery!"
"Aye!" returned Johnson. Kempe moved in what appeared to five giant steps to the ladder leading down to the deck and exchanged a few yells with some officer on the main deck above us.
"Captain's turning hard a' larboard!" he shouted. "Barlow, Griffith, Blevins, Turner!" he yelled. "Ready starboard battery, fire as she bears on the up roll!"
We roared a unified 'Aye!' and I leapt to my crew, having them load all six guns and peering out into the seemingly clear main as our ship turned sharply to the left as we wheeled about.
The gleaming bark of those damned French bastards appeared again and at once we fired, launching consecutive bruising blasts to its unscarred side. And this time, we made our marks defined and deadly.
But our men gave no cheer. We set to refilling the guns instantly, and the men scurried to budge the gun slightly to the left or right to better the aim; or to raise or lower the gun barrel to fire more precisely. Charley resurfaced from below and handed his cartridge to one of the men who handed it to the loader.
Our ship was rounding about tightly, as our larboard side prepared to fire back at the enemy vessel.
"Barlow, below to Cavanaugh this instant!" yelled Johnson. I was caught off guard, my orders to my division suddenly shortened to a halt and turned to face my commanding officer. "Take two men with you, and bring the injured below."
"But, sir!" I protested.
"Now, Mister Barlow!"
With a muffled growl I stole away two men from my gun crew and together commanded them to haul the wounded bodies down below. As I ran down to the orlop deck, I heard the gun decks above groan as more shots were exchanged and the ship pitched violently, the sound of wood cracking and splitting becoming all the more apparent in my ringing ears.
The battle was getting hot.
"Cavanaugh!" I screamed, coming down with my men dragging a few injured sailors. I rolled up my sleeves and nodded to him and he motioned over to a separate table where a young man lay. Without a word, I came to the point I was directed and looked down at the man lying down.
It was Dobbin.
"Dammit," I muttered, leaning down over Dobbin and prying open his closed eyes. "Speak, brother. Can ye hear me, mate?"
"Leg," he wheezed, grimacing as he said it. "Leg." I glanced southward to his limbs and felt my stomach twist at what I saw. Dobbin's left leg was the cushion for several large, bloody splinters that penetrated through flesh and bone, sticking up in a mess of sticky crimson paste.
"Oh, God," I gasped. "They're gonna have to come out, Dobbin. I gotta pull 'em out."
"No," he said, his hand weakly grasping my wrist. "Cut it off. Cut my damn leg off."
Echoing above me were the booms of another successful firing and the footsteps of the running men on the gun decks were overwhelmed by a greater cheer. Something had occurred that clearly put us in favor of winning, but my mind did not process that in the moment Dobbin had asked me to cut off his leg. All that I heard was the pounding of my heart and the short breaths seeping through Dobbin's closing, blood-lined mouth.
"Nay, Dobby, I can't. I ca—"
"For the love of God, do it!" he shouted, and again there was a subsequent explosion that reverberated through the bones of the creaking, wounded ship, with the howls of the dying men surrounding me on the blood-sodden floor. Their cries were echoes, and the hopeless men dreaded the echo of the freshly fired cannonballs and the force it inflicted onto the enemy that had injured them. Victory meant nothing to a man who was about to die because he would never achieve victory. Death would always remain undefeated in her alliance with the terrible ocean; the ocean that served as the graves of many, many poor listless souls.
"Dobbin…" I began, the tears fighting to burst out, but I would not let them fall. Crying would have distracted me. "Haul him off the table and pull the splinters outta his legs," I commanded, turning to my men.
I looked away from Dobbin as the men took him off the table and I called the next injured man up to receive treatment. Only, Lieutenant Kempe came storming down into the orlop, sword in hand and a bitter look about his face. "We're close to the ship—within a pistol shot. We're going to ram her bow. Back on deck! All men able get back on deck!"
My head swerved to Cavanaugh and he nodded for me to go, so I dropped the medical tools in my hand, wiped the blood off on my trousers and sprinted up to the main deck behind Kempe with the men capable of duty following us.
We emerged from the last gun deck and stepped onto the open deck under the broken sails and torn rigging. A handful of unfortunate sailors hung from the knotted mess of lines and ropes that were ripped apart from the blazing impact of cannonballs. I almost wanted to shield my eyes from the sight, but such events were unavoidable. I would have to suffer with the real nightmares.
My eyes burned from the fog of smoke hovering over our ship and the enemy ship, thus proving our excessive use of gunpowder and ammunition to get us this close to victory. Through the mist I peered for any sign of our enemy and found them dangerously close to us, her French flag still hanging limply by her stern in the still, dry air.
"Tell Mister Johnson to organize the starboard battery to fire for her mainmast," bellowed a voice that I did not heed. My eyes were fixed on the French ship, for I could almost feel the launch of firepower waiting to burst in the standstill both vessels were at.
"Aye, Captain," replied Kempe, saluting as he turned to sprint back to the first gun deck. It was only when he left did I turn and realize that I was standing a few feet away from the Captain, Lieutenant Thorne and the warrant officers.
"Thorne, assemble boarding parties. Call up the off-watch, and alarm Mister Bennett of my plans. Get all men on the second gun deck to me. Make sure they are armed and ready to repel boarders shall our enemy get to us first," said Carlisle, calmly gesturing to Thorne as the white-wigged man departed.
I looked at Captain Carlisle, a shield of water over my eyes for my womanly heart and stomach could not bear to withhold such atrocities of war. This was our final battle. This was to be a big win for our country. For them. Not for me.
With a sharp release of breath, he pulled out his spyglass and brought it to his right eye, scanning the movement of our composed opponent, his mouth bent down in hate and impatience.
"Will you just stand there, Barlow?" said he, not even looking back at me. "Or shall you find your division and prepare them for battle?"
"Aye, sir," I replied meekly, turning away from the starboard rail and swallowing hard.
"This is for your country, Mister Barlow," he added, noticing my weakness but still keeping his eye singled out on our elusive foe. "For your king. For your brothers on board. Do not disappoint them, lad."
Aye, sir.
I had not the strength or will to utter another word of agreement to him. Fear had dropped its rope around my neck and I could feel it slowly tightening with every step of progress we made towards triumph. Success for the Resolve would only drop me from the hanging platform and my brothers on board would watch with contempt as I struggled and choked under the pressure around my neck. But perhaps I shouldn't have had such a negative view on the end of this battle. I still had brothers on board who would watch over me.
With a fleeting spirit, I trotted back below deck and to my division who waited in agony for the command to fire. Soon, lads. Soon.
"Peterson," I said. "Arm your men with pistols and cutlasses. We're to board the enemy vessel on the captain's order."
"Aye, sir," said the man, and he left shortly to get the weapons.
To my startling surprise, I felt a hand on my shoulder and I spun around, so tense from the battle that I anticipated that anything that touched me needed to be terminated.
"Brother," I gasped, relaxing a bit and feeling myself shiver from being so uptight. "Good luck to you. I hope for the best," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure if I meant it. But dear brother, so calm in that boyish head of his, smiled instead.
"To hell with bloody hope, Jack. You'll pull through. You always do."
And to follow his gentle words of reassurance, a low rumble thundered from the enemy ship and struck us straight at our broken hull.
The men howled like wolves as they returned fire, the guns bucking back as fire burst from their spouts and out to the grey ocean. Something had hit my side, and I was enveloped in a silent pain for less then a second before finding the hurt gone. Within the blink of an eye, I was back into the calamity of war.
"Fire for her mainmast, lads!" rang Kempe's call as we hurriedly regrouped and responded to the crippling new wound delivered to the starboard battery.
I vaulted to my division and pushed the slouching back of one of my men towards the closest cannon. "Recoil! Swab! Load!" I cried, pacing to and fro amongst my sector, all the while aspiring to muster my courage should we have to board our enemy.
"Run 'em out! Lovelace, push left! Faster! God dammit!" I barked, exerting my harsh authority as much as possible to keep my men from panicking. But perhaps I had done it more to keep my own self from abandoning the mission in blatant, deplorable cowardice.
"Raise the barrel!" I ordered, leaning forward towards one of the guns and indicating with a lift of my hand to reposition it. "Stand clear!" I said, grabbing hold of the lanyard and shooing any surrounding man away.
Crouching low so as to have my eyes at level with the barrel, I stared up the sleek cannon and into the square space of the port hole. I had looked up just as the tip of our saboteur's foremast passed out of view. And there… the gleaming bark of the thick mainmast came into aspect.
As soon as I laid my eyes on it, my arm yanked fiercely at the lanyard and instigated the glowing sparks that shot out the gun spout, launching the iron ball into the air with a tail of disintegrating smoke behind it.
And wham! My shot had managed to chip off a piece of the mast, and the divisions after us added their own attacks to further bruise our foe's means of mobility. But it was Roland's division that fired the most detrimental shot to those damned Frenchies.
"Well done, lads!" applauded Kempe, grinning from within the haze. We all gave a brief roar of cheers, only to have our joy interrupted with Thorne's arrival from above deck, his face tight from excitement.
The yells that were previously exchanged between officers in order to get a message through were not necessary now that we had damaged our enemy to near immobility, and we had taken up the assumption that we would come out triumphant. However, Lieutenant Johnson must have seen that such a silence and interest in hearing what Thorne and Kempe would be talking about was dangerous to our advantage, and so prompted us to keep our eyes fixed on the sea and to our duty.
The only thing I did decipher from their murmurs was an "Aye, sir," from Kempe, and afterwards Thorne departed and Kempe addressed us all.
"Mister Turner, you're division shall command this ship as soon as we ram her bow. All other men to Captain Carlisle above decks. Quickly now!"
Every man fled from their positions and scurried up the steps to the open deck above us, and I followed behind them, wishing Roland good luck with a wave of my hand as I ascended up the steps. And once under the tattered sails, broken lines and smoky air, I caught sight of our destination.
"Barlow! To your division!" shouted Kempe as the men divided to assemble boarding parties.
I wove myself through the current of men rushing to and fro to arm themselves as we prepared to board. Oh, God, I thought, my stomach knotted and gorged with worry. Please don't let this be my last day. Please, please, please…
So occupied with my apprehension, I ran smack into Mister Sumner, and he was quick to seize my arm and throw a belt of pistols around my neck before releasing me back into the swarming throng, and the push and nudge of the movement of the men around me eventually brought me to the familiar face of my armed gun crew. Charley had a cutlass in his hand and he grinned as I approached.
"We're to follow Lieutenant Johnson's division, sir," informed Lovelace. I nodded and swallowed hard, looking down at myself and my empty hands and the hideously heavy belt of pistols that hung from my side. My left hand gripped the hilt of my sword and I pulled it out, the blade flickering in the light but I recognized no brilliance in itself. All of it was lost now that it had been used to kill a man, and would be used to kill many more.
"Charley," I said, taking in a few breaths and calming myself, though my heart was about to explode from treacherous worry. "Stay close t' me, all right?"
"Aw, Jack," he whined, raising his cutlass. "I'll be fine on me own. I'll show these damn French!" And some of the other men gave a few chuckles of encouragement to the lad, and so I decided to end my wish of keeping Charley safe beside me.
"Fine, fine," I sighed, readying my own weapon. "If any of you need help, you call for me, savvy?"
"Aye, sir," said my men in unison and I smiled timidly at them, surprised at their loyalty. But the happiness was shattered as we nosed up against our enemy ship and rammed against her bow with exceeded force, causing the bowsprit of our ship to collide with the one of the French ship's, and the boats met in a calamitous crack! The wood broke as the force crushed the timber and amidst the attack, our officers still kept calm in the heat of battle.
"Grappling hooks away!" yelled Mister Sumner. "Drop the gangplanks!"
Moving as a giant mass, we all headed for the larboard rail of our ship, men in the rigging already tossing their grappling hooks over the side and others well on their way to the gangplanks launched. Shots fired overhead from the marines at the maintop and foretop, and I was pulled into the river of men following Lieutenant Johnson to invade our foe's borders.
As I ran, my hands fumbled with trying to get a pistol out of the belt around my neck and get it cocked so I could fire at first chance, but my hands were shaking badly and I couldn't let go of my sword, despite how sweaty my left hand had become. I glanced ahead of me and through the backs of the men in front, I noticed the close range of the rail of the French vessel. Dear God, was I close to danger and death, but there was nothing I could do about it.
Luckily, I managed to free and cock a pistol before we reached the railing and as simple as a jump over a fence, Johnson and his leading crew leapt over the French railing from the gangplank we filed over and onto enemy ground.
Swords and shots clashed immediately, the cries of men soon following accompanied by some other men's roars of uncontrollable fury, and I joined in as I bumped into the railing and swung myself over it, landing with sword in one hand and pistol in the other.
I was greeted instantly by a raging Frenchman bearing a pike as his weapon of choice. I squealed and ducked, dodging the sharp tip as it grazed against my coat and ripped a tear into the back. I locked my eyes on the Frenchman's side and fired the pistol, the bullet whizzing straight into his flesh, and I almost hissed from the pain myself as the man fell down, his dark blood rushing away from him.
My eyes glanced around me and saw more of the Resolve's sailors land on the French deck and charge for any Frenchman they saw, and I tried to find Lieutenant Johnson, for I was supposed to follow his lead. "Lieutenant Johnson!" I screamed, pushing my way back into the safety of a group of British subjects funneling over the enemy's starboard rail.
Suddenly, I tripped over something that rolled across my path and I fell forward, knocking into some other men and causing them to fall down. And as I swerved my head around to catch sight of what I stumbled over, my eyes laid on the small, spherical mass of a hot grenade.
"Up!" I shouted, jumping to my feet and pulling up the men I knocked down along with me. "Up! Up!" I spun my head in the other direction and covered my face as the grenade went off and a burning sensation whipped across the back of my legs.
I rolled over on the deck and wobbled to my feet, the sting from the explosion still present, but I stole a look at my legs and saw that my stockings had only been grazed by the detonation, and no skin was burned off enough to bleed. Thankfully, none of the other men with me were badly injured and we all set out once again to thwart our French opponents.
Lieutenant Johnson happened to find me first before I found him, and it was by luck again, for I would have been skewered by another man with a pike if he had not shot the man in the back and seen me. "Try to get down below!" he ordered, handing me a few grenades to light and fire into one of the deck hatches. With a nod, I left to fulfill my order, readying another pistol should my sword prove unreliable, and it indeed did.
Another Frenchman spotted me, young and helpless as I was, while I tried to run to the closest hatchway, and he dashed straight towards me, axe in hand. Dropping the pistol, I held my sword with two hands and deflected his blow, struggling to keep him from pushing my sword to the side and hacking off my head. "Condamnez!" he growled, and I spat at his face.
"Go to hell, ye filthy French bastard!" And I pushed his axe to the side and rammed my knee straight between his legs and without even knowing it, ran the edge of my blade across his throat. He fell limply to the ground, shuddering in jerky movements, and I shook my head and walked away, a sob just waiting to escape from my mouth.
I located Peterson and Lovelace and recruited them to help light the grenades and cast them through the hatch, and miraculously, we succeeded in doing so without much interruption from our adversaries. Lovelace got shot in the leg while I threw the last grenade into the hatch and heard it successfully explode and cause a puff of smoke to burst from the opening.
"Get him back to the Resolve!" I ordered Peterson, propping Lovelace up and letting Peterson lift the man. "I'll guard you." My hands went once again to get a pistol from my belt and it was my last one. I cocked it and followed Peterson as he raced through the chaos to get over the railing and down the gangplank to the Resolve, and I kept close behind, ready to strike should anyone hurt any of my men.
We managed to get Lovelace to Cavanaugh in time and without getting ourselves further injured, and we soon returned to the fever of battle, encompassing ourselves in the whirlpool of war.
I spotted a French rogue who was large and good with a cutlass, cutting down my British sailors as if they were flies in the air. So many were being knocked down. And so I remembered the trick Will had taught me. I tossed my sword up in the air and grabbed its hilt, and taking a step back, I aimed for the man and threw my blade with all my might straight at him, and straight through him it went. As he collapsed to the ground, I rushed to the injured sailors around the groaning, dying Frenchman.
I asked them all their names and divisions to distract them from their pain. And sometimes, I'd ask if they had a wife or sweetheart back home, and that seemed to keep their spirits and strength up enough for me to get some unhurt men to bring them to Cavanaugh on the Resolve. I managed to save a few, but some were too injured to make it, and I told them all before they passed that I was sorry I couldn't save them. But the words they said to me mostly resembled, "Nay, sir. Ye did what ye could. God Bless ya."
My pistols had run out, and I retrieved my blade from the dead man's body and set out to kill any other man who kept us from winning the fight, and on many instances I nearly lost my life. One man was triumphant in getting a cut on my face and another slit my wrist as we crossed blades. But I could still move and parry and thrust, and so I deemed that I was holding out rather well for my weak experience. Little did I know that life was just shadowing the truth from me with self-gained victory.
From afar, I heard what appeared to be crying, a wailing of some sort, and I sprinted down the deck to find its source, out-speeding any Frenchman who might have found me easy game, and extremely fortunate that some bloke didn't fire a shot at my turned back.
As the crying continued, I sharpened my hearing and found a familiarity to the voice that dropped my heart like an anchor.
"Charley!" I cried, pacing around madly like a mother who had just lost her child. "Charley! Lad!"
"Jack! Jack!" came the faint call in reply and my face contorted with the desperate need to weep, but I could not. I could not. Not yet, I couldn't.
"Charley! I'm comin'!" My eyes skimmed over the deck rapidly and I found Charley huddled against the railing, a growing puddle of blood beneath his body. Oh Charley…
I landed on my knees in front of him and shoved my sword back in its scabbard as I lifted him up, my hands finding the large flesh wound inflicted onto his back. "Jack…" he said softly, his eyelids coming to a close.
"No, Charley! C'mon, now, lad. Stay awake for the Jackaroe." I stood up and sought to find the closest gangplank to send Charley over, and as soon as I found one, I moved my legs as swiftly as they would let me to it. Only, a Frenchman came up from behind and sliced me in my side, causing both a weeping Charley and myself to topple to the deck.
I squeezed my side and felt something wet seep through my shirt and my body seemed frozen with pain. I had never been so hurt before. "Jack! Jack!" howled Charley, trying to crawl away from his enemy, while I was left moaning on the floor, his pleas growing fainter by the second. "I don' wanna die, sir! Please!" I heard him beg, and it tore away his boyish pride to have to entreat to a Frenchman. Oh, Charley...
I stumbled to my feet, gripping the hilt of my sword and mustered by strength as I charged towards the Frenchman who was busy taunting Charley and speared him right through the chest. He gasped, utterly shocked by the attack and fell backwards, and I ran over to Charley who now suffered another sword wound while I wasted time trying to ignore my pain.
"Ye'll be all right, Charley, ye hear me?" I said, using my true voice. I somehow felt that if he heard a woman's voice, he'd be more soothed, and it worked.
Some of my men found me bearing a bleeding Charley in my arms and they took him and got him to safety, but that did not ensure that he'd survive.
The deck had not cleared or thinned as time passed by. The number of men appeared to remain constant, and so fighting never ceased either. I had gotten burned some more by another grenade, but my body could still move, and move I did until my mind and heart could honestly not tolerate any more blood.
But blood was what the ocean craved.
Yet, finally, Captain Carlisle's resolute voice echoed from below the top deck and informed us that the enemy had at last struck her colors, and I dropped my sword at the call, so relieved that I found no more need to fight. But I was stupid to believe that just because the colors were raised that battle was over. No proud man would ever accept defeat, and some continued to fight to the death.
I discovered it safe to make my way back to the ship, although some French were still trying to defend themselves and their country, and it was on my way back did I come across the face of the young man who I had kept buried in my sea of worries all through the battle.
A Frenchman ambushed him and cuffed him smack in the jaw, sending him backwards and to the hard deck.
"Bennett!" I screamed, my hand racing to my hip to seize my sword but it wasn't there. The scabbard was empty, and it was only then when I realized that I had dropped my sword further down the deck.
Oh no…
I looked back at him quickly and saw him get up, blood dribbling from the corner of mouth and I convinced myself that he'd be fine for a while, or at least alive until I retook my sword and ran back to him.
I hurried down the deck and had gained so much speed that I had to slide in order to stop before my abandoned blade and I picked it up in less than a second before turning around. And as my head veered back in Bennett's direction, I saw the Frenchman fire a pistol and everything I saw, felt, and heard was drained from existence as I my heart thumped for one last time… and wrenched itself dead.
The shot echoed to my ears, its boom lingering in the air as I flew forward, running as fast as I could to Bennett, but he was hit dead on and tumbled to the floor, his sword falling from his bruised hand and landing clamorously to the deck.
"Bennett!" I wailed, and another bang burst into the atmosphere, a bullet zooming fast into the Frenchman's back, and my legs had been so worked from my struggle to get to Bennett that I fell to my knees and crawled over to where they lay, pushing the dead Frenchman aside and inching towards the young man I loved.
"Bennett…" I sobbed, touching his face and seeing the blood flow increase from his bloody jaw.
"Jack?" he asked, his eyes closing and his voice failing. I looked south and saw that the bullet had hit his abdomen, and I cringed as his uniform absorbed the thick, crimson liquid.
"Bennett…" I repeated, whispering his name as my vision was at last clouded with a screen of smoke and misery.
But he said no more.
Some men appeared behind me and pulled me back, not even giving me the time to wipe the blood off his face or to run a hand through his damp hair. No, they couldn't do that for me. They had to let me leave him be, leave him to lie there alone and aching. And as they tore me away from him I sobbed all the more, all the tears I had kept inside blasting out in a fit of hysterical despair. The men who lifted him up were Lieutenant Kempe and Johnson, and the man who had pulled me away, was none other than the Captain himself.
"Bennett!" I wailed, feeling myself hauled up off the ground by a new pair of hands and carried over the railing and back to the Resolve.
And as I was brought over the side, I looked straight at Captain Carlisle's face, my own visage streaked with wet tears as I implored to him silently to keep Bennett safe—to keep everyone safe. That was his job. That was his duty.
And he stared back at me with his sea green eyes, as if for once, he could do nothing.