Storm the Fortress Page 3

  “Beginning a great book?” teased Baldish.

  “It will be a rousing tale of all my adventures,” I said. “Not sure where to start, though.”

  “Begin with Pembroke,” said Baldish with a jaw-creaking yawn. “I shall even help you with it, since I know her inside and out.”

  I wrote what he told me, or as much as I could get down:

  HMS Pembroke is a new ship that was launched at Plymouth in 1757. She weighs 1222 tons, is 156 feet in length, and 42 feet at the beam width. She carries an assortment of guns. The marines have their small arms, muskets and such. We have our cannons and, when necessary, pikes and axes. There are 26 of the twenty-four-pound great gun variety, so named because they shoot twenty-four-pound balls. Savage Billy is the best of those. There are 26 twelve-pounders, and 10 six-pounders. Pembroke may carry 420 sailors and officers, as well as 67 marines.

  I asked Baldish if we had our full complement of sailors. He said we have fewer than those numbers right now, but that we still have the French shaking in their pretty little shoes.

  At that I started laughing too hard to write, and so I left it for another time. Still, it seemed to me like a good start. We prepared to retire, which meant we hung our hammocks — slinging is how the sailors put it — so that each of us had 14 inches of sleeping space. It took several tries and several falls before I was able to get into my hammock. My messmates were greatly amused, naturally. Once in, I lay there as though I had been turned to stone, afraid that I would roll out. I stared at the deck above me and listened to the snores. Sailors fell asleep instantly, I saw, in spite of the belches, wind breaking and snorts. There was no end to it! Wondering how I would ever be able to sleep with all the noise and the stink, I closed my eyes. I slept.

  Chapter 5

  End of April, 1759

  The next day was mild and clear, and as work-filled as the one before it. There were decks to wash, breakfast to be eaten, and more supplies to be brought on board. And since the weather was fair, the order was given to loosen the sails so that they would dry. We could not have the canvas rotting.

  “This is as good a time as any, Jenkins,” said Tom. “Up you go. Show him how, Baldish.”

  We did as we were told. Up into Pembroke’s rigging I climbed, clinging to the rope ladder. I must put my feet here, Baldish said, and hold on to this part only. I must not look down. I must not fall, lest I shame us both. I could not imagine how much shame I would feel if I were lying on the deck like a squashed toad, but I obeyed Baldish. And I tried very hard not to show how frightened I felt. Up we clambered, leaving the deck far below. Though Baldish had told me not to look down, only straight ahead, I did peek down once, and it was a mistake. The sight of men below, the size of mice, made my stomach clench and my hands sweat so much I nearly lost my grip. My foot slipped and I swung about wildly. I knew I was going to fall.

  “Hold tight, William,” urged Baldish. “Both feet on the ratlines. There you are, as good as can be.”

  His voice steadied me enough for me to catch my balance again. There I stood, so high up, feeling the breeze in my hair. A gull swooped past. I was in its world now.

  When we reached the yard, a long, heavy stretch of wood where the mainsail was bundled, I was told to stop and watch. This I did willingly. Baldish and the others climbed out as nimbly as monkeys. They untied the sail and down it went, yards and yards of canvas. This is simple, I thought — nothing to it at all. I watched the sailors go from sail to sail, their feet certain on the lines, their movements confident. Below and beyond was Halifax. I could see tiny people moving along the streets, and I wondered if anyone could see me.

  “Climb up whenever you get the chance,” Baldish advised me when we were safely back on the deck. “The ship is quiet and steady here at anchor. It will be very different when we’re at sea.”

  When we were all called to assemble on deck the next morning, anyone wearing a hat or cap removed it. Then I caught sight of the two men who had been put in irons yesterday. Captain Simcoe read the charge of disobedience. Then he read the law the men had broken. Since they had disobeyed an officer, there was the possibility that they could be put to death, which seemed unbelievable to me. They had only refused to carry a sea-chest, after all!

  Without moving his lips, Baldish whispered, “I can tell what you are thinking. Orders are orders, and punishment happens when they are not obeyed. But neither lad will swing today.”

  The two men were asked if they had anything to say. They did not. The captain ordered twelve lashes for each of them. The men’s shirts were removed and the two sailors were tied over gun barrels. When Captain Simcoe said, “Bosun, do your duty,” the bosun took the cat-o’-nine-tails out of its red cloth bag and shook loose its nine metal-tipped cords. It was, I knew, why sailors talked about letting the cat out of the bag. Mr. Thompson drew his fingers through the cords to lay them out and then began whipping the first man.

  Twelve lashes do not sound like so very much, until you see what each lash can do. The first sailor somehow bore the flogging in silence. The second man screamed all through it — a terrible sound. When it was over, the men’s backs were covered in sickening bloody stripes. My face must have shown what my stomach was feeling.

  “The surgeon will see to them,” Baldish assured me as they were taken below by their messmates.

  After the flogging Tom went to see a friend of his who had been ill for a while, and I walked with him. We went down to the orlop deck and then worked our way through the ship. It was quite dark, since below the ship’s waterline are no gun ports to let in light. Tom carried a lantern to light our way.

  I did not envy the purser and Dr. Jackson working down there in the orlop; it smells of the huge piles of damp anchor line stored there. It is also where the doctor cares for sick and injured men. He was doing just that when we arrived, applying some sort of ointment to the back of one of the men who had been flogged. These two men were the liveliest of the patients. The other six simply lay there in their hammocks with their eyes closed. Whether they were asleep or awake, I could not tell. Tom leaned over his friend and spoke quietly to him. The fellow did not open his eyes, but he did manage to give a weak smile.

  If I were flogged — and I vow I never will be — I would not be in such a happy mood. But the men who had been whipped laughed and joked as though they were at a picnic. Later Tom said that there is no point in holding grudges. Do your duty. Take the good with the bad, and face the day with a clear conscience.

  Someone should mention this to Boston Ben. It will not be me, though.

  The next morning, Sunday, we all changed into clean clothing. Those men with long pigtails braided one another’s hair. Then we gathered on deck once more. Since Pembroke did not have a minister, Captain Simcoe spoke. Rather, he again read the rules, what I was told were the Articles of War. I realized that it would only be a matter of time before I made a mistake and broke one of those rules. The thought of that was not pleasant.

  Neither was the fact that Tom’s friend, the man we had visited yesterday, was dead. He had passed away in the night.

  “Joseph Jones had been poorly for a while,” said Gum Well. We were watching one of our boats take the dead man’s body ashore for burial. “He will sleep in a snug grave in Halifax. Pity he did not get a chance to take a few Frenchmen with him, though.”

  “Not right,” said Tom. “A sailor should be buried at sea. Wrap me up in my hammock, put a stitch through my nose, and a cannonball at my feet. That is all the burying I ever want.”

  “And the stitch through the nose would be for …” I ventured.

  “Just to make good and certain you are truly dead,” said Davy cheerfully. “Are you coming to watch the auction, William?”

  “What auction?” I asked.

  “Joseph’s belongings, of course,” said Davy, as though I should have known such a thing.

  It seemed unfeeling to me at first that a dead man’s possessions should be sold and he not even
in his grave yet. But I supposed it was practical. When Pembroke returned to England in time, his family would get what money was raised.

  I had little time to dwell on stitches, noses or auctions, though. Each morning the sun rose, bringing with it all the work involved in readying the ship to sail. Some of it was already completed. Pembroke’s upper masts and the crosspieces they called yards had spent the long winter lying on the deck covered in grease. All of those yards and masts had been cleaned and set back in their proper positions.

  We were like bees in a hive, all buzzing away at our toil. The carpenter and his helpers made small repairs to the ship’s boats. The sailmaker and his fellows spent endless hours making certain that every sail was in good repair, while the armourer and his assistants hammered away at anything metal that needed seeing to. Boats filled with supplies came and went all day long. I helped bring on more water, carried wood below, and stowed food in the hold. Because I was only a landsman they were common enough tasks, things I had done ashore, but here it seemed different. Here I was part of a ship, a member of the crew. Here I was a Pembroke. As for the captain, he had other duties, and one of them was entertaining the general who commanded the soldiers here at Halifax.

  The routine of fixing and mending was broken one day, though, when General James Wolfe came on board Pembroke. It caused a great deal of commotion, enough that I wrote about it in my journal that night. You would have thought the king himself was coming to call. When the general’s barge neared our ship, Mr. Thompson took a deep breath. “Man the side!” he shrieked.

  I had no idea what he meant, but others did, and so we sailors lined up to receive the general as he came aboard. Mr. Thompson blew a series of notes on a silver whistle he wears around his neck, and General Wolfe was piped aboard.

  “Grand, ain’t it?” whispered Baldish without moving his lips. He had quite a talent for it.

  I only caught a glimpse of General Wolfe, and noticed nothing special. My father used to say that greatness is not something that can always be seen. It is true enough regarding General Wolfe, who is small and delicate looking with bright red hair and a pointed nose. He coughed a fair deal and kept a handkerchief over his mouth. And he walked as though his bones hurt, like an old man would, although he seemed not much more than thirty years of age.

  Later Baldish said he had heard that it was a good thing James Wolfe had chosen the army rather than the navy — it seems he nearly vomited himself to pieces when sailing from England.

  At least I am not cursed with that problem.

  * * *

  The first day of May dawned fine and clear. It was celebrated with a good deal of enthusiasm. Vice Admiral Saunders — he commands the entire navy — saluted Rear Admiral Durell with fifteen guns. Admiral Durell then saluted Admiral Saunders with fifteen guns. The garrison made their noisy salute, and then we fell to our work.

  Later that day it occurred to me that I was being given any truly unpleasant bit of work that could be found. I was certain when I was sent to clean the heads. I had once been an emptier of chamber pots when I lived at Mrs. Walker’s inn, and that had been unpleasant enough. But there were no chamber pots on Pembroke, only two boards with holes cut into them, near the bow of the ship. At any time of day or night, sailors went up to the bow and used the heads when nature called, and they weren’t always so careful with their aim. Smeared with filth, the heads smelled worse than any chamber pot. With more than three hundred of us using them …

  I do not envy Captain Simcoe’s responsibility regarding this ship. I do, however, envy the fact that he has his own private head just off his cabin.

  I began to feel a restlessness filling Pembroke. The sailors were eager to go to sea and leave Halifax in their wake. They were keen to blaze a trail for the rest of the navy and army.

  “I was aboard Lenox when we captured the Spanish ship Princesa back in forty,” said Gum, his voice filled with pride.

  “Sixteen forty?” asked Davy, smirking.

  Gum gave him a small whack. “Seventeen forty, my lad. Now that was as fine an adventure as you could want, with three fine British ships — Orford, Lenox and Kent — chasing down the prize. Our poor captain had his hand shot off, but did that stop him from leading us? It did not!”

  “It is our squadron that will lead the way this time,” Tom explained. “Mr. Cook draws an excellent chart, and it is an excellent chart of the St. Lawrence we must have if this navy is to get up to Québec. There will be buoys to set out for the other ships to mark a safe way, and no end of important tasks, lads! We cannot have our ships running aground.”

  “What about General Wolfe and his army?” I asked. “What about Admiral Saunders and the rest of the ships?”

  “They will follow in time,” Tom told me.

  Any day now, the men said, and it seemed they were correct. On the 4th of May there was an attempt to leave the harbour, but there was so much loose ice floating around, the idea was abandoned. By the next morning, though, the wind had shifted. Pembroke seemed to shiver with excitement. I could almost feel it when I put my hand on one of her stays.

  It took almost the entire crew to ready Pembroke. Some sailors scrambled up and into the rigging. They would handle the sails. I was ordered to help pull up the anchor. It was a job for those who had no real sailing skills, and so for the moment it suited me perfectly. Round and round dozens of us walked while pushing against the bars of the capstan. Up came the anchor as the line very slowly wound up. If this had been Merry Lot, every man would have been singing a sea shanty to help the work along. Not on this vessel. Grunts and groans were the only sounds we made, since the navy believed that singing during work was bad for morale. Whether that was right or wrong, it did not matter. An hour later, the anchor was secured in place.

  A command was given to make sail. Down came the yards and yards of canvas and as the wind filled them, Pembroke began to move. It must have been a wonderful sight for anyone on shore who happened to be watching our thirteen vessels set sail at the same time. Pembroke was grand, but of course Rear Admiral Durell’s flagship Princess Amelia was even grander and larger. The ensign snapped smartly on every ship. On the admiral’s, though, a long pennant also flew high above its deck. We left the harbour behind, passing by Cornwallis Island and Cape Sambro.

  Farewell, Halifax, I thought. Farewell!

  From that morning everything changed. The crew was divided into two watches, and each was further divided into sections according to where they would work on the ship. Pembroke became a fighting machine and every one of us was a moving part in that machine.

  Davy and the other boys ran errands, cleaned, carried powder in battle and helped to look after the livestock. I was amazed to see just how many animals were on Pembroke. Most, like the calves, sheep and ducks, would end up on the captain’s table. The goat and chickens provided him with milk and eggs.

  “Always test the wind,” Davy advised me as he tossed the animals’ manure over the side. “Calf flops are all well and good, but you don’t want them sailing back at you!”

  Boston Ben, Baldish, Bob Carty and Blue Sam were experienced topmen, the pride of Pembroke. They spent most of their watch far up above the ship’s deck, where they handled the sails. Tom and Gum had once been topmen, but now they were too old and stiff for the dangerous tasks. Instead they worked on the forecastle deck. So did I, in spite of the fact that I had so little real experience. The bosun would scream an order — Mr. Thompson had a very loud voice — and we would all jump to action. If Tom and Gum had not been there to explain what the order meant, I might have been flogged for disobedience.

  “We shall make a fine forecastleman of you in good time,” vowed Tom.

  I admit I wondered about that. There was little time for wondering, though. The bosun and the other officers had no end of tasks for us to do, and Tom usually found other chores for me that he thought would help my training.

  We rose early to clean the ship. I coiled lines, touched up paint a
nd swabbed decks. All this we did to the sound of the ship’s bell being rung every half hour. There had been none of this going on when I sailed with my father years ago. “One bell means the first half hour of the watch is done,” Tom explained. “Two bells are for the next half hour. When you hear eight bells, your watch is over, and you have four hours to yourself. Four hours on and four off. The same with the dog watches, which are two hours long.”

  “Only four hours for sleep?” I asked.

  “Only four when we are at sea,” laughed Gum. “Unless the call for all men on deck is given. You will learn to sleep where and when you can.”

  We were again surrounded by chunks of ice. Even the lookouts high up in the rigging could not see empty water. I had not needed to be told how dangerous our situation was, since I could see it on the faces of the officers. Ice had sunk many a ship out here. Mr. Cook was often on the deck, speaking with the captain or studying the ice. I wondered if he noticed that I was here on the ship. But I did not ask him. A common sailor never spoke to the officers unless spoken to, since they were gentlemen and we were not. That afternoon, though, Mr. Cook sent for me. Back I went down the length of the ship, and up the flight of stairs that led to the quarterdeck. I had not yet set foot there, since it was for officers and officers in training only — almost as sacred as the captain’s cabin!

  “There you are, Jenkins,” said Mr. Cook. “I was pleased to learn that you decided to serve your king after all.” Then he turned to Captain Simcoe. “Sir, this is the young fellow I mentioned last night at supper.”

  The captain wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. To me, he did not look well. “Mr. Cook says you read and do sums very handily. And you speak some French. He thinks you should have signed on as a midshipman.”