The Powder Monkey Page 2

  I nodded, smiling encouragement, discreetly pulling my pen and a well-worn leather notebook from my pocket.

  “We had a fair wind home to Portsmouth en route from our station in the West Indies where we’d recently captured a Portugee,” Martyn Hornby began. “A spy.”

  “A spy.”

  “Aye, one much encouraged to speak his mind to avoid the tar pot and cat-o’-nine-tails during the crossing. We eventually learned from his lips of a wicked plot, hatched in the evil brain of Billy Blood, the turncoat captain of the French frigate.”

  “That would be Captain William Blood?”

  “Few alive today have heard the name, sir. But Old Bill was a holy terror in his day. Gave Lord Nelson fits at every turning, he did. His plot was this—our natural enemy, the king of Spain, and the scurrilous French meant to join their naval forces and surprise Nelson en route to Trafalgar, and send the outnumbered British fleet to the bottom. It would have worked, too, had it not been for the heroism of our captain. And a few ship’s passengers.”

  “Passengers?”

  “Hawke was his name. A peer of the realm, but an adventurous sort, being descended directly from the pirate Blackhawke. Him and a boy named Nick.”

  “Lord Hawke, you say?” I was scribbling furiously now.

  “Long dead now.”

  “How did this Lord Hawke come to be aboard the Merlin, sir?”

  “His young son, Alexander, had been kidnapped and held for ransom by the French. It was Bill’s way to kidnap children of the aristocracy and extort great sums for their release. Hawke had learned Blood had his child aboard the frigate Mystere and Hawke was of a mind to rescue him. There was some mystery surrounding his lordship’s presence on board, but Cap’n McIver gave him permission to come aboard at Bermuda, as I recall it.”

  “So, you were actually seeking out this frigate, Mystere, for more than military reasons?”

  Hornby nodded in the affirmative. “See, we’d extracted from that blasted Portugee where Blood’s ship might lie. And more. We knew he had geographical details of his scheme etched on a golden spyglass, and—”

  “I’m sorry—etched on a spyglass?”

  “Aye. And not just any glass, mind you, but one Bill stole from Admiral Lord Nelson himself the night of the mutiny! According to that damnable Portugee, the location of the intended naval ambush was so secret, Bill had scratched the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates right into the metal barrel of his glass. Now, since Bonaparte himself had a hand in the planning of the thing, it was likely a cunning trap. We had to get our hands on that glass before Nelson and the whole British fleet sailed from Portsmouth…and, by God, we did!”

  “But how?”

  “Therein lies the tale, don’t it, Mr. Tolliver?”

  I took a quick sip of my drink and said, “This Lord Hawke, it was he, wasn’t it, who saved the day? I mean to say, I know he figured prominently in Cecily’s account of the action.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but it was the boy who accompanied him who carried the day. A scrappy one, he was, only one year older than myself,” the old fellow said, tilting his chair suddenly backward at a precipitous angle against the wall. He was now much excited by the telling, and I feared a tumble and broken limbs.

  “Another powder monkey, was he?” I asked, scribbling. “Aboard the British man-o-war?”

  Another long silence as he gathered his thoughts and sipped his ale.

  “No, not young Nicholas. Lord Hawke’s fair-haired ward, he was, came aboard at Bermuda with his lordship. Nick and me became fast friends soon enough, our ages being so similar. I was nine or ten, he was eleven, I believe. When we laid alongside that frigate after a vicious exchange of rippling broadsides, young Nick and myself secretly boarded the Mystere and found ourselves right into the thick of things, grapeshot and all. Never saw the like of such bloody struggle in all my years before the mast.”

  The old fellow was warming to his tale, waving a sloshing tankard of ale in one hand and a long thin bone of a pipe in the other. Somewhere, a ship’s bell struck. The wee hours drew nigh. A fresh blow had rushed up to haunt the eaves, and the fire had died down somewhat, lending a discernible chill to the room.

  “Please continue, Mr. Hornby,” I said, getting to my feet and throwing another log or two onto the embers.

  “Well, Nick had promised his guardian that he would remain belowdecks with me on the Merlin for the duration of the battle. I’d suffered a nasty head wound and was ordered by the ship’s surgeon to stay out of things. However, a fire was raging below, one as was threatening the powder magazine, and it had made any notion of staying below problematical. So we sprinted up three decks and arrived topside only to find ourselves face-to-face with Snakeye himself.”

  “Snakeye?” I said, scribbling furiously. “First I’ve heard of him.”

  “A French pirate, had tattoos of snakes round his eyes and up his nose. Fearsome creature who was Old Bill’s bloody right hand. He’d boarded us during the melee and he chased Nick and myself up into the rigging. We scrambled up our mizzenmast and out onto a yardarm. When the pirate followed, dagger in hand, we jumped. The two boats weren’t more’n six feet apart and we both dived through a window opened on the French boat’s stern quarter.”

  “This is quite good stuff,” I allowed. “Then what?”

  “Well, it was strangely quiet when Nick and me emerged from the aft companionway. We looked around Mystere’s aftermost deck and saw that it was near deserted, save the dead and wounded. The cannons on both vessels had ceased their thunder and for’ard we could see a press of sailors from both vessels gathered on her quarterdeck, with an occasional cheer in French or English, rising from their midst. We heard, too, the vicious sound of two cutlasses clanging against each other. A brutal swordfight from the sound of it.

  “Anyway, I looked aloft and saw the Union Jack still fluttering from our maintruck. And, the battle-torn French flag was still flapping at the top of the enemy mizzen, so I knew Old Bill had not surrendered. This, despite the volume of lead we’d poured into him. Nick and I each took a cutlass off a dead sailor and we crept for’ard and climbed atop of the pilothouse so as to look down on the quarterdeck unobserved. We inched ourselves along on our elbows until we could just peek down and see the action not ten feet below. The crews of both vessels were pressing aft, trying to get a glimpse of the fight taking place at the helm and—”

  “The main fighting had stopped?”

  “Aye. A great sea battle had come down to a two-man war. Captain William Blood and Lord Hawke were locked in a death struggle. What a sight! Old Bill was a spectacle, wearing what must have been magnificent finery, white silk breeches and a great flaring white satin captain’s coat, but now all this flummery was torn and soiled with blood and black powder. He had Nelson’s spyglass, all right, jammed inside his wide belt. Hawke had a terrible gash down his right cheek and his shirtfront was soaked with his own blood. Still, he had his left hand rigidly behind his back, fighting Blood in classic dueling fashion, but with more fury in his eyes than I ever thought possible…Another drink, sir?”

  “Yes, of course! Keep going though…”

  Hornby called out for another round and continued.

  “Hawke parried Blood’s wicked blows each and all and thrust his cutlass again and again at the darting pirate. But, despite Hawke’s genius-like finesse with the sword, it was immediately clear to us boys that this was the fight of his life, as Blood brutally laid on three massive resounding blows in quick succession.

  “‘It’s finished, Hawke—surrender!’ Billy cried, advancing, ‘There’s not a swordsman alive who can best Billy Blood! I’ll cut yer bleedin’ heart out and eat it for me supper!’

  “‘I think you shall go hungry then, sir!’ Hawke replied, slashing forward. ‘No, it’s the brave kidnapper of small children who’s finished, Blood.’ Then, in the nick of time, Hawke deflected with his sword a tremendous cut that would have surely split him to the chine.r />
  “‘Look!’ Hawke cried, ‘Even your own crew has little stomach left for you, Billy Blood. See how these Frenchies stand idle, waiting to see their turncoated English captain’s blood run in the scuppers?’

  “Hawke, in a dancing parry and lunge, laid on a powerful blow and a great clang of iron rang out over the decks. It was true. Blood’s men had all fallen silent, weapons at their feet, watching the battle with rapt attention. Our own Captain McIver, having dispatched the last pockets of resistance on deck, had now ordered a number of our marines to keep their muskets leveled at the few remaining French who hadn’t yet thrown down their arms, in case they had any rash notions of coming to Billy’s aid.

  “‘Lying dog!’ Billy screamed, his face flushed furious red. He charged Hawke then like a wounded rhinoceros, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Hawke raised his cutlass to defend the ferocious blow, but Billy stopped short at the last instant and spun on his heel, whirling his body completely around and striking with huge force at Hawke’s upraised blade. The sword was brutally ripped from his lordship’s hand and went clattering across the deck.”

  “No!” I cried, finding myself right in the thick of the battle. I took a swig and leaned forward, eager for more.

  “Aye,” Hornby continued. “A cold hand gripped our young hearts as we watched Hawke retreating, completely defenseless against that murderous scalawag, and stumbling backward, tripping over wounded men lying about the decks awash with blood until he fell down.

  “At that point, a young Royal Marine leveled his musket at Bill’s heart, but Captain McIver pushed his barrel aside, shaking his head. It was Lord Hawke’s fight, win or lose. Honor dictated that he finish it.

  “‘Captain Bonnard!’ Billy cried, pausing to shout at his own Imperial French Captain of Marines, ‘Why have your men ceased fighting? To watch this pitiful coward die? I order you to attack with vigor! Kill these English dogs.’”

  Hornby paused, then stood and turned his back to the fire, warming himself.

  “And there the battle turned, Mr. Tolliver. ‘I’ll take no more orders from you, Monsieur Blood,’ the Frenchman Bonnard said, stepping forward and drawing his own blade. A cheer went up from his tattered crew. ‘We’ve hardly a soul with a will left to fight, a fire rages amidships, and we are grievously holed below our waterline. Any fit French captain would have seen this mighty ship to victory this day, sir, but you have precious little fitness in that regard. We had no chance under your hand. We have suffered you long and long enough, sir! Enough! You are unfit to command this vessel, and I intend to negotiate her surrender on behalf of this crew. Throw down your sword, Captain Blood, you are under the arrest of the Imperial French Navy! Bo’sun, strike our colors, we are surrendering Mystere to—’”

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Hornby,” I said, “but there were children held captive below, were they not? What was to become of—?”

  Hornby eyed me then and I lowered my head, most sorry for my interruption.

  “‘Mutiny, is it then?’ Billy said, and he threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ll slit your mutinous French throats ’afore I’m done, but I’ll begin with this English swine!’ He swung his gaze round on Hawke, then lunged forward, his blade tip aimed at Hawke’s heart. Rapt, I was, and barely aware of young Nick climbing to his feet beside me.

  “‘Lord Hawke! Up here!’ Nick shouted, and everyone turned to see him standing atop the pilothouse. He pulled the cutlass he’d borrowed from his belt and threw it down to the empty-handed Hawke. Nick’s toss was short and the sword fell to the deck at Hawke’s feet. I saw my new hero bend to retrieve it, but Bill was using the moment’s distraction to circle in toward Hawke, his sword poised for a murderous blow.

  “Hawke and his blade were coming up as Blood’s blade was coming down. The flat of Billy’s sword caught Hawke hard across the shoulder blades, driving him back down to the deck. His head thudded hard and I could see he was stunned. His sword had landed a good fifteen feet away. Nick looked at me, and I could see in his eyes what he had in mind.

  “It was only about ten feet from our perch down to the quarterdeck, and Nick timed that jump perfectly. He came down squarely on the shoulders of Captain Blood, straddling his head and clamping both hands over the enraged pirate’s eyes. Blinded and snorting, Bill whirled about, staggering over the bodies of the dead. He shook that tenacious boy clinging to him, tormenting him, but Nick held on.

  “Nick saw me then, peering down from the rooftop, and cried out, ‘Down to the brig with you, Martyn Hornby! See if you can find Lord Hawke’s boy and the children! His lordship and I have this well in hand.’ Nick had somehow snatched the prized spyglass from Bill’s waist…and then I saw Nick flying through the air as Billy had finally ripped him from his shoulders and flung him like a rag doll hard upon the deck.

  “Well in hand, I thought, disbelieving. But I did as Nick said, and slid backward down off the roof, much as it pained me to leave that grave drama and then—”

  “Wait!” I said, leaping to my feet and banging my shin on the hearthstone. “For all love, Mr. Hornby, you didn’t leave your ringside seat at that very moment?”

  “Mr. Tolliver, I was gone only a short while, and what I missed was filled in enough so’s I feel I’ve seen what happened with my very own eyes, sir,” Hornby said, seeming startled by my outburst.

  “Well, then, please don’t stop the tale there, sir,” I said, returning to my seat. My pen hovered above the page, quivering to inscribe the conclusion of the adventure.

  “‘I’ll have that glass back!” Blood roared, planting one of his gleaming Hessian boots squarely in the middle of Nick’s chest. Bill poked the tip of his razor-sharp blade at him, prodding Nick’s jacket. Then he slashed the boy’s thin blue coat right through and the gleaming spyglass spilled out onto the deck, rolling away as Nick tried desperately to grab for it. In a flash, Blood’s hand shot out like some inhuman claw and clutched it, raising it aloft where it shone in the sun.

  “‘No!’ Nick shouted. ‘That’s Nelson’s glass!’ He was clawing at Blood’s leg, trying to rise from the deck, but Billy still had him pinned with his boot pressed painfully in the boy’s stomach and Nick could only twist frantically like a spider impaled. Then Nick reached inside his jacket for a bone-handled dagger Lord Hawke had given him for protection. He plunged that blade deep into the fleshy part of Old Bill’s calf. Roaring in pain, Blood didn’t see Hawke approach from behind.

  “‘The boy said the glass belongs to Nelson,’ Hawke said, the point of his cutlass in Billy’s back. ‘I’ll thank you to return it to him. Now.’

  “‘Your tongue has wagged its last,’ Bill said, whirling to face Lord Hawke. They eyed each other. Bill lunged first, his blade going for Hawke’s exposed gut, but this time it was Hawke who spun on his heel in lightning fashion, whirling his body with his flashing cutlass outstretched. And then an awful sound, the sound of steel slicing through flesh and bone. The sound of steel through flesh and bone!

  “There was an enormous howl of pain, and Billy held up a bloody stump of his right arm.

  “On the deck lay Blood’s still-twitching hand, bloody fingers clenched round the shining golden spyglass.”

  I stood again and looked down at old Hornby, who was staring into the fire with gleaming eyes.

  “Ho! Hawke had Nelson’s glass?”

  “Aye, we had it, for all love. The longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates of the ambush, scratched into the gold in code. But the Portugee spy, he’d given up that code long ago. Hawke read off the numbers plain as could be and a marine wrote ’em down.”

  “And that’s the end of it?”

  “Not quite, sir. A bit remains to be told.”

  “What, then?” I asked, almost pleading, for surely I could already see his story appearing under my byline in the Globe. “Please continue, Mr. Hornby, I beg you.”

  “Ah, well, I suppose I should finish it, shouldn’t I? Because, you see, I myself reappear in the story.” He ch
uckled, threw back a swig, and got on with it.

  “On the quarterdeck, the French captain Bonnard went down on one knee and presented the sword of surrender to Lord Hawke. Hawke took it and spoke, but there was no trace of pride about him.

  “‘Captain Bonnard, on behalf of the Merlin and His Majesty’s Royal Navy, I accept your surrender. I will present your colors and sword to my captain forthwith. You are a gentleman and it has been my honor to do battle with you, sir.’

  “The French struck their colors and every English heart lifted as the Union Jack rose against the blue sky at Mystere’s topmast. Hawke stepped to the binnacle and raised the surrendered flag of France into the air.

  “‘My brave shipmates and comrades,’ Hawke began, ‘I hardly know how to express my gratitude for your gallant—’

  “‘Father! Father!’ came a tiny voice that pierced the silence in a way that made Hawke’s heart leap up into this throat so quickly he could scarce get another word out.

  “And then Hawke saw the sailors part and a small ragged boy racing across the deck toward him, followed by a grinning powder monkey who was living his finest hour. I was a bit bloodied by my most recent encounters with Snakeye and his men standing guard below at the brig. But I had done my duty and I was smiling, sir, believe me, as all the wee children came pouring up onto the decks, laughing and gulping the sweet air.

  “‘Oh, Father, it’s really you!’ the small boy cried, and Hawke leaped down from the binnacle, falling to his knees and embracing his boy, Alex, as if he’d never let him go.”

  A silence fell then, only a patter of rain on the roof could be heard.

  “A marvelous tale,” I finally said, looking over at Hornby. He seemed a bit overcome.

  “My tongue hasn’t wagged so in years,” he said, looking a might done in. “My apologies.”

  “You do yourself credit, sir. Is there more?”

  “Soon enough, the barky was under way again, and she had a fine heel to her, and, looking aloft, I saw clouds of billowing white canvas towering above, pulling hard for England. A corps of drummers dressed with magnificent battle drums launched into a stately military tattoo that rolled across our decks. Merlin was a fine, weatherly ship and I recall thinking that, if this breeze held, we’d have no trouble completing our do-or-die mission. We’d reach Portsmouth in time to personally warn Nelson of the intended ambush.”