The next morning I'm up at the break of dawn and ready to do or die. I let the men enjoy their breakfast and then I order them to Quarters to exercise the guns again and I leave the deck to Tom.
The first part of my plan is simple: Get them used to taking orders from me. Even though they might think the orders are from the Captain and are merely being repeated by his whore, the orders still will be issued by me.
I had started on that course yesterday when it came time to come about to start our southern leg. It was on my watch, me having the First Dog, and I bellowed out, "All hands aloft to make sail!" and all the topmen climbed into the rigging and I gave the command for the helm to be put over, "Left full rudder!" and the ship started her turn and I yelled, "Helm's alee!" and the bow crossed the wind and the sails shook but gathered and stiffened as the wind shifted to the other side, and still we turned, from being close-hauled, to a beam reach, to a quarter reach, to running down wind.
The topmen did their job, adjusting the square sails to their new positions, whipping the triangular fore-and-aft sails to catch the wind on the other tack. They all came down and everything was fine with the set of the sails ... except a corner of the main royal was shaking, luffing-like.
"You there," I say to a sailor on the deck. It is Bishop, a seaman in Third Division. "Be so good as to run up and take that luff out of the main royal."
Bishop decides to be a wise ass. He lifts his hands helplessly. "Take the what out of what?" He looks around to see if his mates appreciate his humor. They do, chortling away behind their hands. "Oh no, Miss, we can't do that, it's much too far out on that scary yard to fix that awful, awful luff!"
So.
I toe out of my boots and leap into the rigging. "You will follow me up and I will show you how to do it," I shout. "If you are unable to follow me up, you will become the oldest ship's boy on this bark!"
I think he suddenly realizes his mistake, and he seeks to make it better by beating me up there, but there ain't no sailor alive who can catch Jacky Faber in the rigging and I'm out on the royal yard way ahead of him. I wrap my legs around the yard and am pulling the line taut as he comes out.
The sail stops shaking.
"There," I say, slapping a few half hitches on the line and pulling it tight. "That's how the job is done. I'll see you down on the deck." With that I stand and leap off the spar into the air. My hands find the main buntline and I swing around it and then go hand over hand back down to the deck. He comes down a little later by the usual way.
"What's your name and rating?" I demand when he arrives, even though I know it.
"Bishop, Miss," he says, miserably, "rated Able."
"Able?" I exclaim. "And still you couldn't do that simple thing, and in calm weather, yet? What kind of sailor are you?"
"Sorry, Miss ... I guess I was just..."
"Just making fun of me, Bishop, is what you were doing," I say. "Do it again and I'll have you busted down to cook's helper. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Miss Faber."
I took no joy in shaming him, but I had to do it.
When all the men are on station for gunnery practice, I go down into the Captain's cabin and stand there for a while marking time and making noises like he and I are having another conversation. When I come back out, I back out the door saluting and saying, "Yes, Sir, it shall be done!"
I close the door, turn around, and give the order. "Load your guns with live powder and report when ready!"
I hear exclamations of surprise as they go to do it.
Of course, my good old First Division is ready first, but the others are not too far behind.
I call Jared to the quarterdeck. He lifts an eyebrow in question when he arrives, but I don't say anything to him. Instead I go up to Ned and say, "Mr. Barrows, the Captain intends to have some live gunnery practice. We want you to take the ship out to sea, so we cannot be seen or heard from the land. When we get out there, I want you to drop over a barrel as a target. Seaman Jared here will be the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch and he will help you. Do you understand?" Ned gulps and nods yes. Jared looks at me with a knowing eye and winks.
Jared leans over Ned and whispers, "All topmen aloft to make sail."
"All topmen aloft to make sail!" squeaks out Ned. Jared nods at me and I leave the quarterdeck to supervise the gunnery. I am, after all, the Assistant Gunnery Officer.
The barrel sits out there about fifty yards abaft the port beam. First I go to my old First Division. "Harkness, fire your guns as they bear."
He grins and leans over Number One. He pulls the lanyard and the gun roars out. We watch. Not bad. About twelve yards wide. He goes to Number Three, squints over it, ratchets left two and pulls the lanyard.
"Good shot!" I say. The ball goes over the barrel at a height of about six feet and splashes in the sea beyond. "If that had been a ship, it would have been hit! Cease fire! Let's give some others a shot." With that I pull out the Captain's pocket watch and press the wand. "Now, let's see how fast you can reload!" But the crew of Number One has already started, and the Number Three's are not far behind.
I see Georgie hauling his bag of powder, but he will not look at me. It hurts me, but I let it go.
Then I have the port quarter guns fire. They are wide and they are high, and sometimes, when they don't gauge the roll of the ship just right, the ball plows into the ocean well short of its target. But I shout encouragement and I clock the time it takes them to reload. So far Division One can do it in under two minutes. It takes the quarter guns four. But they are coming along.
I have them shoot out all their charges and cease their fire upon reloading. My ears are ringing from the noise.
I catch the eye of Ned on the quarterdeck and make a circular motion with my finger in the air and Jared says something to Ned and he says, "Left rudder! Topmen make sail!" and the Wolverine swings around and the starboard guns now bear.
These starboard divisions crews have not yet fired live charges, so I take some extra time to make sure no one is being stupid and standing behind the guns to get hit by the recoil, as I want no one to be hurt. When I am satisfied, I let Robin's starboard division have the first shots under John Harper's supervision, Robin still being in the brig, of course. The guns bark out. Again, clean misses, but I am not as concerned with that as with how fast they can reload. They try their best, all of them.
Then there's the starboard quarter guns. "Shaughnessy. Fire as they bear." Their results are similar.
After all have had their turns, and the clouds of powder smoke thin out and drift away, I get up on Three Hatch and say, "All reload and hold fire. Do not set the matchlocks. We will leave the guns loaded. Secure from gunnery practice. Well done, Werewolves, all of you."
It occurs to me that it is Sunday. "Commence holiday routine. An extra tot for all at the noon meal." Whether they think that order comes from the Captain or from the Captain's whore, they ain't arguing with it.
***
With lunch, Higgins brings me my clothes, cleaned, ironed, and neatly folded. I thank him and he asks if he might take my jacket for a bit of cleaning and brushing and I give it to him. The day is warm and I plan to ask Drake for a swordsmanship lesson.
Drake has gotten the boys to the point of instructing them in saber, since that's mostly what they'll be doing in the way of sword work—boarding other ships and hacking and hewing at the enemy. On the Field of Honor, the duels between gentlemen, swords have largely been replaced in favor of pistols, and I think it's a pity. With swords, you go at each other for a while, and when blood is drawn, honor is satisfied. Then everyone goes off to have a drink and brag about how brave they were, with maybe a saucy scar to show for it. A bullet is so ... final.
Gentlemen still carry swords, of course—they wouldn't feel dressed without them—but they're mostly for self-protection and sort of spur-of-the-moment arguments. I think of Randall Trevelyne and his friends back in Boston, swaggering around with their scabbards clanking on their hips. Hmmmm ... Randall Trevelyne, you proud and arrogant but undeniably beautiful young man, what are you up to now? No, no, get out of my mind, I'm going to live single all of my life, and that's best.
Anyway, that's for the boys. Drake looks at me appraisingly and says, "No, you're just not strong enough. Someday those boys"—he says, nodding toward Ned and Tom who are lustily going after each other with the dulled practice sabers that Drake has issued to them—"will be strong enough, but you will never be."
"I am quick and strong for my size," I protest.
"I know, but still, a swordsman of even little skill would have your sword arm off at the shoulder in the wink of an eye." He throws me a practice saber and I snatch it out of the air and we go into the en garde position and he says Now! and the blades touch for a second and then he feints and I lunge to the side and then I see that he has already laid his sword on my right shoulder, right at the joint.
I look at my still-attached sword arm with a certain fondness and decide to listen to what he has to say.
"If you persist in trying to learn this art, Miss," he says with a heavy emphasis on the Miss, "we shall stick to the foil, and then to the rapier. Here. Take this." And he hands me a foil and takes one himself.
He comes beside me and shows me the hand position—the thumb on top of the pommel and the rest of the fingers curled around. "See how by pulling the thumb back and forth and squeezing or not squeezing the fingers, you can control the point of the blade, up or down, and with your wrist, right or left? Good. Now, en garde."
I assume the position.
"Now hold your hand like this and position the point of your blade such that it is directly between your eyes, and the eyes of your opponent. Hold that." He moves back and lifts his own sword and gets in the en garde stance, which is the mirror image of mine. "Now the point is between our eyes. Advance."
I do it.
"Now retreat." I do that, too.
"Put your sword hand a little bit more to the left, but keep the point between our eyes. Good. That is Position Four. It protects your left side. See, if I lunge in this position, my blade would slide harmlessly off to the side."
He makes a slow lunge to show me, and sure enough, I am able to slide his blade off to the side.
"Now, however, if I were to dip the point of my blade under your weapon"—he does it—"then I am in Position Six and your right side, from your breastbone to your right shoulder, is exposed."
He makes a slow lunge and puts the point of his foil on the right side of my chest. He retreats. "Now, to prevent that, when you see my point coming down into Six, you disengage from Four and go into Six—rotate your forearm and pull it way out to the right, still keeping the point between our eyes. Yes, I know it hurts. But it will hurt less than a sword point run through your neck. All right, go back in Four, which exposes my left side, and lunge."
I do it and he lets me touch him on the chest.
"Good. Now we shall have a match. You will advance and retreat and lunge at will, keeping in mind these two positions. They are the most important ones for the rapier, the other positions being ones that protect the legs and feet, but we will get to them later. Put the pommel of your weapon to your face with the point in the air and bow, and I will do the same. It is tradition. Now, en garde!"