Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy) (5 page)

They soon learned their cannon was a 32 pound carronade.  It took five men to operate it well during combat, though three or four could manage if needed.  Shank declared Mark to be the "rammer" and Hardy the "loader."  These were the most dangerous, and thus least desired, of the gunner jobs since they required you to stand directly in front of the business end of the barrel a good bit of the time.  If the cannon went off prematurely, both rammer and loader were likely to be decimated.

Mark's job involved inserting a rod with a damp sponge on the end of it down into the cannon's barrel to clean it out and quench any remaining sparks from the previous charge fired.  Hardy would then load a bag of gunpowder, which was called the charge.  Using the other end of his ramrod, Mark then had to ram the charge down the barrel.  Throughout this, another man, the "ventsman" would cover the firing hole with his thumb to keep air from getting in and fanning any sparks.  His was the critical job that could mean an early end for Mark or Hardy.  This ventsman then pricked the charge and filled the hole with powder.  There was another man in charge of aiming the gun and a fifth would actually light it.

It was dangerous work.  Mark hoped they'd find a way to get off the ship before they had to actually fight.  He didn't relish the idea of putting their necks at risk for no good reason.

The days passed uneventfully.  The skin of Mark's hands blistered and cracked from scrubbing the decks endlessly.  The captain was exacting revenge for the damage they'd done to some of his crew members.  Outside of what it was doing to his palms, Mark didn't mind the hard work, except for the very bottom hold. The stench of rotting food and human refuse down there was overwhelming.

"Ho!"

They heard the cry clearly, even through two decks.  The swab manning the crow's nest had spotted something.

After several minutes, crew members began flooding the lower holds, slinging open shutters and shoving cannon into position.

Shank's massive form darkened the open hatch leading to the deck above.  His steps were deliberate and as solid as those of a rhino.  The man had to weigh more than three hundred pounds, and it wasn't all fat.

"You two!"  He motioned threateningly at Mark and Hardy.  "Man, that cannon.  We're gonna teach those Americans a thing or two today!"

He moved on, barking rough orders at scrambling men.

Mark looked to Hardy.  "Don't know about you," he whispered, "but I’m not about to fire on fellow Americans."

"Me neither.  What are we going to do about it?"

"Look man, it's a flat-out disgrace that two Special Forces' men can't take over a ship full of amateurs."

Hardy chuckled.  "Yep.  So, what's the plan?"

They swiftly formed one.  They needed to secure the captain and as many weapons as they could, but the captain was primary.  Through him they could control the troops.  The ventsman manning their cannon caught Mark's attention.  He was bare-chested, but his pants looked like the ragged remnants of an American-issued uniform.  

Mark hissed at him, "Hey, you American?"

"Yeah."

"We're going to make a play.  You in or out?"

"I'm in.  They grabbed me six months ago.  I've had it.  If you can do it, there's probably at least seven other men on board who've been impressed and will join you."

Mark remembered that one of the primary reasons for the War of 1812 had been Britain's illegal and ruthless impressment of Americans into the British Navy.

On this ship, they were short on men to man all the cannon, and most stations were operating with a crew of three or four instead of the optimal five.  Their senior gunner who would aim the cannon would also act as the "firer," lighting the powder, but he was still distracted helping Shank organize some of the other crews.

"All right.  After you prime the hole, get behind us, and do it quick.  Hardy, grab that ax and cut that wooden block out from the side of that rail."

Just two chops of the ax, and the cannon was freed from a wooden rail that limited the angle at which the cannon could be fired.

They loaded the cannon's barrel and bade their time. Then, their senior gunner finally made his way back toward them. Mark thought he was going to have to take the guy out, but at the last minute he tossed his slowmatch to Mark.  He had to go help another crew above deck.  It would be just the three of them on this gun which would make the plan even easier.

Shank barked orders up and down the line.  The American ship must have drawn within range, because a couple of the British cannon roared, igniting the battle in earnest.  An explosion ripped the air as something smashed through the upper deck.

Shank yelled at Mark and Hardy to get into the action.  Seeing no response, he advanced and began bellowing at them, face purple with rage at their apparent inactivity.  He drew his pistol.

They did their best to look repentant, pretending to be hastily aiming the cannon.  Mark counted to three and then yelled, "Now!"

The other American had hustled to a position behind them.  At Mark's command, Hardy pulled hard on the tow rope on the front of the cannon, and Mark pushed on the opposite side. They swung it around swiftly and halted it just as its barrel centered on Shank's large figure.

Even in the low light, Mark could see the blood drain from his face.  He turned to run, pistol still in hand, but he had no time.  Mark touched the slowmatch to the firing hole and the giant gun belched.  The cannonball hurling through the air did what Mark's fists had not been able to.  Shank was no more, and a large hole now gaped in the planks in the back of the ship behind where he'd stood.

The rest of the sailors who'd happened to be standing between their cannon and the back of the ship were too stunned by the concussion to react.  There was a big difference between being behind a cannon and in front of it when fired in an enclosed space.

Mark grabbed the American’s upper arm. "What's your name?"

"Swanson."

"Are there any other Americans down here?"

"Just one."

"Grab him, we're going up."

Hardy waded through the stunned bodies, grabbing the only other officer below deck.  Two blows and the man was out cold.  Hardy relieved him of his gun and his sword and shoved the barrel of the antique pistol down his own waistband.

"Let's go!"

They bounded up the stairs, followed by Swanson and another dark-haired fellow.  The rest of the men were beginning to recover and a few tried to come up after them.

They reached the next deck just in time and slammed the hatch closed over the lower hold.  They pushed a few barrels on top of it, locking the majority of the crew down there.

"They're going to keep firing on the American ship," Hardy remarked.

"No help for it.  We've got to secure the captain."  Mark threw open the door to a cabinet where he'd seen a couple of other guns.  He gave one to Swanson.

"Hardy, secure the rest of the weapons.  I'm going after the captain.  Swanson, find the other Americans.  Once Hardy's got some more guns, distribute them to the others.  After that, take over the helm and get this ship turned.  We need to get out of range of that American ship and fast."

"Our modern pistols are somewhere on board," Hardy reminded him.

"I'll find them."

Mark was up the ladder first, the others following.

The upper deck was in chaos.  Men manned even larger cannons, struggled with rigging, and ran back and forth delivering orders.  The captain was at the helm, commanding his men.  That there was order to the madness was clear, but their leader clearly had room to improve.

Above deck, a lot more men were in British uniforms than had been below.  One officer hurried their way, apparently having been sent by the captain to check on why the cannons below had ceased firing.  No one had spotted Mark's mutinous assault team yet.

Mark motioned toward the officer.  Hardy acknowledged and moved to intercept, taking the unsuspecting officer out with a single blow.  Mark separated from the two of them and ran swiftly toward the captain, who was still focused on the opposing ship and hadn't yet noticed the altercation.

Mark rushed up behind him on the balls of his feet.  He grabbed him, pressed his forearm into the man's throat and a pistol muzzle into his temple.  Another officer manning the rudder wheel saw what Mark was doing and made a move.

"Don't," Mark threatened.

The man froze, unwilling to jeopardize his commander's life.

"Turn that wheel sharp now.  Get us out of here or he dies."

He hesitated.

"Don't do it," the captain growled, "don't give up the ship."

Turning the gun around, Mark slammed its butt into the base of the captain's skull, knocking him unconscious.  The only thing which kept his limp body from collapsing to the deck in a useless heap was the strength of Mark's forearm under his chin.

"I don't want to have to get nasty," Mark said flatly, turning the gun on the other officer.

The underling turned back to the wheel and whipped it around clockwise.  Slowly, the ship began to turn, coming in line with the wind.  The increase in speed was felt immediately.  Their ship was now going to shoot past the stern of the American vessel.  In a few minutes, they'd be behind the Americans and out of reach of their cannon.  By the time the Americans got turned around, Mark's ship would be sufficiently far enough ahead to get away clean.

The melee was building on the lower deck.  Hardy had taken out four officers and was working on a fifth.  Swanson had gathered a group of five men and armed them.  They were successfully disarming the rest of the British sailors.

Their stern passed uncomfortably close to that of the American ship.

The American cannons ceased firing.  Perhaps they'd seen the mutiny in progress.

Out of the corner of Mark's eye, he spied movement.  The British officer who'd been manning the rudder wheel was making a run for Mark.

Before Mark could fully turn to face the attack, the loud crack of a pistol shot cut through the air.  The British officer dropped to the deck in a bloody heap.

Looking up, Mark saw the movement of the ships had brought their helms to within forty feet of each other.  The American officers stood at the helm of their own ship, hands at their sides.  Their captain held a smoking flintlock in his hand and a slight smile on his lips.

Snapping to attention, Mark saluted.  The captain loosely saluted back, and then the ships pulled apart, leaving the American ship in their wake.

Hardy closed the door to the captain’s quarters and turned to see Mark fingering a knife.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked.

“One of the Brits, just before I tied him up.”

"So, why didn't we give ourselves up to the good guys, buddy?"

After all was said and done, Swanson had found more sympathetic souls than just the seven Americans.  They had a total of twenty-one sailors on their side, none of whom were British navy regulars, and they’d subdued the ship without a single man lost.

"’Cause I've got a plan forming.  And don't call me buddy.  I haven't fully forgiven you yet."

"Okay...you just let me know when I'm back in your good graces then," Hardy chuckled.

Mark cracked a smile.

"All right, let's assume Rialto's got a tracker like we think," Mark said.

"I'd say that's a pretty safe bet.  Don't know how else he could find us so easy."

"Theoretically, what would be the range of such a tracking device?  And how would it track us?"

"Not sure.  Maybe it detects some kind of signal emitted from the watch.   Hadn't you ever considered hiring some scientists to study these things."

"To be honest, no I hadn't."

"It might be a smart investment when we get back."

Mark harrumphed, rubbing his brow heavily with his forefingers.  "There's really no way to know the range of their trackers, is there?" he asked.

"No."

"If it's very far, we're in trouble."  Mark put away the knife.

"That's an understatement."

"Do you think they could detect us from Britain?"

"What do you have in mind?"  Hardy asked.

"I'm feeling a bit patriotic.”  Mark stood.  “We could do our little part in this here war, maybe take out a few British ships on our way to England."

"You're crazy."

"C'mon, it'll be fun."

"That's what you said about going to the tavern."

Mark laughed.

***

Mark, Hardy, and the other Americans all donned British uniforms and regularly inhabited the upper deck.  The actual British officers, at least the higher ranking ones, were in the brig. The captain, when a potential victim was available, spewed profanities and curses like a machine gunner, so they had to either keep knocking him unconscious or gagged just to get a little peace and quiet. The lower ranking British sailors, once stripped of their uniforms, were chained to the cannons below deck in pairs.  If they got into a battle, it would be in their best interest to fire those cannon as quickly and accurately as they could or they'd find themselves blown to smithereens by a cannonball from the other ship, and it really wouldn't matter if that cannonball was British or American as far as they were concerned.