HMS Diamond by Tom Grundner Page A

Walker had to attend to a seaman who had been knocked unconscious by a wildly out-of-control spar.
           Eventually ordered prevailed, although Walker never did figure out if that was because of luck or skill. Either way, the sails were drawing, the ship was pointed in what Walker assumed was the correct direction, and Smith looked more than a little relieved. Walker and Whitney climbed the short ladder to the quarterdeck.
           "Captain Smith of the Swallow , I presume?" Walker quipped as the two walked to the windward side where Smith was standing.
           "Yes, indeed," he replied. "Isn’t she wonderful?"
           "She is, but what are you doing with her?"
           "Well, that’s sort of a long story."
           "That’s all right. We apparently have a lot of time."
           "Well, yesterday I was in Smyrna trying to get the Pasha’s Navy to understand the concept of rapid fire, when a courier arrived from Constantinople. It was a dispatch from my brother informing me that France had declared war. He didn’t know much about the reasons; just that it had definitely happened.
           "I knew I... that is... we had to get back and the only way that was going to happen was by ship. So, I went over to the civilian piers and tried to book passage for the three of us. No luck. Nothing was leaving, or even planning to leave, for the eastern Mediterranean. At that point, I had a stroke of genius.
           "I noticed that this ship had just completed off-loading, so I went over to talk to the Captain, who also turned out to be the owner. I said I’d offer him £1000 for his ship."
           "£1000? Where are you going to get £1000?"
           "Remember, I had the £1500 the Lord High Commissioners of the Admiralty gave me for my expenses on this little journey.
           "Anyway, I had the money so I offered him £1000 for the ship. He, of course, laughed at me.
           "So, I had my interpreter explain to him that I needed his ship. And he could either accept my offer or I would confiscate his vessel in the name of the Sultan. In other words, take the damned money now, or you’ll get nothing later. So, after about five minutes of listening to him swear in multiple languages, I became a ship owner."
           "But, where’d you get the crew?" asked Susan. "They’re all British, aren’t they?"
           "Almost all. I’ve also got three Americans, two Spaniards, an Italian, a Frenchman and one unknown—no one can figure out what language he’s speaking. The rest are British. They’re all castaways—all 40 of them. For one reason or another, they missed their ships, found themselves stranded ashore and gravitated to the seaport at Smyrna to try to ship aboard something that was heading in the general direction of their home."
           "Missed their ships, or deserted from their ships?" asked Walker.
           "At this point, to tell you the truth, I don’t much care. This ship normally requires a crew of 80. I’ve got 40 and the whole length of the Mediterranean to traverse. If a body is above room temperature and he can hand, reef and steer us roughly in the right direction—he’s welcome aboard."
           "Where exactly are we going? Walker queried.
           "Not sure, really. I am going to point her west toward Gibraltar and hope to come across someone who can tell me where the fleet’s located."
           "Did the merchant you... ah... acquired this barky from also gladly part with those guns?" Susan asked as she nodded toward the two rows of four 6-pound guns.
           "No, they were a gift from the port Admiral at Smyrna," Smith replied. It was in recognition of my talents as a trainer. Eight guns, shot, swabs, hooks, slow match—everything but powder."
           "What?" Walker and Whitney asked in unison.
           Smith shrugged and looked sheepish. "He gave me the guns but no powder. It seems