Powder Monkey by Paul Dowswell

indifferently.
    Silas asked the question I had not dared to. ‘What happened to Henry and Stephen?’
    Ben shook his head. ‘Horrible business. Henry was crushed by the gun. Stephen was blown to pieces by his cartridge box.’
    There was a brief pause as some of the men took off their hats and whispered a silent prayer. Ben turned directly to us. ‘You’ll have to get used to this lot, Sam, and you too, Mr Warandel. They’re my gun crew, and we all eat together every mealtime. You can see they’re a fine cross section of the Royal Navy.’
    We ate our bread and cheese as Ben carried on talking. ‘In training and combat, we’re all called by a number, rather than a name. I’m Number One, and you, Sam, are Number Twelve. My job’s to oversee the loading and aiming of the gun, and fire the flintlock that sets it off. Then there’s Tom Shepherd here.’ He pointed to a solid, bespectacled young man. ‘He’s a Londoner and he’s my Number Two. He cleans out the gun, then reloads it. After me, he’s the most important man in the crew. If he does it wrong, the powder could explode whilst the gun’s being loaded. It’s a job for a steady man, and we all trust Tom to do it well.’
    Tom smiled at me and leaned over to shake my hand. ‘I was a merchant seaman like you, Sam,’ he said. ‘I sailed out of London. I was pressed on the way back from America. My old mum always told me to stay away from the sea.’ He laughed. ‘She was right! Crossed the Atlantic, didn’t I, and ended up in this.’
    Ben went round the table. ‘This here’s our Number Three, James Kettleby. He helps me aim the gun. Y’ need to be as strong as an ox to do that job.’
    James was certainly big and burly. He was from Newcastle, and his accent was hard for me to follow. Tom immediately began to rib him about the way he spoke. ‘Are y’ gannin doon toon the neet?’ said Tom.
    â€˜Aye,’ said James, with amiable contempt. ‘Ah gannin doon toon t’ find me a bonny lass. Captain’s given me special leave like – t’ get away from soft Cockney bastaads like ye!’
    This exchange made me nervous. I couldn’t understand how two men could talk to each other with such apparent hostility, but both be laughing when they spoke.
    Ben went on, ‘Four, Five and Six help to manhandle the gun. You know Silas – he’s Number Four.’ Ben continued around the table. ‘Then we’ve Oliver Macintosh.’ He nodded to a dark-skinned man. ‘He’s Number Five. Escaped a life of slavery in Jamaica to volunteer for a life of slavery in the Royal Navy. Can’t say you notice much difference, eh, Oliver?’
    Oliver raised a weary eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Ahm a free man ’ere, as much as any o’ you lot. An’ I get paid the same money, so I’d say it were a better life, yes.’
    This was a debate no one wanted to get drawn into, so Ben moved on to the final man in his crew. ‘And this isEdmund Ackersley from Bolton, Lancashire. He’s Number Six. He’s a volunteer as well.’
    I couldn’t understand why an ordinary seaman would volunteer for a life aboard a fighting ship, so I asked Edmund why he did it. He’d worked in a mill, he said, and had struggled to feed his growing family.
    â€˜By ’eck, I never had enough for nuthin’. Y’ get more meat on a Navy ship than we ever ’ad at ’ome. Bit o’ bacon once a week, and a few potatoes. Cheese I never ’ad till I came on board. I like the Navy life. Y’ don’t have to worry yerself about nowt, save gettin’ killed or maimed o’ course! No candles t’ buy, no rent t’ worry about, no wood f’ fire. No moanin’ missus and screamin’ infants. It suits me fine.’
    The other men round the table raised their eyes to the ceiling when