Powder Monkey by Paul Dowswell Page A

Edmund talked. I sensed they did not care for his company. I could see why.
    Edmund started to tell me about the boy I’d replaced, who’d been blown to pieces when a stray spark floated into his half-opened cartridge box. I quickly said that Captain Mandeville had already told me. That didn’t stop him. ‘Nothing left of him except his feet and the stumps of his ankles.’ The men also told me about the powder monkey who’d had both his arms blown off when a lucky musket shot had hit his cartridge box. ‘He looked like a seal after that,’ said Edmund, with rather too much glee for my liking.
    I didn’t want to hear, but the more I protested, the more it spurred them on. ‘One lad had his insides blown out at the top of the hatchway. Gizzards caught in the coaming, and when he fell down the stairs they all spooled out. It was horrible.’ I got paler and paler. Only when they told me about the boy who’d been blown to pieces and all that was left of him were a pair of teeth and his eyeballs, and the teeth had said, ‘My, that stings,’ did I realise that they were teasing me.
    I knew seamen often joked about the things they feared most, but this wasn’t helping me at all. Sometime very soon, if I could not escape before we took to sea, I would have to help fire these fearsome weapons.

Chapter 4

The
Miranda
Goes to Sea
    The
Miranda
stayed in Portsmouth for six more days. Having not put my feet on dry land for weeks, I longed to walk out of the ship on to the harbour, and then just keep walking, past the sentries, past the dockyard, past the confines of the town and all the way back home. But the more I became familiar with the ship and her routines, the more I understood I had no more chance of escaping than walking on the moon. I had not completely given up though. I reasoned that the best opportunity to escape would come when the ship sailed away from harbour – especially if Iwas asked to let down the sails.
    We put to sea one early September morning. As I’d hoped, I was ordered up the rigging to set the mizzen topgallant. Ben stood next to me on the foot rope, ready to let fall the canvas. There at the top of the mast I was filled with a gnawing anxiety – both for what I hoped to do, and for what would happen if I did not succeed. I looked over to the town of Gosport on the far side of the harbour. A good, strong swimmer should be able to make that shore, if the current didn’t defeat him. I had never swum such a distance before, but I felt it worth the risk. Then I looked down the mast. The deck seemed an almighty distance, the water even further. Could I survive a jump into the water?
    The alternative – staying on the
Miranda
– made the risk worthwhile. I had to choose my moment carefully. A leap powerful enough to clear the rail and then I’d strike out for that far shore.
    All around, in sharp autumn sunshine, were Navy ships. The city stretched out, chimneys smoking, spires pointing, streets bustling. In the distance, the trees in the woods outside the city were taking on a golden hue.
    My thoughts were interrupted by Lieutenant Middlewych, shouting through his speaking trumpet. ‘Trace out, let fall!’ Down dropped the sails and the ship began at once to move away from the quay. This was it. My final chance to escape.
    The bosun’s whistle blew, the signal for those in the rigging to return to the deck. Instead, I began to edge out along the starboard yard, intending to get to the tip, where I would have the best chance of jumping clear. Ben knew at once what I was doing, and grabbed my arm.
    â€˜Sam,’ he hissed, ‘don’t be stupid. They’ll shoot you in the water.’
    I pulled away, determined to go. But Ben would not let me. His grip tightened and he looked me in the eye and said calmly, ‘If they have to send a boat out to get you, you’ll be lucky if you only get flogged. Desertion