Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum Page A

quickened.
    I had, in years past, played at war with my friends among the pig-troughs and millponds, flailing away with a wooden sword. Now I doubted the wisdom of entrusting my life to such a fighting vessel. I gazed upward, my ears alive with the sounds of orders, quick-barked commands, and the rhythmic songs of men heaving, and heaving again.
    A high-pitched metal whistling rose and fell, a sweet but plaintive signal which I recognized from my own dock-side wanderings as a boatswain’s call. I thrilled at this sour music, even as I hesitated, unsure how to clamber up the ladder of knotted rope that had been flung down to us.
    â€œCome along, Tom,” called my master eagerly, already up and over the wale of the ship high above.
    I climbed upward, laboring, using the webbed cordage as a foothold, hand over hand. I slipped twice, and Jack Flagg reached back to help me.
    My friend would have said something welcoming, or perhaps cheerfully challenging—his eyes were alight with friendship. But a ferocious voice demanded that if he did not stow every keg of powder in the magazine by dark he’d be “flayed alive and rolled in salt.”
    The gray-haired master gunner gave a wry smile, the corners of his mouth turned down, as though to soften his speech, but he made an unmistakable gesture: hurry! Jack vanished back into the pinnace at once, and soon the kegs were handed up and carried across by a chain of men, into the ship’s hold.
    It was all so strange to my eyes and ears, and so ripe with danger—from the powder kegs to the pikes carried by the soldiers—that I was afraid to make a move, sure that I would be impaled on some dirk or grappling hook. The gray-cloaked soldiers handed firearms down into the hold carefully. They were harquebusses—portable weapons made to be held against the shoulder, and discharged into an enemy.
    As I watched, a load of shot, blue-black and round, broke free from a crate and struck a long, slim-barreled gun on the main deck with a resounding report. The stoutly built gunner let forth a bellow, and men scampered after the rolling shot, seizing the offending balls as they made their way heavily across the deck. The master gunner knelt beside the long-barreled gun and examined it carefully. He ran his finger along the seam where, at some point in the past, smiths had joined the two halves of this formidable weapon.
    A dark-haired gentleman with a well-trimmed beard separated from a group of seamen. He took a coin-sized object from an inner pocket and held it in the flat of his hand, adjusting his stance to catch the sunlight. He returned the miniature sun-dial to his pocket and made his way toward us, eyeing us as he came, a smile of greeting fixed upon his face, his eyes alight with inquiry.
    â€œI am Sam Foxcroft, the ship’s master,” he announced himself simply. “I’m just in receipt of word from the Admiralty regarding our newly appointed medical men.”
    William swept his cap from his head and gave a handsome demonstration of a courteous bow, and I was quick to follow his example. The ship’s captain and William exchanged appropriate pleasantries, but I was aware of the captain’s glance, weighing and testing us.
    Captain Foxcroft was dressed much like my master, in a blue wool cloak and doublet, and high boots. “I am advised that our worthy naval surgeon Titus Cox is in need of our prayers.”
    â€œI have emptied many a cup of sack-wine with my good friend Titus,” said my master. “In our university days we were rivals for a certain lady’s affections,” he added. “A lady of quality—she presented me with a hart-bone manicure set, I am sorry to report, but to Titus she gave a pomander filled with cloves.”
    Captain Foxcroft smiled at this. The clove was a spice celebrating love—it was used to flavor wine and to sweeten the air. “An old friend of Titus will be most