The Crafters Book Two (23 page)

* * *

Late afternoon. He was in the bow, helping Andrew oil the wheels on the 18-pounder kept there, when a cry came down from high above. One of the men on the foremast had sighted four ships landward; moments later came another cry, from the mizzenmast—another ship off the starboard. Davy came partway upright to stare toward what he’d been told was the New Jersey shore. Andrew touched his shoulder and pointed farther south.

“No colors. They could be the
President,
you know, Commodore Rogers’ ship and the rest of his squadron. Scuttlebutt has it we’re looking to find him.” He turned to look back along the deck and up at the rigging. “Sure enough, see? They’re slacking, standing off to wait for the seaward vessel to come in.”

“Oh.” Davy considered this. He swallowed. “What if it’s theirs instead?”

“What, all five of them?” Andrew laughed, clapped him on the back and bent again to his assigned task. “Consider what a prize it would make!”

Prize.
Davy swallowed again. Perhaps, once he had a moment, he’d go in search of that little brass bottle John had concocted for him. After all ...

The sun went down, and the
Constitution
moved very slowly forward; the unknown ship was well in from the horizon, not yet near enough to make out markings. Davy, on evening watch with his mess, watched anxiously as the sky slowly grew dark and a few stars came out. At one point the Captain and Lieutenant Morris went by, deep in discussion; the fact that they sounded worried didn’t do anything to ease the pain in his stomach.

Full dark. Half-a-dozen men bearing lanterns scrambled into the foremast rigging, spreading out in the pattern that would mark
Constitution
to another American frigate captain. No response. The sea all around them remained dark. The boatswain pounded down the deck, returned moments later with half-clad sailors. For all her size, Davy discovered the ship was highly maneuverable; she came about in short order indeed and began sailing south, moving slowly in light wind. Behind her, no sign of light, no sound of movement. They might have been totally alone.

Davy crossed to the rail as his watch ended and spent several long, fruitless moments peering into the night. For the moment, the usual sensation of an underwater presence was gone; buried under crushing dread, no doubt, unless it was the influence of the little charm bottle he now wore. His palms were damp, and he jumped when a hand touched his ann.

“Gently, my friend.” It was Andrew. “I’ve no doubt it’s the
President,
you know. There’s any number of reasons they might not have responded to the signal.” They both considered this in silence. “Though,” Andrew went on thoughtfully, “it’s known the British use witchcraft of some sort to locate American ships.” Davy saw the motion of his mess-mate’s head as the other turned to look at him, and wondered briefly if he’d been somehow found out. He laughed.

“Witchcraft! Not really!”

“Well—something like it, they say. Witches can’t work on water, of course.”

“What, did the Devil give them special abilities, then?” Davy asked dryly. “Since it’s for God and King, of course.” Andrew chuckled.

“Well—actually, a friend of mine was taken by them, conscripted because they said he looked and sounded Brit, even though he had proof he was born in New York City. Imagine!
He
says there was a man aboard the
Little Belt,
kept largely to himself in a special chamber full of bottles and evil-smelling smokes.
He
wasn’t allowed inside, of course; no one was save this man and his servant. But he saw once, when the door was ajar, bottles and boxes and an enormous book propped against the bulkhead.”

“A book,” Davy echoed blankly. He shook himself quickly.

“I’ve heard of such things,” he went on, hoping he sounded only mildly interested—and not at all knowledgeable. “Men who create magic with written spells and so on. Alchemists, aren’t they?”

“Truly? But why would anyone want to turn lead into gold aboard a ship?” Andrew asked.

“I’ve heard they do other things, besides that.”

“Oh.” Andrew considered this, finally shrugged. “There’s another thing, though—one that’s common knowledge among us, although a landsman might laugh at it.” He eyed his companion sidelong once again. “This ship. She’s lost some of her protection, coming into Chesapeake Bay.” He settled his elbows on the rail and stared at the froth of water trailing alongside the ship. “She—you see, after she was commissioned, the men who built her rubbed the copper sheathing and the planking with oil. Probably coming new to the sea you’ll think it a fool’s gesture, or you’ll think it smacks of witchery. All the same, when Commander Decatur took her into the Tripolitan War he knew, and so did all her men, that it would be well-nigh impossible to take her or sink her. Now—well, Captain Hull meant well. And the hull
was
thick with growth, barnacles, oysters—he said it was hung about like a grape arbor. So he took her into fresh water to kill off what growth he could, then had her scraped. She’s fast now; before that she sailed like a tub. But when they scraped her—”

“They took away the oil?” Davy asked quietly as Andrew hesitated.

“Just so. You’ll laugh—”

“Not necessarily. There are odd things in the world, after all. If she was scraped though, why couldn’t she have been re-oiled ?”

Andrew laughed briefly. “Two reasons: The oiling wouldn’t have worked well underwater, and the Captain had no interest in trying to haul her out of water. More importantly, he has a mind above such—well, the kindest thing he’s called it is a fool’s notion.”

“I see.”

“I thought you should know, since you’ve signed aboard for two years. And in case the older men say odd things. Some of them think they can sense something unfriendly below the hull, now it’s unprotected. Some think the British will be able to find and take us now.”

“And you? What do you think?”

Andrew shook his head. “I think she’s a good ship, with a good captain and a good crew; they’ll have to fight hard to win out against the
Constitution.
I cannot feel anything odd about her, or the sea. The Captain claims it to be poppycock and won’t hear any of it.” He sighed. “I don’t
think
I can feel anything odd. Although, sometimes, in a watch—but a man can imagine anything in the late hours of a watch, can’t he? I forget, you haven’t taken one yet. Well, you’ll see.” He smiled in Davy’s direction, the flash of teeth visible in the very faint lights on deck. “The rest of our mess is below; we’d better go, too. Tomorrow looks to be a very long day.”

Davy thought much later that he couldn’t have understated matters more if he had tried.

Tired as he was, sleep evaded him for some time, and when the change of watch came around, he was still awake—still considering Andrew’s words. Alchemists—there
were
other alchemists in the world. Oil on the hull of the ship/no oil. Things beneath the water. Alchemists? British alchemists? A number of his relations had returned to England after the war ended; was it possible another Crafter was out there?

* * *

Dawn. The change of watch was still nearly an hour away when the boatswain’s mate came bellowing and clattering through the welter of hammocks on the berthing deck, waking everyone, tumbling men to the planks. He had to raise his voice above the angry rumble but he managed it, and silenced them all with his first words: “Five British ships; we’re surrounded! Up and out!” He didn’t need to say anything else; the men raced onto the deck.

The
Constitution
looked small indeed with the British full ship of the line before her. Retreat to shore or to the north was cut off by four smaller ships. Davy came to an abrupt halt near the mizzenmast, and in the utter stillness on deck, he could hear Lieutenant Bush naming them.
“Africa;
carries sixty-four guns. That’s
Shannon
to her rear,
Guerrière
off our port, both thirty-eight-gun frigates.
Aeolus
and
Belvedira,
thirty-two guns apiece.” He sounded frighteningly calm, Davy thought. By the faces of several of the younger men around him, he wasn’t the only one who thought as much. But Captain Hull was as outwardly unemotional.

“A good catch, if we could take them. Perhaps, however, an extra application of sail, and a strategic turn to the south?” Men were already swarming aloft. But as the ship began to move, the wind gave one final puff and fell away entirely. Sails went limp against the masts, and high above, someone began cursing.

“Enough!” someone else shouted, and silence fell. It was quiet enough, all of a sudden; they could hear the English angrily fighting their own sails.

Captain Hull came down the deck, officers right at his heels.

“Launch boats. Pick the best we have to row them. Get rope, run it out from the bowsprit to each boat.” And as someone began to protest, “Don’t look at me so, man! What choice have we? She moves better than any British tub; we’ll tow her out of this trap. Head south.” He stopped between mizzen and main masts, and looked around at his waiting, silent men. “The rest of you, pay heed. We’ll win free of this, if there’s any way good men and a good ship can.” He passed on; one of the officers gestured to those nearest him. “You, you and you, get all the buckets you can; you and you, begin forming the lines to pass the buckets across the deck and into the rigging. The sheets have to stay wet; they’ll hold whatever air comes, wet. You, you and you—” He pointed out three of the older sailors. “Below with you, at once. Get whatever help you need to bring up rope, all the spare length we have. Go!” Men scattered, and Davy found himself in the midst of a brigade passing buckets of sea water toward the mizzen.

Later he found it hard to focus on anyone thing. It seemed to take forever, but somehow, slowly, the
Constitution
eased her way between the British ships, out of the trap, towed by her own rowboats; as she came into open water, gunners ran to open four of the gunports. Thus far, fortunately, the British were holding fire—perhaps to avoid hitting their own ships. Surely that wouldn’t last.

The sun rose; they inched southward, the shoreline scarcely seeming to move at all. Wet sails hung limp and dripping in the morning heat. And now, Davy could look back and see the nearest of the British ships moving, towed by her own boats, oars dipping in and out of a brilliant blue sea. The heat increased; sweat dripped from Davy’s hair into his eyes, from the end of his nose and his chin; the brass bottle was stuck unpleasantly against his breastbone. He could almost make out individual men on the nearest pursuing ship; could see cannon through the open ports.

When the hair lifted from his forehead, he didn’t immediately take it in; others, more experienced, cheered briefly as the breeze bellied the
Constitution’s
wet sails and she moved out of range. He had wit enough to stay where he was, near mid-deck, out of the way as men with more experience ran to catch up the men and boats as she passed them; he helped coil and stack wet ropes, and prayed they would not be needed again.

Half an hour later, the breeze died, and not long after, Davy saw a splash portside. “Oh, Lord, that” s
shot,”
he whispered. The man passing him buckets laughed grimly.

“Of course it’s shot! They’ve rotten aim, though, the Brits, be grateful.”

Other men pelted past them, dragging an enormous length of newly spliced ropes while three others struggled after with a sharp-bladed anchor. “Ah, God.” Someone nearby sighed heavily, one of the older men, Davy thought. Someone knew what was afoot and didn’t care for it much.

No one did, when it was explained to them; so desperate a chance as to seem a madman’s or a fool’s. The kedge anchor was being rowed as far ahead as possible, half a mile of rope tied to its end. Once the anchor was dropped, men would have to haul on the rope, towing the ship forward a step at a time.

It went on all day; Davy was vaguely aware of men splicing more rope, another anchor being attached to that, another line formed to alternate the anchors. Now and again there would be a brief respite—just enough breeze to allow them to bring in the boats and rest those manning the ropes, manning the oars, climbing into the rigging with buckets of sea water. He heard the nervous murmuring around him as the order was given to dump most of the ship’s drinking water. Late in the afternoon, he came a little more aware as the heat eased and a light wind held for four hours. There was food—something he never remembered what.

There were, always visible, five sets of sails. Never very far behind, despite everything they had done.

Somehow, somewhere, he lost the brass bottle; over the side, perhaps, one of the times he’d been on the dipping end of the bucket brigade. It didn’t really matter; he was too exhausted to care. Save that now he was aware not only of malice beneath them, but of something—
someone
—on
one of those ships behind them. Someone who was somehow capable of working magic aboard a ship, over open water! A part of his mind wondered at that; it never occurred to him, tired as he was, to wonder that Davy Holywell was able to sense the other at all.

Another day, another night; a third day. There was a difference now, though; the
Constitution
was slowly making headway, and they could see dark clouds building above the line of trees that marked the shore. Davy, who had been at the base of the mizzenmast most of the day, passing up buckets of water, was pulled back and given a short rest as skilled men swarmed into the sheets. Andrew was at his shoulder. “It’s only a squall, but look! The Captain’s reefing the heavy canvas, as though he expects a howler. Watch, the British don’t know these waters as well; they’ll copy his move, and once the storm hits, we’ll shift.”

They did; dark cloud, wind and blowing rain hid the ships one from another and orders were bellowed out. The boats were caught up on the run as the ship gathered speed and canvas was reworked. An almost chill wind blew sweat-soaked shirts against men’s breasts, and the
Constitution
broke away. An hour or so later, as the sky began to clear, they could see the British, now well out of reach.