The Mason Key II

Aloft and Alowby

David Folz

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The Mason Key II Aloft and Alow. Copyright © 2011 by David Folz. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews For information, address folz.literarygroup@cox.net

www.themasonkey.com

Folz, David.The Mason Key II Aloft and Alow: A John Mason adventure—Self published first printing.ISBN_978-1-4507-6298-451995_PC.eps 1. Mason, John (Fictitious Character)―Fiction. 2. Great Britian―History―18th

Century―Fiction.

First Edition: February, 2011

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The reality we perceiveis our own creation.

Its construction, which first takes form on a higher plane,becomes manifest on the physical, or lower plane. The laws

governing each plane are the same.

“As above, so below; as below, so above.”

The Kybalion

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To the person who happens upon these pages, be forewarned. These volumes encompass the events of the greater part of my life and, in doing so, divulge secrets that have been guarded through the ages by the followers of Hermes Trismegistus, the great sage of old Egypt. The knowledge of which I write has been woven into my life after being passed from the Knights Templar to my father, John Elkins, Grand Master of London’s Old Dundee Masonic Lodge.

John Mason, Keeper of the Key.

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CHAPTER ONE

6 July 1778

His hand held high above his head, Mister Skinner shouted, “Ready?” The other masons, many of whom held longstanding memberships in the local Masonic Lodges, had come from all parts of London to bear witness to an event that had been considered by some to be a rumor of exaggerated proportion. Two men, both large in stature, were seated while facing each other. Between them stood a makeshift table composed of wooden scaffold planking that had been hastily shored up at each end by a short, double stack of bricks. The men at the table were staring each other down, one with wavering confidence, the other with determined jaw and a piercing stare. Upon the table before each sat a solitary brick of hard baked red clay. The faces of the men in the surrounding crowd wore a mixture of skepticism and curiosity while their hands, heavily callused from years of hard work in the trade, fidgeted at their sides. As pale tobacco smoke drifted over tankards of spilled ale and blended with the heavy odor of men having just completed another day’s toil, the tension of anticipation creased the brows of those who were now having doubts about the money they had wagered. With vouchers gripped in clenched fists, the journeymen masons had the honor of being the occupants of the front rows. Sitting on the floor at their feet, I could smell the fresh mortar clinging to their trousers. After a threatening glance from the hard-nosed foreman, Mister Hanssel, the shouting subsided. Suddenly, the silence was broken as Hanssel dropped his fist like a hammer onto the table and shouted, “Go!” A low murmuring ensued, not unlike that of a church prayer, with the steady chant of, “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!” increasing in intensity with each repetition. My father, John Elkins, laid his heavy hand onto the brick before him, engulfing it within his grasp. Mister Simmons, the taller, barrel-chested man sitting opposite my father, followed suit. Gripping their bricks with one hand while supporting their wrists with the other, the two men began applying pressure. Within seconds, a crackling protest emanated from the brick confined beneath the large fingers of my father’s hand as small fissures began forming upon the surface. Simmons’ complexion quickly transformed from a light pale to a cherry red and it seemed as if his head might explode at any second. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead before tracing down his cement-dusted face into a steady drip onto the table. A groan escaped his throat. The crowd, recognizing Simmons’ loss was impending, roared with a combination of cheers and boos while reluctant hands crumpled their vouchers

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and threw them to the floor. “Father, I knew you could do it! I knew you could!” I cried, rising from the floor to watch my father’s powerful hand tightening its grip even further upon the brick. The familiar cracks continued taking shape across the surface of the brick as it gave way to the vise-like pressure. A powdery cloud of dust formed as the brick popped and crackled. Instantly, the sides fractured before falling away in tiny, jagged pieces. On their descent, one of the clay chunks, prior to reaching the floor, took on the shape of a man. The scene changed and I stared up in horror to see my father falling from a sixty-foot high scaffold. I attempted to run, but my feet seemed to be frozen to the floor. He was a very large man, yet it made no difference to me. I would catch him, even if it meant being crushed by his weight, if only to break his fall. And, when at last I did manage to move my feet, it was to trip over the sack of lime I had placed there only moments before. From the cold floor, I could do no more than stare upward and watch my father fall down the steep masonry wall of the church. “Father!” I screamed, my voice straining, as though my heart was being torn through my throat. As my dear father collapsed into a broken pile of flesh and blood onto the unforgiving flagstone floor of the church, all of the happiness of my childhood collapsed with him.

“Mister Mason,” Williams said with a nudge, “didn’t ya′ hear? We’re to clear for action. Mister Mason, the captain has requested your presence on deck, sir!” “Pardon?” I said, while rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Clear for action? They’ve gained on us?” “Indeed they have, sir. The Frogs will be up our arse within the next hour or so if we don’t knock out one of their spars.” As he spoke, I gazed through drowsy eyes at his great long pock-marked nose which had a peculiar patch of hair just above the end. “But ours is the faster ship,” I said. “Didn’t Maxwell say, ‘she’ll run away from a seventy-four as easy as a hare from a tortoise’?” “Aye, he did say that,” Williams said with a nod. “So, pray tell,” I put to him, “how is it that she gains upon us?” “Maxwell didn’t reckon on the heavy shipment of ordnance we’re carrying is what,” Williams said, before disappearing down a backstay. From the fore topgallant yard, a station seventy-five feet above the quarterdeck, all beneath me appeared to have been swallowed by an ethereal plane of white cotton. The sun was just below the horizon, giving the roof of the fog an appearance of earthly solidity. So much so, in fact, that it seemed one could easily set out upon it and leave the confines of the ship behind. As I gazed

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out upon the white plane, it first appeared to be an empty world devoid of any natural or man-made object. The more I stared, it became quite another thing. Rather than an empty plane, I saw it as a world with a blank slate in need of something or things with which to fill it. At any rate, I realized, I must now leave this peaceful world to the one of orders and hard work awaiting me below. While untying my lashings, I studied the ship’s suit of sail. It seemed to have served us well, for the topgallants were stiff and drawing handsomely. The wind was cool and fresh upon our quarter, and the usual sway of the mast, even from this height, was minimal. For our ride to be this smooth, I surmised it could only be due to the ship gliding over a low following swell. The only thing that disturbed this dreamlike scene was an incongruous popping sound that slapped the air every two to three minutes. A distant gun, I wondered? As sound is somewhat affected by fog, I searched in vain for its origin. There was, however, at a considerable distance to our stern, an iceberg-shaped cloud that had sprung up from the roof of mist quite suddenly. I watched as the cloud grew into an odd form. Taking on the shape of a ship’s square sail, its edges became more pronounced as the point of a spar protruded horizontally above the pillow-shaped sail. I stared on in disbelief as the whole thing separated from the main cloud with only a narrow vertical line supporting it. Rubbing my eyes, I thought certainly I must still be asleep. Nothing grows from vapor to solid. “This cannot be,” I said to myself while untying the tether on my spyglass. Bringing the object up close, I could see there were now lines attached. A spar emerged from both ends of the sail while above, precariously clinging to the top of the cloud with an arm wrapped around the thin mast, stood a very lean man. His hand held something to his eye and I suddenly realized he also had a spyglass, and it was trained upon me. Seemingly gliding upon the roof of the fog, the man was actually standing upon the fore royal yard, a very light yard supporting one of the uppermost sails of the ship. Dropping my glass, I gauged him to be approximately a mile to our stern. She has gained a good five miles overnight, I surmised, in spite of our dousing our lanterns and altering course. Maxwell, captain of the maintop, materialized from the fog below and, pausing to stare hard through his bushy red brows at the chasing Frenchman, said, “At the rate she’s coming on, she’ll have us alongside by dinner, sir.” Climbing past me, he continued on up to the main truck, the uppermost point on the mainmast. The steady pum-pum of a drum began as I started my descent down the shrouds. I thought of taking the quicker route by sliding down a backstay but, in fog such as this, I would run the risk of colliding with someone or something before I reached the deck. Before I had dropped to the topsail crosstrees, two Marines were situating themselves on the yard while topman Williams stood below on the shrouds handing up muskets, shot, and powder. Well-placed Marines were ordered aloft so they may shoot down at the men aboard the enemy ship. Cold apprehension of what was to come gave me a slight chill as I reached down and took hold of the muskets. Handing the muskets up, one by one, I heard the command from below to

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“LAY IN!” meaning to step in toward the mast so the yards can be braced around. As this was done, the becalmed foremast sails filled, improving our headway by at least three knots. After I had lightened William’s load, he said, “Thanks, mate,” but upon seeing me, his eyes widened. “Good God man, you are still here! The captain is expecting you five minutes now. He will have your hide, sir. And if you are lucky, that is all he will have.” “Sorry, Williams, I am going.” “It is I who will be sorry if I have to witness your kissing of the gunner’s daughter,” he smirked. “Your bloody backside ′ll spoil any man’s breakfast.” The punishment to which he referred was that of being tied over the muzzle of one of the great guns while being beaten with a cane about the arse. I had witnessed this on several occasions and had no desire to see its effects upon my own arse, it having been painful enough to observe its effects on others. With this grim picture in mind, I immediately sprang to the shrouds. As I swung around to the outboard side and stepped onto the ratlines, I heard another odd sound. Preceded with a buzz like a bee, it ended suddenly and finally with a loud smack very close by. Another distant pop from the chasing ship’s bow chaser quickly followed. In my peripheral vision, one of the Marines slipped off the yard where he had been sitting and vanished into the mist below. “HEADS UP!” I called down, yet I didn’t hear the expected crash or thud from the man hitting spars, braces, or God only knows what else he might encounter on his way down. As I descended the shrouds, the mist grew so dense that it became difficult to see farther than three feet. In fact, so much so that I could hardly make out the Marine’s ghostly form as he swung towards me. It seemed he had been most fortunate for he had snared his leg just below the knee by the topsail yard’s footrope. With my feet upon the ratlines and one arm hooked about one of the shrouds, I waited for the motion of his elliptical swing to bring him close so that I might take hold of his arm. “Take hold!” I ordered. When he didn’t respond, I assumed him to be unconscious. Momentarily releasing my grip, I reached out and took hold of his collar. With a firm grip on the fabric, I pulled him to me and felt my fingers sink into warm moist flesh where his neck should have been. Recoiling, I released him and stared incredulously at my hand, the fingers and palm now wet with a warm, dark crimson liquid. Turning my hand over, I watched the blood flow down my wrist. Where had his head gone? How? “What has happened here?” I shouted. Feeling the strain on the ratlines, I turned to see Williams crossing over to me. Looking back to the swinging headless corpse, I instinctively wiped my hand on my shirt. Yet, rather than removing the blood, I only managed to smear scarlet stripes against the ivory duck cloth. “Just you leave him to me, sir,” Williams said tersely. “Need I remind you that the captain is waiting?” I couldn’t seem to move. The vision was so vividly fixed in my mind’s eye that I could see little else. Blood pumped out in glutinous jets from severed arteries of

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what was left of his neck. The burning sting of bile rushed up into my throat and I struggled to pull myself free as found my arm wrapped about the stiff hemp fiber of the shrouds. Instead of going down, much to William’s protests, I climbed up to the topgallant yard and, with my glass, took another look at that seemingly innocent bit of sail. After a moment, the fog opened and revealed a majestic great ship pursuing us, its sails spread like an angel flying through the heavens. “An angel, indeed,” I said to myself, “an angel of death!” Three quarters of a mile to our stern, masts tore through a momentary opening in the fog allowing me to see her great size. Following the rake of her foremast down to her bow, I could make out letters painted boldly on her hull planking that spelled Scipion. Fading back into the grey mist, I lost sight of her again and, lowering my glass, noticed the blood, dry and crusty on my fingers. A long nine was accurate at six, or perhaps, seven cables, yet could travel a mile as well as a thirty-two pound ball. These had to be bow chasers and perhaps, with a ship of her size, twelve or eighteen-pound shot. As I listened, it was apparent the distant “thump” had become louder while shot from her bow chasers buzzed overhead before splashing into the hidden sea. Well within her range now, our only ally was the fog. She was the seventy-four gun French man of war sighted the day prior while hull down and in the company of a large flotilla. She had sighted us and departed her squadron to give chase. We all knew that if she were to overtake us before we reached New York harbour, we would be at great disadvantage due to her superiority of both larger and more numerous guns, as well as a crew whose size would be better than twice our own. Death was no stranger to me, for in my fourteen years of life on this earth I had seen plenty of it. Having escaped a hanging at the gallows of London’s Tiburn Tree, I had avoided it again when dealing with the antagonistic bully, Midshipman Lewis. His death was the result of his own attempt on my life, a death that opened a position for me as a junior officer aboard His Majesty’s Ship, Deception. I have taken on this position with hopes of escaping once we reach New York where I hope to begin a new life. To be sure, I find that I truly enjoy this life on the sea. However, if I chose to stay aboard, the ship would eventually return to London where I fear my true identity would be discovered. Although this life at sea has its hard work, as well as many dangers, it wasn’t until this moment that I saw I had forgotten the worst danger of all, that of doing battle with another ship. I wondered how I might fare if locked in battle with an enemy ship twice the Deception’s size. Well, I do possess the Mason Key, I reminded myself, an ancient golden relic containing knowledge held secret for a millennia. I inherited the artifact from my father and was placed in charge of its safekeeping; a responsibility that I fear may be beyond my capabilities. I have since learned the first of its Seven Principles: the Principle of Mentalism, that the universe is mental. This concept was difficult for me to comprehend at first yet, now seems quite simple. I have made good use of this knowledge as its power has saved my life on two occasions of which I am certain. Now I wonder if that bit of secret knowledge will be sufficient to keep me

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alive should this monstrous ship be allowed to come alongside. Taking hold of the topgallant backstay, I swung on and let my callused hands take the friction as I slid, now uncaring of what might be in the way, down into the thickened fog. When my feet hit the deck with a stinging slap, I ran aft past the vague outlines of men and guns towards the quarterdeck where I might find Post Captain Thadeus Cole. The light was lessened down here on deck, making everything appear shadowy and hidden. I felt a false sense of security, having assumed we must be hidden from the enemy ship’s view. This feeling was short lived, however, when an eighteen-pound ball of iron grazed the mizzen mast and careened down the deck ahead of me. “Stunsl’s aloft and alow!” barked the boatswain through his speaking trumpet. I heard the splash of water running over the side. Had we been hulled, I wondered, before realizing that the ship was simply lightening her load by pumping out our precious water. If we make it into New York harbour soon, we shan’t be in need of it. Men were running in every direction, and I could feel thunder of the guns being run out on the deck below my feet. Straightening myself, I stepped aft and soon passed the dog-faced boatswain who, seeing me, pointed in the direction of the captain. As I neared the area of the quarterdeck that was reserved for the captain, I could make out his low resonant tone even above the din of drums, guns being run out, and men’s trampling feet. He stood at the taffrail while staring aft into the thick wall of fog that, now illuminated by the morning sun, made him appear godlike against a brilliant wall of near blinding cloud. He turned his short, stout frame as I approached and I felt his piercing glance of disapprobation. Deep-set eyes took in my bloody attire before a concerned brow raised on his weathered features. He turned his back to me as I drew near, displaying beneath his tricorn hat sandy-grey hair that had been platted into the neatly formed club most common among seamen. I came to attention, announcing my presence, “Midshipman Mason reporting, sir!” He didn’t turn but remained facing the white wall, his hands folded behind him while his thumbs, thick and callused, fidgeted, as though working out some invisible puzzle. Uncertain as to whether the captain heard me or, for the moment, simply chose to ignore me, I stood silently by and waited his acknowledgement of my presence. Towering over him by as much as a foot, Lieutenant Bengs stood to Cole’s left, his delicate fingers holding a kerchief while dabbing at his long nose. Not bothering to acknowledge me, he folded his thin arms quickly, unfolded them, and folded them again. As I studied his demeanor, I thought I detected a tremor in his withdrawn chin. The cold, pale eyes that accompanied his usual arrogant demeanor had vanished, at least for the moment, and this gave me pause. He cast his eyes about, seemingly expecting some order from the captain that had

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yet to arrive. As I stood my place, they began to converse. Their words were beneath the level of the surrounding din, and I mentally closed out the sounds around me to focus upon their conversation. It was the captain who spoke first, turning a short half pivot in Bengs’ direction, as he said, “Mister Bengs, I believe your coordinates put us far to the east of our present location.” Bengs did not have time to respond before the captain went on with, “Yes, as much as two and a half degrees. And as for the Master, I believe his figures place us too far south―two degrees by my calculations. My question to the Master is, did he take the Gulf Stream into his reckoning? And my question to you, Mister, is did you figure in this very same current which, while pushing northeast, reduces our headway by three knots?” Bengs blinked his pale eyes for a second before conceding, “To be sure, sir, I have always understood the current to run north. As for its direction traveling northeast, I must defer to your experience. And as such, I now clearly see your point in that its true direction not being considered would most certainly give us a false position.” “Let us hope that my experience is not in error, Mister Bengs. If you recall, it was during the evening watch that we came into this fog which is most common around the Grand Banks. At our current speed we should now be nearing Sable Island. Do you possess any knowledge of Sable Island?” “Aye, sir, I do. It is a most miserable piece of ground notorious for being a navigational hazard.” “Quite so, Mister Bengs, quite so. Many a ship has found her destruction on that long sand bar. Pray we find the island before the Frenchy overhauls us. “Might I ask, sir, what advantage may be attained by coming into shoal water? I realize our draft is not as great as a seventy-four, yet…” “Go on,” the captain offered. “Well, in a blind fog, shoal water is no less a danger to us than the enemy. If we were to run aground, could he not simply reduce speed and broadside us into hauling down our colours?” “If it happens as you suggest, yes, however, I plan on skirting the island so as to put it between us and our pursuers,” Cole said, and turned to face Bengs with an iron stare, “With any luck, they will run at us before they hear the breakers. As it is, she gains on us much faster than I would have liked. Normally, under this fair breeze she should not be gaining at all. It would seem they have used up a good part of their stores while we are loaded down with ordnance. And I suspect,” he said, while studying the balance of the ship, “we have come a little by the head. Have Mister Douty belay pumping water from the stern and start it from the forward casks.” “Aye, aye, sir!” Bengs replied, and passed the word for the boatswain. “And do not ever let me hear of striking our colours, Mister Bengs, for I have no designs on doing any such thing. In fact, I mean to take him,” Cole said, while searching out Bengs’ eyes.

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Bengs’ complexion seemed to lose some of its pallor as Cole went on to say,“Yes, Mister Bengs, it is he who will do the hauling down. As for your conception of our surrender, they will have to await the moment when there is not a drop of blood left within me.” “Sir, that is most commendable, to be sure,” Bengs said in a placating tone, “but might I ask just how you plan to do it?” “You may see soon enough, Mister Bengs. Now see that the water is shipped aft. There is not a moment to be lost,” Cole barked. Turning his back on Bengs, his eyes found me studying our compass heading within the brass binnacle. “Is that you there, young Mason?” his eyes squinting to make me out in the fog. “So it is.” “You wished to see me, sir?” I said, straightening up and stepping toward him. “Yes, and for some time now. What do you have to say for yourself?” he said, stiffening his posture to give me a severe reprimand. Just as he was about to lay into me, he stopped himself and, in a most surprising tone of compassion said, “What’s this on your uniform, boy? Have you been wounded?” I dearly wanted to say, yes, and that is why I have taken so long to report to you sir, but I knew it would not do to lie to the captain. The man could see right through a lie. “No, sir, but I am sorry to report a Marine has been killed by one of the Frenchy’s bow chasers,” I said, hoping to evade the subject of my misconduct. “Save your report. I fancy there will be many more on the butcher’s bill before this day is done,” he said, sadly. “Aye, aye, sir!” I replied, and realized that although my diversion had worked, it was a very petty thing to have done; using news of a man’s death to avoid punishment for my own disobedience. Bengs had just returned from seeing to the water when another ball slapped through a wave no less than a stone’s throw from where we stood. As the sound reached us, I noticed a flush in his otherwise pale face. When in control of the ship during the captain’s recovery from a head wound, he had driven the entire crew to near mutiny by using the lash at every turn. The only thing preventing them from taking revenge had been news of the captain’s improving health. Now the clenched jaw along with the colour having completely drained from his features gave me cause to rethink my assessment of the man. I had reasoned that a man who took pleasure witnessing the flaying of another man’s back during a flogging would have no compunction with the prospect of seeing much more blood resulting from battle. Yet, I could see that I had been in error. It seemed Bengs’ lust lay solely in the blood of other men while, at the same time, being terrified at the prospect of shedding any of his own. His arms held stiffly at his sides, hands tightly clenched below the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. I realized how grave our predicament could become. A bully, I have been told, is not uncommon in an officer. A coward, however, is all the more dangerous. If something should happen to our captain, we would be left with this man to lead us through battle. With this in mind, my appreciation for Captain Cole grew tenfold.

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A glance at Captain Cole’s wary-eyed expression told me he also took notice of Bengs’ white feather. Turning to me, he said, “Mister Mason, I should like you to station yourself on the gun deck at the stern gallery.” “Aye, aye, sir!” I said, while knuckling my forehead, the customary salute to an officer. Before I could step off to my station, Cole placed a firm hand on my shoulder and said, “Belay that for one moment.” Puzzled, I turned to search his face and found the corners of his mouth had puckered into a barely perceptible smile. Following his eyes, I turned to discover Schultz, our gunner’s mate’s heavily muscled form towering over me. He was stripped to his waist, a bandana around his head and standing at attention. The seasoned seaman had worked alongside me when we were members of the foremast crew. Along with my sea-daddy, Harvey, Schultz had taught me much and earned my deepest respect and admiration. He raised one arm in a knuckled salute and awaited his orders. His past was one of interest and I often enjoyed listening to his many adventures. One of my favorites was when he served in the infantry under General Riedesel during General Burgoyne’s campaign of the previous year. After winning a series of battles, the campaign failed to receive badly needed reinforcements which resulted in a most humiliating defeat at Saratoga. While General Burgoyne negotiated terms of surrender, Schultz made use of his time whereby leaving the ranks of his fellow infantrymen. Stripping the clothes from the body of a dead rebel soldier, Shultz donned his new attire, burned his uniform, and walked right through enemy lines. Schultz walked for days traveling in dense forests. Being in a strange land, he had been wise enough to follow the sunrise, knowing that a steady eastward progression would eventually bring him to the coast. To his good fortune, he had been on the brink of dehydration when he happened upon a family of German immigrant farmers who gave him food and water. After a brief respite in their home, they provide him directions to New York and sent him on his way. Even with directions, the travel through thick forests and rough terrain caused him to take many wrong turns. Eventually, and after numerous encounters with dangerous animals and even more dangerous humans, he found his way to New York harbour where he signed aboard a ship in Admiral Howe’s fleet. Once on board, he was quick to learn the ways of seaboard life and soon became adept with ship’s gunnery. Though he had been well accustomed to field artillery, the working of ship’s guns proved no easy transition for, unlike the field cannons which fired from a stationary position, a ship’s guns fired while moving up, down, and sideways. In spite of the difference, however, it was not long before he gained a reputation as a most accurate marksman. Shortly thereafter, his reputation gained him the commission of gunner’s mate. As he stood beside me, I was momentarily taken aback by the sight of his amazing physique. I had, throughout the voyage, observed him in various physical exercises each day at the end of his watch which never failed to amaze the crew, as well as myself. I say amazed because work aboard a ship of the Royal Navy was extremely depleting. At the end of each day’s duties, we were so

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fagged out that most could do little else but sleep in their hammocks. Yet, Schultz remained undaunted by his work and I had yet to observe him exhibit any signs of fatigue. Now the captain, who was quite fond of his gunner, addressed him with a more pleasant tone than any of the other crew saying, “Mister Schultz, what have you to report?” His deep baritone coupled with a thick German accent cut the air like musket shot as he replied, “Stern chasers ready, sir!” “Excellent,” the captain said, while turning to face the wall of fog which had grown so dense as to appear impenetrable. “I realize that you cannot see your target, however, I can tell you with relative certainty that she is half a mile dead astern.” Turning to face Schultz, he leaned close and, speaking slowly, said, “I say again, HALF A MILE DEAD ASTERN.” He often repeated himself in this manner due to Schultz’s limited knowledge of the English language. After a pause, he studied Schultz’s face for any sign of understanding before going on to say, “She is a large ship and, with your skill along with a good deal of luck, we may do some damage to her rigging, possibly even take out a mast. I say, TAKE OUT A MAST!” Schultz didn’t flinch but only nodded his understanding, having long since grown accustomed to the captain’s vocal blast. Cole, having given Schultz an additional glance to assure he had been understood, turned his attention to me. “Mister Mason, accompany Schultz and, when his men are ready, give the order to fire.” With his gaze intensifying, he added, “Observe closely and you may learn something from this man. That is all,” and turned away. “Aye, aye, sir!” I said, and following Schultz down the ladder to the ship’s waist, breathed a sigh of relief. Had the captain not had his mind on the pursuing ship, I would certainly have kissed the gunner’s daughter for keeping him waiting. The stern gallery, when not cleared for action, contains the private quarters of the captain. As we were beating to colours, only the stern gallery windows remained. The bulkheads had been quickly struck down and all of the captain’s furniture and dunnage had been stowed below into the ship’s hold. The Deception was classed as a frigate which, to be more exact, was a rather large frigate that had survived the Seven Years War. She was unique in that frigates of her size were no longer being constructed due to the Admiralty’s desire for lighter, faster ships. While most conventional frigates carry from twenty-eight to thirty guns and are classed Sixth-Rates, the Deception is much larger and classed as a Fifth Rate carrying fourteen twenty-four pound longs each side amidships, four eighteen-pound longs each side near the bow and stern, and two brass long nines aimed forward and two aimed aft. Upon entering the space, I saw that one of the eighteen-pound longs had been shifted to the place that had previously held the long nine stern chasers. The muzzle was now run out through the opening below the gallery windows which had been cut and framed to accommodate the greater size. Edison, the carpenter’s mate who, being an able man in spite of his slight

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frame, had installed the heavier breeching lines. With one of the two lines now secured to an overhead beam, he went to work on the remaining line. A steady drip of perspiration from his strands of twisted auburn locks ran down his pockmarked cheeks to form a small puddle beneath him on the deck. Turning the oiled drill bit with sinewy arms, he worked the crank while the bit twisted and turned before biting into the oaken deck planking. Within minutes, the bit had penetrated the deck planking as well as the beam below and he pulled the bit free to insert a heavy ringbolt into the newly bored hole. With the call of, “Nutted home!” from his man stationed below, Edison attached the dead end of the heavy block to the ringbolt. The training tackle already had been roved athwart ships and, with this new “above and below” breech rig, the whole combined to give the appearance of a spider’s web. The odor of fresh cut lumber hung in the air while Edison stood with tools in hand and gave Schultz the nod to proceed. Schultz’s men were poised for action as he stood bent over the black iron muzzle and peered through the gun port. With a length of slow match smoldering near his fingertips, he studied the gun’s position. The appropriate charge had already been rammed home before being followed by wad and shot. Now he could do no more than apply the principles required to achieve the distance of three quarters of a mile. With no visual target, he was going solely by elevation of the muzzle, the charge of powder, and blind luck. The thin trail of smoke from burning slow match, a gunpowder-ingrained rope used to light off gunnery, wafted across the deck and, as the acrid smell reached my nostrils, I thought of the many times we had stood at the ready during gunnery practice. Only now, I reminded myself, this was not practice. With sweat running down my spine, I felt the familiar and ever-increasing sense of danger. I noticed Schultz’s questioning glance and realized that he was awaiting my order to fire. How odd, I thought, that a mere lad of fourteen years, an escaped felon, no less, with a sentence of death upon my head, is now an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and in charge of a group of full grown men. “Fire when ready!” I ordered, my voice cracking and effectively emphasizing the disparity between age and authority. Pulling two wads of wax from my waistcoat pocket, I carefully rolled each one into a small ball and after warming them in the palms of my hands, squeezed one into each ear. As the wax seated, the creaking and groaning sounds the ship makes in its rolling sway retreated to a distant whisper before being replaced by the high pitched ring of silence. Schultz waited for the ship’s stern to rise before laying the slow match to the gun’s touchhole. The powder flashed a second before the cannon belched its load and, as the massive gun shot backward on its truck wheels, the upper breeching tackle tore an iron ringbolt from an overhead beam. The swell had been a rogue wave which exceeded its predecessor’s height by nearly twofold. The resulting momentum from the recoil and increased pitch of the deck brought the muzzle up, as well as back until the weight of this massive piece of iron stood nearly vertical. A tremendous strain had now transferred to the trunions, the gun’s only attachment to the “truck,” or gun carriage, which was only designed to

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hold the gun in a horizontal position. Had it not been for the overhead deck beam checking its progress, the gun might have completed a somersault onto the deck. Miraculously, the lower breeching held and, for perilous seconds, we held our breath as the swell completed its passage under the ship’s length to make the bow rise. Throughout this time, the gun stood precariously balanced against the upper deck beam and threatened to slide free of its truck. The thick odor of spent gunpowder drew tears from our eyes before blowing away toward the forward gun ports. As our eyes cleared, we were shocked to see the carpenter had, in his effort to dodge the recoil, tripped over his own feet and now lay prostrate on the deck. Winded and unable to move, he could only lie before the teetering five thousand pounds of iron. No one made the slightest move to help him. Instinctively, I started to rush to his aid when one of the crewmen, taking hold of my arm, held me back. My initial reaction was outrage toward the man who had restrained me. However, while struggling to free myself, I saw that the ropes of the breeching tackle were taut as iron and producing such a popping noise that the sound penetrated the wax balls in my ears. The deck sloping away, coupled with the increasing strain on the lines from the gun’s massive weight, signaled they could part at any second. As I looked full into the carpenter’s widened eyes, I could see that he fully understood his situation and harboured no reproach for those around him. Fortunately, the muzzle’s hold against the beam slackened as the bow continued to rise and, with a thunderous crack, the gun violently slammed to the deck into its former position. It was, however, within those endless seconds preceding this that Schultz had taken up a pike and wedged it between the wheels of the gun truck and deck preventing further strain on the breeching tackle. Although his quick action had saved the carpenter’s life, what impressed me most was that he had managed it without risking his own. Still, his actions were heroic and I was surprised that nothing was said of it as each man went about securing the gun. Edison, visibly trembling, rose to his feet, picked up his tools and went to the work of drilling additional holes through the deck beams. On each side of the gun, he added a ringbolt where the men attached a length of leather sheathed rope before passing it over the gun’s muzzle and securing it to the ringbolt on the opposite side. The leather sheath would prevent the hot muzzle from burning through the rope’s fibers while, at the same time, the sling would check the muzzle’s upward movement when recoiling. Once he had finished his task, Edison wiped the sweat from his brow and, approaching Schultz, said, “I be thankin’ ya for the rest of me days, Schultzy. Ol’ Killer here,” he went on, dropping a heavy hand onto the warm muzzle of the gun that had nearly killed him, “was lookin’ to run me down. Standin’ up and starin’ death right in me face, she was. But you changed her mind. You’re a good man, Schultzy.” A pause ensued wherein Schultz, without words for such praise, could only shrug his shoulders. The carpenter stared at him for seconds while attempting to search out his

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eyes and, finding Schultz not willing to return his the gaze, said, “I’ll say it again if ya like.” Schultz’s stern jaw relaxed and the tight skin around his lips cracked into a toothy grin. With a boisterous laugh, he said, “I yust make sure Killer nicht leave his station, dat’s all. He got verk to do, by Got. Yust fix him gut dis time.” The carpenter nodded his understanding and replied, “Oh, he’ll hold his ground now. You can lay to that!” With the carpenter’s assurance, I gave the order to fire when ready, yet Shultz appeared unconvinced. With a solemn expression on his chiseled features, he caught my eye and suggested, “Haff charge—in case Killer nicht stay down.” While I weighed the risk, another ball from the Scipion slammed into the stern of the ship near the waterline. Before sending his man into the hold to plug the hole, the carpenter took a heavy length of cordage and lashed the inboard ringbolts together, thus giving the breeching of the gun a coupled strength―a sound measure, providing it worked. With the completion of the carpenter’s work, Schultz’ hardened features appeared to relax and, nodding his approval, he instructed his men to load a full charge. Once this was done, I repeated the order to fire. Schultz again held the slow match ready and, for good measure, studied the gun’s elevation. Waiting for the rise of the stern to give added height to the ball’s arc, he peered through the gallery windows at a target that remained lost behind the sheet of fog. Through the silence, he appeared to be struggling with some sort of mental calculation until, as though by use of some invisible logarithm, he seemed to complete his equation and lay the slow match onto the gun’s touch-hole. The instantaneous blast and recoil found the breeching intact and, without hesitation, the crew went to work worming, swabbing, dropping in the wad, the powder charge, the second wad, and ramming it home. Whether we had struck home was as yet unknown to us, however, with no reply from the masthead, we assumed we had missed. Just as the eighteen-pound ball was about to be fed into the gun’s awaiting mouth, I shouted, “Avast!” The gun crew, extremely irritated, reluctantly obeyed my order. I remembered that the captain had stated we were to damage her rigging, yet we were firing round shot. Recalling that a ball was capital for close-in action when hammering a ship’s hull, I realized that what we were intending required something that would not merely put a hole in her hull, but rather tear into the ship’s rigging. I barked, “Chain shot!” Schultz, a very proud man, could not conceal his self-recrimination as he quickly drew up the chain shot from the ammunition rack and handed it to the crew. Having been so intent on accuracy, it hadn’t occurred to him that he was using the wrong ammunition. Near this time, Maxwell, my friend and captain of the maintop, was perched on the main royal yard with a glass pressed into his left eye. With the French ship in focus, he held the ship in his field of vision against the movement of the

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Deception’s rise and sway. With the persisting fog, his view of the chasing ship was reduced to its uppermost rigging. Once our chaser had fired, he caught sight of the spiraling chain and followed it through its high arc until it descended in perfect alignment with the French ship. He thought it might fall short but the spiral continued, its motion seeming to keep it airborne like the erratic flight of a large bird with a deformed wing. Just when you think it has given up, it surprises you and, like the chain shot, carries on. With all the force of its iron mass, the tangle of chain and connected ball slammed into her upper rigging striking the fore topgallant mast three-quarters of the way above its foot. The stout mast, already bowing under a heavy press of sail, could not take the strain and snapped off just above the topmast’s cap. Within seconds, the fore topgallant mast fell slowly forward. The topgallant sail and its respective studding sails shuddered and collapsed while directly above came the fore royal and sky sail. With silent flight, they turned, momentarily flapping in the breeze, before falling through the roof of fog and dragging down their associated spars and rigging in the process. “On deck there!” Maxwell called out, the direction of his voice seeming coming from somewhere on deck instead of aloft, “Fore t’gans’l’s gone by the board!” Still, we all heard him and an instant “Huzzay!” resounded throughout the ship. “You hit your mark, Schultz, you hit your mark!” I said, with complete amazement. “You may as well have been blindfolded, still, you hit her.” The corners of his mouth betrayed the thin trace of a smile. He said not a word but only watched as his gun crew cheered and congratulated one another as though they had just won the war. After allowing them a few more seconds to enjoy their success, his smile disappeared and he barked the order, “Reload!” Instantly, they ceased their festivities and went to work worming, swabbing, and reloading the gun. While this was being done, I heard the captain’s voice booming through the speaking trumpet, “Bearing and speed?” Maxwell could see the Frenchman’s crew swarming like ants into the rigging to cut away the mangled cordage and spars. Calling back, he said, “Dead astern and she’s down to near five knots. She’s coming to, sir.” Once the loading of the gun was completed, it was run out and I again gave the order, “Fire when ready!” The gun had just fired when an eighteen-pound ball from the Scipion’sbroadside slammed into our stern gallery windows not three paces from where I stood. Splintering one of the overhead beams, it tore through its bottom half before clanging against the muzzle of the aftermost larboard gun and rolling out through its gunport. I discovered that I was sitting on the deck, somewhat stunned. When I hauled myself to my feet, I noticed several of the gun crew staring at one of their party. One of the men shielded his eyes while turning away from the man next to him. What is wrong with him? I wondered, before noticing that the eight-inch thick piece of oak he held with both hands was actually protruding from his stomach. The injured man fell to the deck unconscious. The days of gunnery practice had not prepared me for splinters. I had foolishly believed the iron ball to be the only

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thing one must avoid. Splinters, I discovered, were no less than wooden spears that were, in effect, the iron ball’s secondary destruction. The injured men were escorted to the doctor who had set up shop on the orlop deck, a station below the water line. While the man with the stomach wound was carried away, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the thick blood pouring from his body. Following their steps to the companionway, I was surprised to find my mind had juxtaposed my face over his. Was this sympathy for him, I wondered, or was it fear? I recalled when working with Doctor Hoffman how we had set up a makeshift table to work on men’s injuries, all the while cutting and suturing away without a second thought. Perhaps I might soon be one of those screaming wretches trembling at the stroke of the surgeon’s saw. Without ceremony, the second mate ordered four more men to take up their stations. Instead of wondering if I would see those men again, I admitted to my fears of joining them. Did this make me a coward? Or was this simply survival? I was uncertain of which at the time but have since learned that survival is a force that knows nothing of justification. “Sand here!” Schultz barked at one of the gun crew who, giving him a knowing glance, reached for the sand bucket. I had always understood that the purpose of the sand was to prevent one’s feet from slipping on a wet floor. I had never suspected it would be used on blood. As I watched the man reach into the bucket, taking handfuls and fanning the sand out into an arc about the area where the blood ran, I felt an odd sense of urgency. I wished the blood to be gone. And, as I looked at the faces of the others about me, I could see it in their eyes as well. The blood could not blend into the red paint of the gun deck quickly enough to banish the image now burned into our minds. Tearing my eyes from the deck, I stared through the hole in the stern gallery window framing where the ball had shattered glass and wood as it tore through. With a sense of foreboding, I realized that this could very well be only a taste of what was to come if were unable slow the Scipion’s speed. If she continued to gain, we would be under close range of her guns and not long after, have shot and splinters tearing apart the ship. What of it, I thought. One can only do what one can do. If that be our fate, then, I will go down fighting with the rest of my mates. In an effort to clear my thoughts, I took notice of other things about me. There was the carpenter who worked with his mates to shore up the torn beam. Working steadfastly, they strapped the ends of the beam with iron plates to prevent their pulling apart. Next, they shored up the beam with a length of oak wedged into the deck, taking care to place it directly over the beam below so as to give it the needed continuity of support that would carry all the way down to the keel. As I studied the situation, it became apparent that our stern chaser was undone. The beam would no longer be able to take the slamming force of our guns when they reached the ends of the breeching tackle. On the first recoil, the gun would tear the line and the beam clean away and most likely run down the

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length of the ship, killing and maiming anyone in her way before tearing through the hull and falling into the sea. Cole’s idea had worked in slowing down the Frenchy but it had come at a price. Now, only the long nines could be used and their load could only hole a few of her sails at best, not nearly enough to slow her. I wondered what the captain would try next. After ordering the men to house their guns, I ran to report the damage to the captain and, as I ascended the ladder, had a vision of the doctor sawing my bones down in some small space within the ship’s hold. Pushing this thought aside, I recalled the power of the Mason Key and made my way to the quarterdeck where I found the captain. Remembering the First Principle of the Mason Key, “The Universe is Mental,” I realized I must not buy into this line of thinking. I did have control of my reality and as such did not have to accept, no matter how convincing the situation, that my fate would be the same as those men wounded by the shot from the Scipion. The fog now reached as high as the topgallant yard. In order for Maxwell to have any view of the chasing ship, he had to ascend to the topgallant truck. The topgallant mast, being a slender length of timber, made ascending its truck a most precarious feat. Still, Maxwell was not a heavy man and it took his weight, allowing him to rest atop the uppermost point of the mast. Just as he poked his head above the roof of the fog, he found that the Frenchman’s masts were no longer in line with our ship. They were, instead, turning away, a maneuver that could only mean she was bringing her starboard guns to bear. “On deck there, she is coming to,” he reported, just as a blanket of fog swept over him to cover the rest of the ship. Captain Cole muttered under his breath, “I suppose he will now make us pay for his fore t’gallant.” “She can’t see us now!” Maxwell added. Before I could report the damage to our stern, Cole put the speaking trumpet to his mouth and shouted, “Did you say she cannot see us?” “Aye, sir!” came Maxwell’s distant reply. “How do you know?” Cole demanded. “Cause’ I’m on the main t’gallant truck and I cannot see her, SIR.” “Port your helm!” he barked to the helmsman, who, already anticipating the order, put her hard over. The ship answered handsomely and her deck soon canted into an athwartship’s roll as Bengs ordered, “Bracing stations! Prepare to loose headsails!” Once the braces had been hauled around for the new heading, Cole ordered,“Maintain heading.” In the next second, the Frenchman broadside broke like the thunder of fifty lightning bolts. “Lie down!” the captain shouted and Bengs relayed the order through his speaking trumpet. In the ensuing silence, there was nothing to do but lie prostrate and hold our breath.

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“I pray she is a poor shot,” I muttered to myself before looking up to see that the captain had not lain down, but instead, stood over me. With a disapproving glance, his eyes turned to the fog. If only I had kept my mouth shut, I thought. If only I had hidden myself safely below the waterline. “You had better pray she is a good one, Mister Mason,” he said in a low voice, “for I am counting on her captain to be directing his fire where our stern should have been had we maintained our previous course.” As he spoke, a buzzing sound, not unlike a swarm of bees pierced the air before chopping up the water in our wake. It had come so near that I felt the wind from it. With a deep shuddering sigh, I rose to my feet. “Hard over to starboard and maintain previous heading!” Cole ordered. Bengs took up the speaking trumpet and sent the men running back to their previous stations. I was amazed at the captain’s complete absence of fear. For someone who had so nearly avoided death, he seemed to have been too preoccupied to take notice of it. Turning to face me, Cole said, “What have you to report, Mister Mason?” Realizing the broadside had caused me to have forgotten the injury to our men, as well as the damage to our stern gallery, I reported, “We took one in the deck beam above the gallery windows, sir, which I am sorry to report has been shattered. The carpenter has spliced it up as best he can but I fear it will not hold the breeching.” “Any casualties?” he asked in a low whisper, his concern visibly earnest. “Four of the gun crew injured―one very serious, sir.” Bengs’ hazy figure drifted into view from behind the mizzen mast where he had been taking cover during the broadside. With a brisk step, he brought himself to stand by the captain. Maxwell, having descended the main shrouds, now stood beside me. “Mister Bengs, what is this man doing on deck?” the captain demanded. Bengs, having no idea, was about to speak when Maxwell broke in, saying,“Permission to speak, sir?” “Very well, what have you to say, Maxwell?” Cole barked. “Her main mast is completely under the fog, sir. It’s so thick I can’t see nothing, sir.” “Which is precisely why you should still be there,” Cole fumed. “If I had the time, I would have you flogged for jeopardizing the life of every man aboard. Lay aloft on the main truck until you do see something. And do not come down again until you have been ordered to do so. Is that clear?” “Aye, aye, sir,” Maxwell said, with a look of someone who has just fallen into a cesspit. Knuckling his forehead, he nearly tripped over his own feet while running for the shrouds. Cole turned to Bengs, saying, “Alter course, heading south, southwest.” Bengs relayed the order to the man at the helm before calling the hands to the braces. One of the men, heaving the lead from the main chains called out, “Bottom at

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thirty fathom.” Cole nodded, saying, “Shoal water, indeed. Welcome to Sable Island. Pray there is a good swell breaking, Mister Bengs. And pray we have a keen ear.” Quickly reaching up, I pulled the wax from my ears. “For if we do not hear those breakers,” the sound of his voice, though near a whisper, now came in clear as the ship’s bell, “we shall most assuredly run aground before we are able to run away. You see, Sable shoals up very fast.” Although Bengs’ features remained rigid, his cravat could not conceal the restriction of his neck muscles as he swallowed hard. Cole went on to say, “It is a gamble, to be sure, but may be our only opportunity to take her. And I do mean to take her. If all goes well, the Frenchy will strike hard and, once this fog lifts, we shall be at our leisure to broadside her into submission.” The men sounding from the main chains called out, “By the mark, fifty-six.” Cole turned to the boatswain and said, “Mister Douty, pipe the hands to breakfast.” Then, to me, he said, “Mister Mason, upon your return from breakfast, I desire you to return to your station and have your men secure that gun to its former station. Tell Schultz to take care that he doesn’t lose it on the roll.” “Aye, sir,” I said, knuckling my forehead. Turning on my heels, I ran back down the companionway to where Schultz and his crews awaited. My relaying those last words of the captain, gave Schultz pause. With a hard look at the iron muzzle, he gave orders to secure the gun by adding two extra lashings from the muzzle to the ringbolts in the deck before we all headed for the galley. Near this time, Maxwell had hauled himself up into a sitting position to rest on the main topgallant truck. A quick scan of the surrounding area revealed that the entire ship was still well within the thick layer of fog. While fog at sea is generally the cause for much running aground or colliding with other vessels, this fog had been our good fortune. Everyone aboard knew full well that if not for this concealing cloud, instead of going to breakfast, we would now be fighting for our lives. As Maxwell lashed his legs to the topgallant lifts, he noticed that the French ship’s guns had ceased firing, presumably to continue the chase. Heaving to for a broadside had cost the pursuing ship much headway and, with an unseen target, had proved to be a poor waste of shot as well. As the mast swayed through each successive roll, Maxwell found his position not entirely without comfort. Being the only one aloft, he could enjoy precious moments of solitude, a thing most rare aboard a man o’ war. Unfortunately, it was to be short lived. The second his nostrils picked up the smells of toast and hot gruel from the kitchen, he was beset by a complaining stomach that growled incessantly. Not long after, those smells were all he could think of as the grinding in his stomach churned into a most unbearable ache. It was not until a gull nearly collided with his face that he was able to momentarily forget the pain. While he drew in a deep breath to announce the sighting of the bird, an indication that implied land was near, a distant, yet unmistakable, rush of waves breaking on

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shore whispered to his ears. “BREAKERS!” he called down. We had only just returned to our station from breakfast and could hear the captain’s voice through the stern gallery windows reply, “Where away?” “Dead ahead, sir,” Maxwell called down. “Splendid!” the captain exclaimed and ordered, “Hands to the braces and headsails! Hard to starboard and bring her up on the larboard tack heading sou’-sou’-east.” Before Bengs could relay the order, men were already scrambling to their stations as the helm was put hard over. I could hear running footsteps on the deck above and soon the rise of the swell came from the starboard quarter. Unfortunately for the men hauling the stern chaser back to its original station, the abrupt change in motion was the last thing they needed. The gun had been held in anticipation of an aft downward slope of the deck when, in fact, it canted the opposite way. The wheels of the gun’s truck cut right over a man’s foot and it took eight men with wedges and pikes to get if off. Although his face told of agonizing pain, not a sound uttered from his mouth. Once the gun had been secured to its port with a sturdy double breech, he was helped to his good leg by one of his mates who said, “Not to worry lad, the doctor ′ll have you put to rights in no time.” The injured man replied in a strained voice, “Good thing it weren’t me weddin’ tackle.” As he hobbled with his weight on his friend, his shoe filling with blood, his friend went on to say, “Aye, then we’d have to throw ya overboard, sure. We can’t have any goddamn eunuchs running about on our ship, can we?” As the ship fell into the new heading, the sound of the breakers had grown into a roar, and though nothing was said, the eyes of everyone near me were filled with dread. Were we going to run aground? After a month or more of being far from any land, this danger had not occurred. First there was a ship bent on destroying us, and now we were in danger of being destroyed by running aground. My blood rushed through my head as I considered the complexity of our situation. On this heading, the motion changed to that of an athwartships roll and we stood at our station in silent anticipation of what would come next. Meanwhile, Maxwell was bobbing and weaving on the top of the mainmast in a long elliptical circle within the thick blinding fog. Having nothing to fix his eyes upon while being stirred about in such a manner can result in a strong dose of seasickness. Having been fully aware of this hazard, he closed his eyes to reduce the effects. The difficulty with this tack, however, was that he soon had the sensation of being rocked to sleep. If not for visions of the gull colliding with his face, he might not have opened his eyes in time to see the fore topsail yard of the Scipion pierce the fog just above his head. Momentarily puzzled, he stared confusedly at the yard above him as he remembered being upon the mainmast truck, the highest point of the ship. It was, however, due to the ensuing collision that he was jarred fully alert. There could

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be no doubt, he thought, the yard above his head was huge and it certainly did not belong to the Deception. With a tug, his lashing came free and, reaching up with one hand, took purchase on the footrope of the Scipion’s topsail yard while, at the same time, letting go of the Deception’s main topgallant mast. His own weight took the slack from the topsail yard’s footrope causing him to miss his grip with his other hand. After hanging by one hand for a moment, he managed to swing, ape-like, until he gained a hold with his other and hauled himself up onto the yard. With his new bearings, he stepped down the long length of this massive yard until he reached the mast. Dropping the remaining few feet to the fighting platform, he surprised a musket-wielding French Marine who, mistaking Maxwell to be one of his ship’s company, found himself being thrown to his death.

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