Newton and Polly by Jody Hedlund

Author:Jody Hedlund
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2016-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

September 1744

“All loaded!” roared a nearby master gunner as his loader finished inserting the cartridge, a wool bag of black powder.

Newton ducked under a beam of the lower deck and peered out the nearest gunport. The French ship Solide was still in the line of battle and had been for nearly two hours. The foremast had split in half, the stern was afire from a direct hit, and the mizzen topgallant sail was hanging into the North Sea. Even though she was badly crippled, the French man-of-war kept fighting.

Devil take her. Would she ever give up?

Sweat mingling with soot dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. His nostrils burned from the acridness of sulfur, and his head ached from the constant blasts from the HMS Harwich’s guns. Even though the two-decker was holding her own against the Solide, he’d heard reports that their rigging had suffered damage too.

“Prime!” the gunner yelled again, instructing the five men manning the cannon to ready it for another shot. One of the men rammed the bag of powder in place, and then the ventsman drove his priming wire down through the vent hole, puncturing the cartridge and exposing some powder.

Up and down the lower deck, each of the twelve cannon crews had been working nonstop. As midshipmen, Newton and another officer had been overseeing their efforts, coordinating their fire, and shouting orders. Another twelve cannons were firing from the middle deck above them. They brought their greatest weight of broadside guns to bear, but Newton wasn’t sure it would be enough to dominate the gun ship of the French, which had sixty-four guns compared to their fifty.

“Get those matches lit,” he called to one of the powder monkeys, a young lad no older than twelve. The whites of the boy’s eyes were wide amid the black soot that covered his face. The long rope shook in his hands, but he managed to light it.

“Good,” Newton called, as he watched the boy blow on it to keep it from going out.

Newton continued his way down the line of cannons. His neck and back ached from his stooped position. Only the powder monkeys and shortest sailors could stand at full height below deck. The ship was built to carry the maximum number of guns and men without sinking or being cumbersome in maneuvering. Comfort was the last thing on the designers’ minds.

Even though the Harwich was close enough to the Solide to exchange the cannon fire, the tossing of the ship made aim difficult. Newton figured it was a miracle every time one of their cannon balls actually hit a target.

He wiped his shirt-sleeve across his eyes. For a September day, it was warm. But below deck, with the heat of the cannon fire, the choking smoke, and the cramped quarters, the conditions were nearly unbearable. Already two men had passed out.

If damage from the heat was the worst of their bodily injuries, he’d be grateful. He’d heard a man on the quarterdeck was hurt when a ball hit their main topsail and the rigging fell, but no one had been killed.

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