“Wieder, jawohl!” came the reply from Winston and Dieter, who were standing by the port cannon, the only cannon remaining after the storm. Chang, the gunner beside them, brought his palms together and bowed, still holding aloft a short rod with a glowing slow match at the tip.
“Fire when ready!” Jonesy shouted.
Harriet climbed another step and stayed in the hatchway, trying to see around the mainmast yet stay out of everyone’s way while she watched them practice loading and firing the cannon. They didn’t actually load a cannon ball, just mimed the action of doing so. Chang held the slow match to the touchhole on the cannon and Harriet regretted not covering her ears soon enough.
BOOM!
The explosion vibrated deep in her bones. The noise ricocheted around her brain, muffling all other sound for several moments. When the huge cloud of smoke cleared, the three men were readying the cannon for another charge, their movements swift yet controlled, working in concert like dancers. This time she covered her ears as soon as the match touched the opening.
BOOM!
“That enough, or you want ‘em to go again?” Jonesy’s voice, much quieter this time, was directed behind him. “I think we can squeeze ‘em closer together yet.”
“Have him practice on a swivel gun.”
Even craning her neck Harriet could not see Sheffield, though the wind carried his voice to her.
“Aye, Cap’n.” Jonesy faced the port cannon again. “Dieter, aft!”
“Jawohl!” The carpenter pounded up the portside steps to the quarterdeck, a canvas bag slung around his neck and over one shoulder, in addition to his usual work apron tied at his waist.
“You’ll be out of the way and able to see everything from back here, Miss Chase.” Sheffield’s voice held a touch of humor.
Harriet didn’t care if he was mocking the way she was gawking. She climbed the rest of the way up to the deck, closed the hatch, and had a good look around.
Sheffield leaned at his ease against the quarterdeck’s aft railing as though he leaned on a fence surrounding a bucolic pasture, not a twenty-foot drop to the ocean rushing by below. She doubted any farmer had ever worn a gold hoop in his ear. Sunlight glinted off Sheffield’s earring, the breeze ruffled his long black hair though most was constrained in a queue much like hers, and stubble darkened his square jaw.
No eye patch, no cutlass. Though she did see the handle of a knife sticking out of one boot top. She shook her head, trying to reconcile this pirate on deck with the man who’d put her to bed so gently the night before.
Giving a wide berth to the opening in the deck where the tiller connected to the rudder stock, Harriet nodded to Jack at the tiller and joined Sheffield at the stern.
“Fire when ready!” Jonesy shouted. Dieter loaded the starboard swivel gun—with powder but no shot, though he mimed the action of doing so—and took aim at an innocent fluffy cloud floating a few degrees above the horizon. She covered her ears when he pulled the trigger, though the explosion wasn’t much louder than a rifle. He worked quickly to reload and fire, though his movements lacked the smooth finesse of working with Chang and Winston at the cannon.
She tore her eyes from Dieter just long enough to glance at Sheffield. “Why are they not firing actual shots?”
“We carry more powder than balls.” Sheffield leaned against the gunwale with one foot crossed over an ankle, arms folded over his chest, a tiny smile crinkling the corner of his eyes at his double entendre.
Harriet tried to mimic his posture … and lost her balance as the ship rolled to port. To her embarrassment, Sheffield impersonally steadied her, then went back to his relaxed posture. “Again,” he said, in the same smooth tone he’d use conversing in a drawing room.
“Again!” Jonesy repeated louder.
“Wieder, jawohl!” And Dieter went through the whole process again, firing smoke at the fluffy cloud.
“Are all the men on watch going through the same training?”
Sheffield shook his head. “Dieter’s only been with us since this spring. Everyone else has been here since before Waterloo.”
Harriet thought of the implications for a moment. “What happened to your previous carpenter?”
“He … retired.” Sheffield took his time choosing the final word.
Harriet folded her arms over her chest, deciding she probably didn’t want to know any details. Since she couldn’t replicate Sheffield’s nonchalant stance, she spread her feet farther apart like Jonesy, and immediately felt more secure as the ship continued its slow side-to-side roll while climbing and descending gentle swells.
Dieter adjusted the gun to take aim at the same cloud several times. She watched every movement now that she was close enough to see the details, trying to understand why he did what he did in that particular order, and mentally translated Chang’s broken English instructions into complete sentences with correct grammar and punctuation.
“That will do,” Sheffield said after a dozen or so practice shots. Harriet had been counting how long it took to reload between shots and knew Dieter had increased his firing speed. Chang looked pleased, too. Jonesy passed on the praise and dismissed the carpenter to his other duties on deck. Chang began putting away the tools of his trade.
Harriet eyed the starboard swivel gun, and its mate on the port side.
