Drummer's Luck

By Jon Bezayiff

DRUMMERS LUCK is based upon actual events that occurred in Americas Revolutionary War at the surrender of Yorktown in 1781 when a young British drummer boy resolutely stood silhouetted on a parapet under fire from Continental riflemen to beat out a call to parley. DRUMMERS LUCK begins on the grim streets of Edinburgh Scotland where Ossian, an orphaned choirboy of 11 is cruelly pressed into Britains Royal Navy to serve as a powder monkey aboard a ship of the line. Born under mysterious circumstances and raised by a secretive mother, Ossian is unaware his unknown father, chieftain of Scotlands most powerful clan and a lethal duelist, is seeking him. Ossian learns to survive by wits and courage on a man of war that is little more than a floating prison as he begins a dangerous journey that will lead him from the horrors of eighteenth century naval warfare to the battlefields of Cornwallis' campaign in the Carolinas and Virginia. From the dangers of life at sea to the plantations of South Carolina, DRUMMERS LUCK is the story of one young boys frightening discovery of his true identity while seeking a new life for himself in America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469719733

Jon Bezayiff

           Jon Bezayiff boyhood years were spent hunting jackrabbits with the hot dust of California’s San Joaquin Valley under his bare feet. Today he holds degrees in Art and History. A nationally published cartoonist, illustrator and author, he resides in Oregon with his wife of 42 years, Susan. They have two sons, Michael and Christian as well as an active grandson, Tristen.  In the early sixties he served in the U.S. Army’s Nuclear Attack Center during the Cuban Missile Crisis and later illustrated leaflets for Psychological Operations in the South East Asia Theater. His professional career in private industry began with graphic and interior design for Douglas Aircraft products. Following fifteen years in Aerospace he joined Freightliner LLC as an automotive stylist. He retired after 25 years from that firm in 2004. His artwork hangs in several aerospace museums including the Smithsonian and Seattle’s Museum of Flight. Jon Bezayiff’s first Novel, DRUMMER”S LUCK, ISBN 0-595-27228-2, was published in 2003. He pursues many interests from Hunting Alaska’s wilderness to attending evensong at King’s College in Cambridge, England but finds mentoring youths the most rewarding. Currently he is an Aerospace Education Officer for a Civil Air Patrol Squadron. Jon Bezayiff believes that life is a circle. We must pass on what we have learned about life or our own existence has been meaningless. Those of us not actively involved in guiding and imparting our life experience to the following younger generations fail to accept their societal responsibilities.

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DRUMMER’S LUCK

JON BEZAYIFF

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Drummer’s Luck

All Rights Reserved

© 2003 by Jon Bezayiff

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

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ISBN: 0-595-27228-2

ISBN: 978-1-469-71973-3 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

C H A P T E R 1

OSSIAN

C H A P T E R 2

PRISONER OF CLAN CAMPBELL

C H A P T E R 3

WILD COLONIAL BOY

C H A P T E R 4

A DRUMMER BOY’S WAR

C H A P T E R 5

A NEW AMERICAN

For Susan, Michael, Christian and Gavin as well the memory of Jay and Phil, the trucker and the fighter pilot.

In 1998 this writer was awestruck in Britain’s National Gallery of Art before a portrait of heroic proportions painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The subject was British Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton, the dashingly famous, or infamous, Green Dragoon of America’s Revolutionary War. It is truly a magnificent portrait painted larger than life as was the subject himself. In Reynolds’s portrait Tarleton stands girding on his sword, a fierce, rearing stallion being readied behind him. He is looking to the right, nostrils slightly flared, scenting battle and more glory just as a foxhunter hears distant sounds and horns. Britain’s National Gallery overlooks Trafalgar Square which is that nation’s monument to its’ greatest naval hero, Admiral, Lord Nelson. Lord Nelson stands atop his column, high above huge bronze lions, symbols of Britain’s Empire and naval might. It is of course all very impressive but as I thought about Nelson and Tarleton as heroic symbols of Great Britain’s majestic role in our Western History I also thought of the masses of men and boys, who by serving, bleeding and dying for those two men or others like them, sacrificed their lives, unsung and forgotten by those of us who admire these great heroes. For reward they lay in unmarked graves or at the bottom of impassive seas while the men they served are entombed, yes even enshrined, in magnificent cathedrals and in the hearts of a grateful nation. We remember the heroes but never the sailors or young, terrified boys who served Lord Nelson’s guns at Trafalgar aboard ships that were little more than floating prisons. Or those other unknown soldiers and equally frightened young boys who were regimental drummers in the army where Tarleton commanded the British Legion for Lord Cornwallis in the American Colonies. With this in mind I decided to write this novel from the perspective of one young boy who served Britain both on land and sea for three brief years during the American Revolutionary War. My character is based upon an unknown but actual drummer boy whose courageous actions served his nation in defeat at Yorktown with true heroism. That boy’s act of resolute courage has always fascinated me. This novel is my tribute to his part in our nation’s birth.

Jon Bezayiff West

Linn, Oregon, 2003.

C H A P T E R 1

OSSIAN

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, 1778.

The old Sexton remained a kindly man despite many years spent living in Scotland’s coldly grim city of Edinburgh. That once royal city that brooded over her lost glory above the Firth Of Forth’s steel gray waters. He waited patiently as a slim young boy stood alone beside a crude wooden coffin laying next to a hastily dug shallow grave in the ancient churchyard’s stony and bone littered soil. A stern faced churchman had come with the boy following a worn death cart bringing that coffin. The churchman said a brief prayer. Then paused only long enough to collect his fee from the quietly weeping boy before leaving without so much as a compassionate gesture or word for the grieving lad. The Sexton was a patient man. He gave the boy some privacy in his grief. After a short while the boy became aware of the old man standing discreetly aside with his shovel wisely concealed behind darkly weathered tombstones leaning at odd angles over long forgotten graves. The boy stopped sobbing. Composed for the moment, his large green eyes were luminously moist with grief and fright as he laid a small bunch of Bell Heather on the coffin. Abandoned by death the boy fully understood that now he was alone and vulnerable.

The Sexton spoke calmly and carefully. She’s dead lad. Your mother’s dead and gone. There is naught any can do about it. Is there any family or place you can go? The boy shook his thick brown curls while answering with a voice taut with emotion as he fought bravely to keep from crying. No Sir. She was my only family. The young boy’s reply was mannered and polite in the burring voice of a highlander. No one? Surely there are kinsmen to take you in lad? You’re a Highlander. Where is your clan? The boy’s green eyes flashed brightly with anger and hurt pride at the old Sexton’s gently probing questions. A sad bitterness made him slip into the forbidden Gaelic tongue. Mother told me my father’s fine family did not want his eleven year old bastard underfoot to remind them of a brief boyhood affair with a lowly seamstress when they were both but fifteen years old. They treated my mother cruelly for the sin of only loving some great laird’s son. She was but a young seamstress in their household! She never once told me his name. Now it’s gone to this grave with her. I don’t know who my father’s family was or even their clan’s name. Regaining some control, he slipped back into English from the outlawed Gaelic. Yet, I am sure Mum loved him because it showed in the way she raised me. She taught me to read, write, do sums and play my recorder like a gentleman’s son. The boy’s voice broke with emotion. I have a place to stay for a time. Mother always paid the rent. Our landlord’s a mean sort with a shrewish wife but they shan’t deny me lodgings Mum’s already paid for. They shan’t. The small boy did not sound convinced but the kind Sexton did not press further. What is your name lad? Ossian. My name is Ossian Loch Lyon Sir. Mother named me for the Highland loch near where she was born. She said it was beautiful. I don’t know. We never left Edinburgh after she birthed me eleven years ago. The Sexton smiled at that for the lad truly had a boyish beauty about him. Mimicking the boy’s brogue, the Sexton repeated the name with a touch of awe. Oh-She-Ann! That is a noble name lad. Do you know of him? The boy smiled ruefully as if he knew a secret. He was a Bard and a son of our great warrior, the Finn Mac Cumhail himself.

Mother gave me a book of his poems to read. I nearly know them all by heart now." The Sexton stared at Ossian, taking his measure. Well lad, you will do all right. I can barely read our Vicar’s demanding notes myself and here you are able to read, write and even do sums! Some rich merchant can always use a clever young apprentice I expect. Now leave me to my work. I’ll lay your dear mother gentle in the ground. You can trust me. Grateful, Ossian offered all that remained clutched in his slender palm, two small copper coins. No lad. You keep the coins. I’ll tend to your mother like any Christian should. Ossian smiled wistfully as he pocketed the coins in a worn coat that would soon be too small for him. Remembering his manners, Ossian politely thanked the Sexton for his kindness. Then he whispered something too quiet for the old man to catch over his mother’s grave and turned quickly away. Behind him, Ossian heard a soft thump, and the clinking of a shovel as the old Sexton began covering his mother’s coffin with the small Bell Heather flowers across it. The Bell Heather was the only token of his love the boy had to give her. Weeping, Ossian covered his ears with trembling hands and began to run.

Ossian was terrified. Last night his mother suddenly became sick with a fierce fever and had died that very morning. Their landlord and his wife sent quickly for the authorities. A barely sober doctor had his mother’s body laid in the death cart before Ossian fully understood she was gone. With an aching heart and exhausted from his grim ordeal, Ossian only wanted to hide in the small room that had been home and try holding on to what was left of her memory. Despite his anguish Ossian watched the streets ahead and behind carefully as darkness lengthened shadows around him. Ossian was aware how dangerous Edinburgh was for anyone alone on the streets, let alone a young boy by himself. Thieves and cutpurses were bad enough but the far more dreaded English Press Gangs roamed Edinburgh at will. Red Marines, the British Crown’s brutal thugs in uniform from whom no one was safe, dragged fathers and sons from their families into forced service with England’s Royal Navy. More than thirty cruel years had passed since King George’s youngest brother, The Butcher, Duke of Cumberland, crushed Scotland’s Bonnie Prince Charlie’s wild Highlanders at the Battle of Culloden Moor and ended the ill fated Jacobite Rebellion of 1745. Their Bonnie Prince, Charles Stuart, fled to the Continent leaving his betrayed Highlanders behind to face Cumberland’s ruthless reprisals against brave Scots who had supported him. Now, after thirty years, Scotland still groaned under an English yoke. The English treated all the Scots with contempt. For centuries they had played their bitter clan rivalries against one another to divide and rule the Scots who, Ossian sadly understood, perhaps deserved these bitter fruits of their own treachery. More Scots had fought against the Bonnie Prince than with him because of England’s devious ability to manipulate their clan rivalries. Ossian looked up at that imposing dark mass of Edinburgh Castle where her English cannon dominated the entire city. Ossian knew what had once befallen two other young boys within the castle’s walls three centuries before. He remembered that grim example of Scots treachery amongst themselves, the infamous Black Dinner of 1440. Scotland’s young King James II had succeeded his father while just a lad. He was put in the care of Sir William Crichton, Keeper of Edinburgh Castle. Crichton deeply hated the Douglas Clan so he used the young King’s name to invite the Earl of Douglas and his brother, both just boys themselves, to dine with the King in his castle. The young Earl was only into his adolescence and the brother still a child when they were greeted warmly at the gates. A great feast was served and much joy ruled but when the feast was over, Crichton presented the young Earl with a bull’s head, a sign of condemnation to death. Then, despite the young King’s protests, the two brothers were quickly taken out, tried on a trumped up charge of treason, and dragged as they pleaded and screamed in terror, out to the castle’s courtyard and beheaded. They were just young innocent boys like Ossian. Only an accident of birth determined their fates. Ossian shuddered at the fate of such high borne royalty. If two young aristocrats could be victimized like that, then what of him? What tiny chance did an illegitimate son of some unknown Highland Laird, alone and penniless in impoverished Scotland have? Ossian fought back a sob. He was too exhausted and hungry to think now. Ossian only wanted to sleep in that small room he had shared with his mother until this terrible day took her away.

Ossian crept quietly into the house and up the stairs. No one seemed to be about but he feared each creak of the old wooden steps would bring the landlord. Ossian’s hand brushed a little knife hidden under his shirt against his hip. Only two weeks before, Ossian had been frightened by their landlord’s clumsy attempt to lure him into the cellar. When he told his mother she became visibly shaken and brought a small box out from under the bed that Ossian had never been allowed to open. From the small box she produced a small pointed knife that highlanders wore under their kilts or thrust in their stocking. It was called a black knife because of the dark argillite handle. She gave it to Ossian and told him to keep it on him. Ossian noted its’ short handle had a little inlaid silver crest identical to the one on a Celtic cross he had always worn about his neck. Ossian often asked her what its’ Wild Myrtle twined about a rampant Lion of Scotland meant but had simply been told she would tell him when he was older. Ossian later heard harsh words being exchanged between his mother and their landlord’s shrewish wife behind a closed door. Now Ossian kept the small double edged knife under his shirt tied with a thin leather thong about his hip. There was little Ossian would be able to do with it against a grown man but he felt better for having it all the same. Moments later, Ossian reached their room at the top of the stairs and opened the door. A lone candle was all that illuminated the small room. Ossian’s heart caught in his throat! The room was a shambles. All his mother’s meager possessions and her sewing materials were strewn about the floor. Her lute and his recorder were missing and that small box lay open and empty on the floor. Ossian gasped and was about to cry out in anger when he was shoved violently to the floor from behind. Ossian tried to fight but the man was too large to resist. Another person tore the shoes and torn woolen stockings from his feet. Ossian heard the landlord’s wife snarl for her husband to take his coat as well. The protesting boy’s wild struggles failed to stop the coat from being stripped off him. The landlord let him go once he had the boy’s coat and stepped to the side as a struggling Ossian was pulled to his feet by two royal marines! He tried to scream in outrage at the theft of even his worn shoes and coat but no sound escaped his throat. Paralyzed with fear, Ossian could not even speak. He dully saw one marine hand the landlord a coin before he was dragged stumbling from the room. Terrified by the reality of that act, Ossian realized he had been treacherously sold to the Royal Navy! The landlord and his wife heard the frightened boy’s shrill voice screeching a curse upon them both and then he was gone.

His Majesty’s Ship Tigress was A Man of War. More specifically known as A Ship of the Line. A Ship of the Line meant she was one of those great warships carrying enough guns to form the main line of battle in a fleet action at sea. The seventy four guns made a formidable ship but she required a huge crew to man her. Life at sea was harsh and dangerous. Aside from the horror of eighteenth century naval warfare, men often fell from the rigging into the sea or the deck, died from disease, sickness, harsh military punishments and scores of other reasons. So a ship of the line was always short handed. Acting in desperation, the Crown resorted to the dreaded press gangs to supply able bodied men or boys for crews. H.M.S. Tigress had been anchored in the Firth Of Forth for several weeks trying to fill her crew. The jails had been scoured and the press gangs had gone far outside the city but they found few men. The officers knew time had run out for they had sailing orders to put to sea the next morning. Ossian knew none of this as he was dragged and pushed through Edinburgh’s dark streets on bare feet already cut and bruised by the rough paving stones. At the dock a marine tossed him down into a long boat. Ossian was their last victim that night. He was too frightened to even whimper. Blood was in his mouth from a cut and swollen lip received from a marine because he would not stop struggling in the street. The blow had knocked him to his knees which now were both badly bruised by the fall on the cobblestones. The thought of jumping overboard had flashed through his mind for an instant as the long boat pulled steadily away from the dock but Ossian knew he was not a strong enough swimmer to fight the cold and strong currents running with the Forth’s tide. The sailors at the oars said nothing to him and Ossian was ignored until the long boat bumped alongside the ship’s dark hull. One of the seamen pulled him upright and helped him up the swaying gangway. When Ossian reached the deck it was cold as the stone streets ashore. Ossian’s frightened eyes darted about like a trapped little fox. There was no escaping this, except by dying.

You boy! Come with me! And be quick about it or you will feel the end of this knotted rope across your skinny backside! Ossian looked up at a uniformed man fondling the knotted end of a thick length of tarred rope. There was no pity in the man’s eyes. Ossian was just another expendable boy taken by force to serve the ship. Most ship’s boys never lived to see their fourteenth year in the King’s service. Life aboard was harsh enough for the men. Those few boys who survived to become able bodied seaman were often brutalized into men not unlike the Boatswain’s Mate holding a knotted rope’s end over Ossian. It was truly a vicious cycle of brutality breeding brutality. Ossian was just a callow young boy. He was too sheltered by his protective mother to have ever imagined what lay in store for him aboard H.M.S. Tigress in the days ahead. At that moment, too terrified to do anything but obey, Ossian meekly followed the mate below decks until he was bought before a stout officer standing near a great gun lashed to the deck. The man’s eyes flashed at the sight of Ossian. What’s this Bosun? The marines are kidnapping choirboys now? This lad’s no street urchin! Look at those hands and feet. His nails are clean and he’s been obviously well kept. His feet are pretty and soft as a girl’s! Where was he taken? The mate shrugged. Don’t know Master Gunner! The marine sergeant said he’s an orphan without a home and was sold by a man he owed money to. Ossian let the lie pass. He was too exhausted to protest. Well boy, is this true? A tired Ossian looked up at the Master Gunner, not understanding who anybody was aboard a man of war. Only that my mother died this morning Sir. The rest is a lie. Please, may I be sent home? The Master Gunner looked keenly at Ossian. Oh! You’re a Highlander from the sound of you. Who is your father? Where does he live? Ossian could not answer. The Master Gunner smiled at the boy’s chagrined silence. Oh God! You’re another little Scot bastard. You Scots are a race of savages! Well since you have no home, make your mark on the ship’s articles in the morning lad. Now strip your clothes. All of them lad, I’ve no time to waste here. Quickly now! Ossian was petrified as he undressed. There were people standing all about him on the deck. Only his mother and a few boys he swam with had ever seen him naked before. Here now, what’s this? The Master Gunner snorted as Ossian reluctantly slipped out of his knee breeches. Our little fox has a fang does he? Ossian felt the Bosun jerk the black knife off his bare hip, breaking the thin leather thong and hand it to the Master Gunner. I’ll list this as your own possession and when you earn the right I’ll give it back to you lad. You keep the cross on your neck but let me note it as well. This ship does not abide thieves. It’s a checked shirt for anyone caught stealing a shipmates crucifix. Bad luck comes with stealing crosses! Bad luck for everyone aboard! Now, go below. I’ll assign your post as a number six in the morning after we put to sea. We’ll have the surgeons look at those cut feet then as well. The Master Gunner turned away to talk with another officer. Ossian did not understand most of what the Master Gunner was speaking about. He tried to pick up his few clothes but the mate pulled him away. You’ll draw seaman’s clothes from our Purser later boy. Right now you need to get below and out of the way while we ready the ship for sea. I’ve no time to waste with a slip of a raw new Powder Monkey". Ossian, frightened and scarlet with humiliation, had to walk naked behind the mate past scores of seamen all the way deep within the ship until they came to a small barred cage set against the massive beams of the hull. Alone, the mate’s tone softened. Go in here boy. It’s’ more to keep you safe than anything else. Here’s one word of advice lad. Don’t go anywhere on this ship by yourself. Especially, never at night! You’re a pretty one. So be careful of some in the crew and the officers. Right now the first thing you need knowing is just try to stay alive! Our sail makers have more important tasks then sewing dead boys into canvas bags. It’s a waste of canvas and shot! The Mate pushed Ossian inside the cage. There was barely room for a few men. He locked the boy inside. Then he left, ignoring Ossian’s frightened pleas for his clothes. Shivering in the dimly lit hold, Ossian shrank down on the rough deck planks against the cold hull between the warship’s massive ribs. He did not know why this was happening to him. Everything in life except his little crucifix had been taken from him in the space of one day. Ossian was freezing. He was naked, alone and terrified almost witless. Then a rat scurried over his bare feet. Ossian recoiled in horror! There were more. He could see their little eyes gleaming at him in the dim light of the ship’s lanterns. Ossian frantically kicked at the rodent. The rat scuttled away. Then there were two of them! Panicked, Ossian lashed out with both his small hands. The rats kept coming back! Ossian crushed one with his bare foot and hurled its’ broken body outside the cage. He killed several more before finally driving them off. Ossian hoped it was the last of them. It was a vain hope. Ossian drifted in and out of sleep only to be continuously awakened by rats biting and nibbling at his feverishly shivering body.

Hours later, Ossian was awakened by a man’s curses. Bloody Hell! He left you naked without even a blanket? The man had some clothes draped over his arm but one look at Ossian told him the boy needed a bath and medical aid. The man was large. He wasted no time. Ossian felt himself being carried towards the light before he fainted. Later that day, Ossian awoke in a large canvas hammock slung beneath the deck beams over another massive gun. Rough white bandages were on his cut feet and where rats had bit him in the night’s frantic struggles. A pair of large patched canvas breeches cut off just below the knee were tied about Ossian’s waist and some sort of tattered old shirt hung on his upper body. Ossian’s skin felt clean and his hair smelled of soap. Someone had bathed him. The hammock kept swaying. Ossian realized the warship must be under sail. He looked about the bustling deck trying to fight back anguished tears. Ossian was not crying for himself. He just wanted desperately to hear his mother’s loving voice again. Ashamed and frightened, Ossian turned his face to the thick hull and cried until he had no more tears.

Ossian vaguely remembered the smiling face that suddenly appeared in front of him. The big seaman who had brought him out of that rat filled cage was beaming at him. Back from the dead are we Laddie? The surgeon’s mate told me to let you sleep as long as you wanted. Ready to meet your shipmates now? Ossian shook his head no. He only wanted to go home. Ossian remained quiet but his eyes darted about him in fear despite the first friendly face he had seen since that old Sexton had gently sent him on his way. Ah Laddie! No sense your trying to hide. You’ve been pressed into King’s service as a ship’s boy by the red marines and there is naught you can do about it. No sense crying over it. Try and be brave lad. You already have friends in the ship’s cats. That was a handsome feast you provided them last night! This brought friendly laughter from four other men standing about the great black gun Ossian was laying above. Ossian quietly replied to the big seaman’s words. Please Sir? What’s happened to me? I don’t know what anybody is talking about or what I am doing here? Where are my clothes? The big sailor lifted Ossian smoothly from the hammock. Look, my Bonnie Highland Laddie. This here hammock you’ve been sleeping in can also serve for a coffin. It will, if you don’t try and stiffen your back. Despair will only lead to your dead little body being sewed in it with a heavy round shot for company when they slip you over the side. Now try and keep your feet. Use that bucket over there and then come aft with me. Master Gunner wants your mark on ship’s articles before you start training. He was taken by something when they brought you aboard! He assigned you to me personally for reasons of his own. Ossian relieved his painfully swollen bladder into the bucket as best he could on the moving deck. Embarrassed as he did, but no one seemed to pay him the slightest attention. A square wooden dish with cold beef, peas and fresh carrots was set before Ossian after he finished attending to nature. Eat this lad. Enjoy the fresh vegetables because they won’t last long at sea. The food only gets worse as the days pass! The men all laughed in agreement as Ossian wolfed down the first food he had in several days. As Ossian ate the big seaman said, Me name is Jack Richardson. I’m gun captain of this fine great brute of a twenty four pounder here. How are you called? Between mouthfuls Jack heard the boy say, Ossian Sir, Ossian Loch Lyon. I’m eleven years old. Mum died a few days ago. Then our landlord stole everything we had before he sold me to the red marines for a bit of silver. His wife even stole the old shoes off my feet! It’s not fair that a boy can be sold like that. It’s not fair!" Jack Richardson, Gun Captain, smiled gently at Ossian’s anger. Ah Laddie! It’s a hard lesson but there is nothing fair about being born poor in a cruel place like Scotland. Yet that was paradise to where you are now!

Ossian had a hard time trying to keep up with Jack as they moved aft. His bare feet hurt from their cuts and bruises and the numbing cold of the ship’s damp deck only made it worse. Ossian was only scantily clothed against the cold North Sea air. He had no undergarments beneath the coarse canvas breeches tied about him. The breeches and ragged shirt was meant for a man twice his size. Ossian was shivering as they negotiated the crowded companionway. The over sized breeches kept slipping down his slender hips which required Ossian to keep holding them up with one hand while the other tried holding on to everything as he walked on unsteady legs. Ossian’s fear began to turn into quiet desperation behind Jack. The ship reeked of stale sweat and worse. It was crammed with hundreds of people, men and boys. Some of the boys were only eight or nine years old! Everywhere Ossian looked there was brutality. Boys and men were pushed along at tasks by cruel mates who were quick to use a knotted end of a rope across the backs of any not stepping lively enough to suit hair triggered petty officers. At every corner stood red marines with short muskets. Ossian realized a man of war was as much a prison as warship. A quiet voice in his head began to whisper what the mate had said at the end of that terrible day. Just try staying alive. Ossian knew he had to stay alive no matter what happened. One day, somehow, somewhere, Ossian would escape this floating prison these cruel Englishmen forced him aboard.

Ossian was brought into a small compartment towards the stern. The Master Gunner stood above and behind a short man sitting at a narrow table. Jack Richardson reporting with our new number six, Master Gunner! The boy’s here to sign ship’s articles as ordered. The officer smiled. Ah! The choirboy! Step forward lad so our Purser can log you aboard. Ossian did as he was told. Ossian wondered how the Master Gunner knew he’d been a church chorister ever since he was eight years old. The Purser pointed to a blank space on the page. Ossian could see where scores of men had made their marks with simple X’s or even little animal figures like fish and birds. Only a few were signed with a proper signature. Next to each mark or symbol, a neat clerical hand had written out the name and rate of the seaman. The Purser was impatient. Come now lad, make your mark. Then get forward with you. Ossian carefully wrote out his full name and handed the quill back to the Purser whose eyebrows raised at a young boy’s being able to write. The Master Gunner could not conceal a look of triumph. He guessed there was something special about Ossian at first sight of the terrified boy. The Purser then pointed across the page at another line. What does this say boy? Ossian read it with quiet confidence. George Howard, Foretopman, Sir. Jack was leaning closer now behind Ossian. How about this one boy? The Purser’s ink stained finger moved across the page again. Samuel Fisher, Carpenter’s Mate Sir! The Purser looked up at the Master Gunner. You’re right Guns. The lad’s some sort of dark packet our red marines brought aboard. He turned back to Ossian. So tell me boy, a question came up in the wardroom, what’s that little knife Guns found when they stripped you called? Ossian caught himself. Unsure what this was about. Scots just call it a black knife Sir. A new voice behind him spoke smoothly. They say you are only a highland waif. A fatherless street urchin yet you have the polished manners and speech of an acolyte. One who is educated and carrying a finely crafted steel blade that few in Scotland can afford. Where did you steal it boy? Ossian turned to face a young officer in his mid twenties. Anger flashed in his green eyes at the false accusation. Mum gave me this two weeks before she died, Sir! She had it in a little box. It has the same crest as my cross here. See? Ossian extended the crucifix towards the young officer who was already a lieutenant in rank Hmm? So it has boy. How did you get this silver cross? Ossian was taken aback by the officer’s suddenly friendly tone. Don’t know Sir. I’ve always had it around my neck. Our Parson said it smacked of popery but Mum made sure I always wore it. The lieutenant smiled. The boy is dead honest he thought. Do you know what the crest means boy? No Sir. Mum must have known but she never told me. The lieutenant looked across at the Master Gunner. I’ll keep the boy’s knife a few days Guns, if you don’t mind? He looked down at Ossian. This design intrigues me. How is this knife called in your own tongue boy? Be careful Ossian thought. It’s another English trick! Can’t say it in the Gaelic Sir. You know Scots are forbidden to speak our tongue. The lieutenant smiled. Honest, and wary. This boy is no fool. The young officer looked down at the Purser’s book of names. Now listen to me, Ossian Loch Lyon, you are no longer in Scotland living under Butcher Bill’s retribution. This is His Majesty’s ship running free on the North Sea. I’ll decide what tongue may be spoken in my presence! Now what is it called? Ossian looked at Jack for reassurance before he spoke. Sken Dhu. We call it a Sken Dhu Sir! Good! You will be seeing more of me, ship’s boy Loch Lyon. Then the young officer turned and left, pocketing Ossian’s black knife as he did so.

The Master Gunner pulled Jack aside after Ossian went to wait outside in the companionway. See this boy comes to no harm Richardson. I put him on your crew because I know you’re one of the few decent men amongst all these poor brutes. This boy is special. I feel it in my bones and you know I’m seldom wrong. He may be our lucky piece for the voyage. Teach him well. Report to me as to his progress. I’m not sure what Lieutenant Ravenscroft has up his own sleeve in this. Young Ravenscroft is Hanging Johnny’s right arm and he has friends in high places. He’s marked for command soon I’d say. However, what happens in the stern cabin’s not our affair. Just watch out for the boy. I don’t want to hear some monster below decks has hurt him, or worse. You keep a weather eye on him and keep him close Jack. And for God’s sake, don’t let him wander alone below decks at night!

Ossian spent the next few days learning about the ship and it’s daily routine from Jack. The ship was crowded with humanity, livestock bellowed between decks and chickens clucked in their coops kept inside the ship’s long boats. He learned to roll his hammock and stow it properly on the main deck along the rail. The purser had provided him with one more set of worn breeches that were also too large and another ragged shirt that flapped in the breeze around Ossian’s thin body. Jack was especially careful to make Ossian learn to get below to the powder magazine and back as fast he could with a practice bag of sand. It takes six minutes for the crew to load and fire this twenty four pounder Ossian. You have to be here with powder when number four sponges the barrel out. Ossian quickly learned what the numbers of a gun crew meant. Number one was Jack, the gun captain who aimed and fired the gun. Number two lowered, raised or turned the gun’s barrel. Three loaded the powder and shot. Four used a wet sponge to eliminate any sparks before reloading. Five moved the gun and passed ammunition. Number six was Ossian,