Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online Page B

Bishopsgate, the bronze and iron pieces primed and fired with volumes of blue smoke, and I had dreamed of firing such a gun myself some day.
    But this was real gunpowder, not the stuff of my imaginings, and it was packed under our feet. “It’s safely stored, I see,” I offered with the air of a man who cares nothing for his own safety.
    â€œNothing in the nature of gunpowder is safe, sir,” said my new friend with a laugh. “I’ve seen a cask of new-mixed fine-grain blow up as soon as sunlight hit it. No, sir, you’d be wise to pray the straw doesn’t heat up in the hold, and blast us to Gravesend.”
    It was true that decaying straw, like manure in a pile, can ferment and grow warm. But I doubted that this clean straw could flicker into flame. My skepticism was confirmed by the twinkle in my new friend’s eye.
    â€œI’ll work hard to surmount my fear,” I said in the dry tone I had heard my master use on men of heavy wit.
    My new friend laughed again. “I’m called Jack Flagg,” he said. “I’ve signed on aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure as a gunner’s mate.” He was my age, with a youthfully wispy beard, like mine, both of us trying to compete with the full sets of well-trimmed whiskers sported by the older men around us. He was liberally freckled, on both his face and his hands, and his eyes were sharp blue. Bruises marred his lively features, especially around his left eye, and his lower lip was swollen. His knuckles were scuffed, his right hand puffy, and I wondered if this injury had caused him trouble, grappling with the canvas.
    I introduced myself, and wanted to add: and I have cured fevers and picked a splinter from a gunner’s eye.
    Jack squared the long, tasseled cap he wore more squarely on his head and said, “We have both corn powder, coarse-grained, and serpentine powder, fine as sifted flour, but a gentleman like yourself is safe enough. It’s the gunners who risk their lives, sir, not a scholarly surgeon’s mate, such as yourself.”
    I had noticed that kind-hearted seamen in the tavern often took an attitude toward me that was both respectful and patronizing. Respectful because I was the son of a gentleman, and assistant to a gentle doctor, and because I could read both Latin and English. But patronizing because they had sailed before the wind, ice-daggers glittering in the rigging, while I had been studying learned treatises on the varieties of vomit.
    Jack went on, “I was sent to the arsenal to collect this shipment of powder, and make sure it didn’t get wet.”
    I envied this young man, still unable to sprout a full beard and yet entrusted with such an important duty.
    â€œI would have disembarked last night,” he added, “but I had my wits knocked out of my head by a giant and three of his mates outside the Red Rose Inn.” He lowered his voice and confided, “I cannot drink wine or beer without swelling up in a fighting mood.”
    This explained the bruises, where someone’s right fist had found its target. And it further impressed me. This was a youth of spirit, already a man of the world. To further dampen my pride, I had stowed my rapier in a large chest, near the sea bag that held spare stockings and my cloak. Jack Flagg sported a seaman’s dirk—a short, all-purpose knife in a leather sheath at his hip.
    â€œBut no doubt you have had many medical adventures,” said Jack warmly, perhaps recognizing that his personal accounts had put me in his shadow. “You’ve certainly stuffed wounds with gun-wadding in your time, and sawn off limbs by the dozen.”
    I looked aft, to make certain I was out of earshot of my master, and lied. “I’ve cut off more legs than I can count.”
    â€œHave you then?” said Jack, his eyes wide with respect.
    â€œOf course,” I added, and as I spoke I reached out to a strand of rigging, fine-woven