The Third Uncle

Chapter Sixteen: Men of War

   Chapter Sixteen: Men of War

   The fog chased, and danced over the early morning sunshine. In through the open window of the ship,  it surprised the busy dust motes as they hurriedly flew this way and that on the bright, salty breeze. The brume caressed the uneven wood of the cabin wall, and ever so slowly dripped down it, forming little mercury rivulets on the floor that slid back and forth as the ship bobbed in the current.

   Sunlight crept up over the edge of the windowsill, and licked at Oliver’s twitching nose. He had been up for hours. Up, watching, and waiting for Joseph to awake. He softly padded across the simple, sparsely furnished room and hopped up onto the edge of the hammock, balancing himself, all four paws held at irregular angles to compensate for the gentle back and forth swaying of the berth. 

   Satisfied he found his footing, he surveyed the contraption that held them both aloft. It was a rough, sweet smelling hemp twine, that was tied to the ceiling, and stretched taught by the weight of Joseph. The boy's limbs were saved from sticking through the numerous holes by a generously large linen sheet that had been placed over it. Oliver bent his nose down and sniffed at it, he loved the strong smell. Egyptian linens, he thought.

   Stretching his whiskers into the morning light with a little mewling meow, he made his way down along the edge of the hammock, enjoying the cooling sensation of the soft material beneath his paws, he then stepped up onto Joseph’s chest. He looked down at the boy, his regular breaths rising and falling in a gentle sonorous symphony. Oliver sighed and swished his tail impatiently, meowing again ... he was hungry! He reached out a large, hopeful paw, and delicately tapped Joseph on the nose. Joseph grunted, waved a hand in the air above Oliver’s head and rolled over, causing the hammock to pitch back and forth.  

   Joseph had been up late, even later than late. The surprising arrival of Gaspard with wild stories of evil spirits, good spirits, and the kidnapping of a girl named Francesca had set the ship into a flurry of activity. Leo had turned suddenly sullen at the news and inexplicably demanded to see the grey cat Gaspard had brought with him. Queen Antoinette had turned pink in the face, her agitation revealing itself when her usually imperceptible Austrian accent rang clear like a Teutonic bell as she gathered the remaining men around her, and barked orders at each of them. 

  And Joseph? Well, they then grabbed Joseph by the scruff of his neck and included him in an impossibly daring midnight raid against the French warships floating in the distant harbour.

                                                            *   *   *

   The black waves roared and crashed against the coast, the water crested in a blue phosphorescence beneath the starless sky. Leo pressed two reassuringly meaty hands down on Joseph’s shoulders as their group rolled through the rough sea around them, ever nearer the looming shadow of the French Man O’war. A spray of water washed over their tiny jolly boat, stinging his eyes. Joseph pressed the palms of his hands against his cheeks, and looked up at the silhouette of the silent ship as the others pulled the oars against the rise and fall of the swell. “Le Glorieux” was carved into the back of the frigate in large, gold letters. Rain started to fall now, and little streams of cool water raced over the side of the ship. ‘She carries seventy-four cannons,’ whispered Leo. ‘She’s not the biggest, but she is certainly formidable.’ They both silently noted the three masts that shot straight up into the sky, and how she rocked dangerously over the rough water. The Captain appeared on Joseph’s left, and pressed his head next to his face, whispering into Joseph’s ear. ‘We’re going to try and find purchase on the beam ends,’ he said. The Captain gestured at the side of the ship, just in case Joseph wasn’t clear as to where the beam-ends were. He did, of course, but he was too polite to say so. The Captain took his silence as a silent question for more information, so he continued on.‘The portholes have been sealed against this weather,’ he said. ‘And if we are quieter than this damned squall we’ll have a chance of surprising the French, and discovering Francesca’s whereabouts.’