Despite not sleeping much last night and carrying the food satchel, Francis almost ran towards the dock, a good two hundred yards ahead of John. Today was the day that they would go sailing in the Badger, one of the shallop boats his father allowed him to use around the bay.

When he caught up, John stepped down from the dock into the shallop, then went forward, untying the bow line. Not knowing what to do next, Francis shifted from leg to leg.

“Help me raise this spar aloft. Haul on this line,” said John, handing Francis a rope. He moved to make room, grabbing a different line.

“Ready? Heave… Heave!”

Francis underestimated the weight of the spar.

“Are you pulling?” asked John. “We’ll never leave the dock like this!”

With a determined look on his face, Francis nodded and re-gripped the halyard.

“Ready? Heave!”

This time, Francis pulled on the halyard with all of his might, his weight tilting back as the straw-colored mainsail climbed skyward. It fluttered in the light wind as it rose.

“Good. Now belay your line like this.” John showed Francis how to belay a line around a pin.

“See that stern line?” He pointed to a rope tethered to the dock. “Cast it off the dock cleat.”

Francis clambered over the thwarts towards the stern. He picked up the end of the line that John pointed to and jerked to free it. The shallop rocked gently from each incoming swell, bumping against the dock with a hollow knock on each small swell.

“Now, see that tiller, sticking up past the stern?” John gestured to the back of the boat. “When I tell you, push it towards the dock.”

With his leg, John pushed against the dock, then adjusted the sail lines. The yard swiveled and the sail bit into the wind with a sharp clap.

“Now, Francis!”

Francis pushed the tiller to the left and the shallop instantly obeyed by turning away from the dock. Francis gasped as the boat heeled over sharply, surging forward.

As the Badger leaft the docks behind, Francis’s gaze lifted from the billowing sail to the imposing majesty of Plymouth Castle, perched above the harbor. Below, at the mouth of the harbor, the Fisher’s Nose Block house stood crowned by battlements that watched over the comings and goings of ships. Sunlight struck the stone ramparts and glinted off the armor of guards pacing the walls.

From the water, the castle’s defences of the harbor seemed impregnable, offering a reassuring sense of protection as the Badger sailed beneath its watchful presence.

Francis drew in a large gap of the salty air.

“Bring the tiller back to the center, Francis!”

He complied. Like a living thing, the boat reacted again, straightening her course. Her heel stiffened and a bit of salty spray splashed over the bow as they sailed out of the Sutton Pool.

Mesmerized by the bow’s rhythmic rise and fall and the billowing sail, Francis felt some invisible hand gently encouraged him to learn, experiment.

He pushed the tiller a little to the other side, and the shallop turned, the sail fluttering a bit.

The boat groaned, as if disapproving of his frivolous helmsmanship.

As if afraid of her reproach, Francis quickly returned the tiller amidships, and she responded with an approving clap of her sail.

“Keep her steady!” shouted John, still tending to the lines.

When he finished, John sat on the windward gunwale. “There is more sport in sailing this shallop than aboard my father’s larger ships.”

“What is it like?” asked Francis. “Sail for months to some distant place, deal with people whom you don’t know, in the language that you don’t speak?”

“All of that is a thrill, but there’s great toil aboard a ship—keeping her clean, loading and stowing cargo, tending the sails, manning the pumps and working all the tackle. It isn’t like this boat. Everything is heavier and slower—like trying to wade through a river. But I can’t imagine any other life.”

Francis gazed skyward, his eyes tracing the curve of the sail. A gannet soared into his line of sight. Francis’s eyes were captivated by the noble creature.

Where have your wings carried you? What wonders have your eyes beheld?

For the first time in almost a year, Francis felt he was no longer running away from some mindless crowd. No longer scared. Like that majestic bird, he suddenly felt himself free and unburdened, as if on the path was… ordained.

The corners of his mouth slid apart in a wide, ear-to-ear grin.

John looked back with a devious smile. “The sea seems to suit you well!”

Francis nodded. “Can I try to handle the sail?”

“Aye, tie off the tiller with that leather strip and come forward.”

Francis obeyed.

“Alright, mark well. Sailing her isn’t hard, but you need to think through the actions a bit.” John’s hands pointed to the coiled lines on the starboard side. “Those are called braces. They turn the spar. There are two of those, one on this side of the boat and one on the other.”

“Let’s set course past St. Nicholas Island and towards the mouth of the harbor. When I tell you, haul on that brace.” He adjusted several lines.

Francis nodded, his pulse pounding in his ears. He moved to the rope that John pointed to.

John moved aft, unlashed the tiller, and pushed it hard over, driving the bow into the wind. The sail lost power and flapped, the momentum pushed the bow of the Badger through irons and onto the opposite tack.

“Now, Francis!”

Francis hauled back the yard as the Badger came to the new tack. The sail snapped as it caught the wind and the shallop gathered way into her new course. Francis belayed the brace onto a pin, just like he saw John do.

John laughed, holding up a boat hook. “Not bad, Francis! I was expecting to fish you out of the water!”

Grinning ear-to-ear, Francis sat on the windward gunwale, his hand proudly resting on the coiled line as he surveyed the sail.

The Badger raced out towards the sea, charging up the waves and falling off, the sea spray drenching the bow. The pitching loosened the oilskin foredeck cover, which slipped off and fell into the boat.

Beneath it was a small, lashed down swivel gun. Uncovered, the bright-polished brass of the muzzle caught the sun and sparkled as if it was pure gold.

Francis’s eyes locked onto it instantly.

“Is that a pirate gun?” he asked, voice hoarse with excitement.

“Hardly!” John laughed. “Just a small signal gun. It won’t threaten anything but a seagull!”

“May I shoot a round?”

John scanned the bay for any ships nearby. “I suppose we’re far enough so that nobody will panic… why not?”

He lashed the tiller securely and moved forward to check Francis’s lines. After that, they made it forward.

“Alright, pay attention,” said John, handing him a rough piece of flint and a fire striker.

“Before we can load the gun, we need to have a fire source. Strike some sparks off and light this match cord.” John pointed to a strange stick holding an oily rope as if it were a head of a snake.

Francis busied himself with striking the flint against the firesteel. After some effort, he was successful.

Under the constant breeze, its match cord glowed an angry red, even in the bright daylight.

John showed him how to brace the linstock, after which both clambered over the rowing benches towards the stern of the small boat.

Francis noticed a small strongbox lashed down beneath the stern seat.

After unlashing it and removing the oilskin cover, John unclasped and opened the box. Reaching in, he took out a leather pouch and untied its cinch cords. He handed Francis a piece of gut lining tied off on one side and a small canvas bag.

“Hold that open,” said John.

He reached into the leather bag again and pulled out a flask. After opening it, he used the cap to measure out some bluish powder, which he emptied into the gut lining. Re-capping the flask, John returned it to the leather bag.

He handed the lining to Francis. “Alright, put this into the canvas cartridge sack you are holding.”

Francis hurried to comply.

John pulled out a handful of old, unraveled rope and handed that to Francis. Then, he pulled out another flask with a spout and stuck it into his doublet’s breast panel. Last, he cinched up the draw ties, folded the leather sack, and placed it back into the box.

John cast another look around and checked the tiller. “Alright, let’s go forward. Bring that cartridge sack and the wadding you’re holding.”

Francis looked at the frizzy yarns of an unraveled rope in his hands.

He followed John to the bow again, stepping over the thwarts.

John had already cast off the tie downs of the swivel gun and pivoted it to face up.

“Set the bag and the wadding down here. Take out that tampion, Francis; it is that wooden plug in the muzzle.”

“Good. Place the cartridge into the muzzle and ram it down all the way with the ramrod. Now, the wadding. Ram that down, too.”

Francis packed in the powder cartridge and then the wadding.

“Let me check,” said John. He took the ramrod from Francis and rammed down the wadding again. He leveled the gun.

Francis leaned forward, eyeing his every action.

“Good.” John handed Francis an owl spike. “Shove it into the touchhole.”

Francis pushed the spike in.

“No. Like this!” He took the owl spike and then rammed it down the touchhole.

John reached into his doublet, pulled out the brass flask with the nozzle and poured some bluish powder down the touchhole, leaving a small amount on the surface.

“W..what’s that?” asked Francis, eyes as big as saucers.

“This is a priming powder; it burns down to the charge.” He paused. “Ready, Francis?”

Francis was taking shallow, fast breaths.

“Hold here and touch the top of the match to the touchhole,” said John. “Make sure you bring down the match and lift it back up when it catches.”

Francis nodded several times, taking the linstock.

“Master gunner, fire as your guns bear!” John squeezed out the order, containing himself from laughing.

The glowing match hovered over the touchhole for a moment as Francis caught his breath.

Then, Francis lowered the match.

A flame flashed and hissed.

Francis barely lifted the match from the breech as the cannon roared, shuddering the shallop. Francis fell back, barely hearing his own scream over the bang. Then, uncontrollable laughter bubbled up, screaming from excitement as the acrid-smelling smoke enveloped the bow.

John laughed. “Here, hand me that linstock. You’ll set my boat on fire.” He extinguished the match cord and lashed it down in its place.

John handed Francis another pole, with a round brush on one end and an iron screw at the tip of another. “Dip this end in the water, Francis.”

Francis did as John asked.

“Good.” John pivoted the gun towards the side. “Now, reach in with the worming hook and clean out anything inside. Then, sponge the inside clean with the other end.”

Francis wormed out the cannon as instructed and John set the bronze and wooden tampion back into the muzzle, lining up the carved star so that the upper ray faced up.

John clapped Francis on the back. “I think you sank that seagull!”

They started on the course back to the docks as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, lighting up the sail with hues of orange and red.

John was handling the tiller as he instructed Francis on sail handling, and before Francis noticed, they stepped off onto the dock.

They spoke about boats and sailing adventures walking all the way back, Francis barely noticing the streets he was so apprehensive of before.

As they entered the front parlor of the Kinterbury street house, a familiar female voice got Francis’s attention.

Read the next scene, from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna, “Good News”

Did you miss the start? Read the opening scene, Going on Delivery or the overview of the sample chapter.

Read my comments about who is real in Sic Parvis Magna.