Despite having slept little the night before, Francis broke into a trot towards the dock, a good two hundred yards ahead of John. Today was the day they would go sailing in the Badger, a boat Captain Hawkins allowed John to use around the bay.

When John caught up, he stepped down into the shallop and went forward, untying the bow line. Francis also boarded, almost losing his balance as the boat rocked.

“Help me raise this spar aloft. Haul on this,” 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, which bobbed up only to fall.

“Hey… we’ll never leave the dock like this!” said John. “Put your weight into it!”

Francis set his jaw, nodded, and re-gripped his halyard.

“Ready? Heave!”

This time, Francis pulled on the line, leaning back with his weight. The straw-colored mainsail lurched skyward with every pull. It fluttered in the light wind as it rose.

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

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

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.

“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. 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 obeyed by turning away from the dock. Francis’s breath caught as the boat heeled over.

As the Badger pulled away, Francis’s gaze lifted from the billowing sail to the imposing majesty of Plymouth Castle, perched above the harbor. The castle’s defenses seemed impregnable.

Below, the Fisher’s Nose Block House, crowned by battlements, watched over the comings and goings of ships. Sunlight bathed its stone ramparts in a warm glow, glinting off the armor of guards pacing the walls.

The Badger sailed beneath their watchful presence.

Francis drew in a large gulp of salty air.

“Bring the tiller back to the center!”

Francis complied. Like a living thing, the boat reacted—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 by the billowing sail, Francis itched to try something, to experiment.

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

She also groaned, as if disapproving of his frivolous helmsmanship.

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 wale. “There is more sport in sailing this shallop than aboard my father’s larger ships!”

“What is it like?” asked Francis. “To sail for months to some distant place, to deal with people whose language you can’t speak?”

“All of that is a thrill, but there’s great toil aboard a ship—keeping her clean, loading and…”

Francis somehow stopped listening. His eyes traced the curve of the sail, then settled on a gannet soaring beyond it. The bird held all his attention.

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

For the first time in over 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 the path before him was… ordained.

His mouth spread into a wide grin.

Francis heard John’s voice. “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.

“All right, mark well. Sailing her isn’t hard, but you need to think through the actions a bit.” John pointed to the coiled ropes on the starboard side. “Those lines are called braces. They turn the spar.”

Francis’s gaze traced the rope back to its belaying pin.

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

Francis nodded, his pulse pounding in his ears. He took hold of the rope John pointed to.

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

“Now, Francis!”

Francis hauled back the yard and the sail snapped as it caught the wind. The shallop gathered way on her new course. Francis belayed the brace onto a pin, just as he had seen John do.

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

With a grin, Francis sat on the windward gunwale, his hand proudly resting on the belaying pin as he surveyed the sail.

The Badger charged up the waves and fell off, the sea spray drenching the bow. The motion loosened one of the lines holding down the oilskin foredeck cover. The corner peeled back under the wind, revealing a small, lashed-down swivel gun.

The brightly polished brass of the cascabel caught the sun, sparkling as if it were 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 away that nobody will panic… why not?”

He lashed the tiller and moved forward to check Francis’s lines. Then they made their way aft.

John handed Francis a rough piece of flint and a fire striker.

“Light this match cord.” John pointed to a strange stick holding an oily rope as if it were the head of a snake.

After some effort, the match cord glowed with an angry red hue, even in the bright daylight.

John braced the linstock, then retrieved a small strongbox from beneath the stern seat.

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 measured out some bluish powder from a flask into the gut lining. Recapping the flask, he returned it to the leather bag.

“Put the gut lining into the canvas cartridge sack.”

Francis hurried to comply.

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

John cast another look around and checked the tiller. “All right, let’s go forward.”

Francis looked at the frizzy yarns of an unraveled rope in his hands and followed John to the bow again, stepping over the thwarts.

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

John packed in the powder cartridge and the wadding, then took the ramrod and rammed down the charge.

Francis leaned forward, eyeing his every action.

John turned the gun to face outward and leveled it. He handed Francis an awl. “Shove this into the touchhole.”

Francis pushed the spike in.

“No. Like this!” John took the awl and thrust it down. Then, he poured some bluish powder down the touchhole from the spouted flask, leaving a small amount on the surface.

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

“This is priming powder,” said John. “It burns down to the charge. Ready?”

Francis was taking shallow, fast breaths.

“Hold here,” said John. “Bring the match straight down and lift it as soon as it catches.”

Francis’s head bobbed several times as he took the linstock.

John struggled to suppress a laugh, forcing his face to be serious. “Master Gunner, fire as your guns bear!”

Francis’s fingers whitened around the cascabel, and holding his breath, he lowered the linstock.

With a sharp flash and hiss of flame, the powder on the touchhole caught light.

Francis barely had time to start lifting the match from the breech as the cannon roared, making the shallop shudder. Francis fell back with a scream that was drowned by the bang. Then uncontrollable, excited laughter erupted as acrid smoke enveloped the bow.

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

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

Francis wormed and sponged the cannon as John instructed.

Finally, John handed the tampion to Francis, who carefully inserted it 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 set course back to the docks as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, coloring the sail with hues of orange and red.

John handled the tiller, instructing Francis on sail handling.

Before Francis knew it, they stepped off onto the dock.

They spoke of sailing adventures all the way back, and Francis barely noticed the streets he had been so apprehensive of before.

As they entered the front parlor of the Kinterbury Street house, a familiar female voice caught 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 opening two chapters .

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