Meals with the Masters Simmons and Penn were much tastier compared to the worm ridden biscuits, cheese, and smoked fish he received with his equals, but they were also more jovial. Meals usually had some hot meat item which was often the leftovers from the officers’ meal. Stews were common where the cook used leftovers from other meals to make a welcome smorgasbord.
Given his knowledge of mechanics and carpentry he learned from “Big Tom” back home, he fit in with the conversations of work to be done, work that was done, or past disasters from shoddy masters before.
With a full belly of salty hot fish stew and potatoes and a few tankards of beer, Jessop wandered back to his bed with the other abductees. He lay swinging in his hammock in motion with the others around him, some snoring, some reading with a flickering close-by lantern.
He thought about his best friend Tommy Kohler, Jr., Big Tom’s son, and how thankful he was he’d learned so much from the generous giant he often wished was his own father. Tommy had often jested how he’d like to switch places with Jessop and eat at the “high-table” as he put it. Jessop knew that once the glitter of gold faded, Tommy would realize how good he had it.
The creaking and moaning of the ship became a gentle lullaby to Jessop. There was a peace on the water far from men and their politics. It was hard work manning a ship, but there was a feeling of accomplishment when the men worked together to unfold the sails. Like tiny ants running up and down the masts and across her decks, yelling commands and confirmation as they were a well-oil machined. When the canvas snapped to attention as a gust of wind filled it to the breaking point, reminding the men of the curves of a voluptuous woman’s breast.
The ship picked up speed as the other sails filled with booms of their own pulling the ship faster. Smiles spread on the faces of her men as the Victory skated across the waves like a great swan of wood and fabric. Jessop was enjoying this life, though there were definitely things he missed—a hot soak in a tub, a soft featherbed, being dry for an entire day, and eyeing a beautiful woman. Ah yes. There was much talk on the Victory about women. Some good, some bad, but all seemed to miss the softer sex as much as he.
The vision of Lily, a girl he admired from afar who lived on the other side of town, was running through a field of knee-high yellow flowers. Her long blond hair flowed in the wind, looking like an ocean of golden waves, then plop. A heavy object fell to the wooden floor startling Jessop and making the snoring man nearby choke and cough as he settled back into a deep doze. It was William Rees and as he bent to pick up the dropped book he glare at Jessop with discontent.
He was getting into his hammock when Jessop said, “Rees. I’ve been wondering how you knew my identity.”
“You weren’t the only bloke seized from the Ruddy Knuckles,” hitting the lump of fabric he was using as a pillow venting his annoyance at being reminded of his failed attempt at demeaning Jessop.
“I hadn’t realized,” Jessop replied trying to jog his memory of the faces in the tavern that evening when he stepped in from the rain.
“Your kind rarely do,” Rees said settling in and opening his book once more.
“My kind? Kindly elaborate,” Jessop said rather annoyed at its connotations, but also curious as to what and why Rees had such a vendetta towards him.
“Your kind,” Rees said louder, but never moved his eyes from his book, “Loyalists. Those so filled with their own egotistical arrogance they don’t notice those around them or BENEATH them.”
“Have I wronged you in some manner unbeknownst to me?”
“Not personally, though I have been wronged by many of your peers.”
“Then why are you so hostile towards me?”
“No reason. I just don’t like your sort.”
“Here,” Jessop said referring to the confines of the middle deck, “we are the same.”
“Are we?” Rees said finally dropping his book to his chest and glowering at Jessop. “You who are too good to eat with us or work with us? You who will be offered back to his father at land fall for a tidy little sum. No, Lord Aster, we are not the same. Not remotely.” Then he went back to his book.
“That still doesn’t explain how you know my name,” Jessop pushed.
An annoyed sigh came from Rees as he slammed his book closed and turned down the fuel to the lamp making the flame flicker then die out. “I live just the other side of town from you. Tiny little farm I’m sure you’ve never noticed that runs parallel to a field of mustard.”
Jessop went rigid and thoughts of the lovely Lily popped back into his mind.
Rees continued as he pulled a blanket to his neck, “You might know my sister. Lily. She’s the pretty young woman you’ve been spying from afar for near on five years now.”
Jessop gulped at the rising embarrassment that took over him as he thought on Rees’s knowledge of Jessop’s infatuation.
* * *
With a decline in rough weather, and Jessop as an extra hand, the cooper’s backlog of repairs to the hundreds of casks and barrels were quickly waning. On the occasion that such a workload became depleted, Penn often took it upon himself to service the officers’ swords, sabers, and muskets. This too was something that on occasion Jessop did for Big Tom.
A special concoction of oils along with a good whet stone made Jessop the go-to guy for sharpening a weapon. Even Penn was intrigued by Jessop’s skills in honing.
On one such occasion a prized sword was given to Jessop to work his magic on. It was an heirloom piece owned by Ivan Day and he set it carefully in Jessop’s hands blanketed in a blue velvet wrap. Jessop unwrapped the specimen to find a wondrous beauty of metal and craftsmanship. Jessop smiled at Day when he picked up the sword and felt its weight. Never had he felt anything so perfectly balanced. Jessop tossed it in the air much to Day’s dismay, letting it reflect and shine brightly in the bright sun. It twirled tip over pommel twice before Jessop caught it gingerly finding its center of balance. A sigh of relief hissed from Day’s lips.
“Exceptional,” Jessop said, “What a beautiful piece.”
Having spied the flipping of the sword, the captain made his way down to the deck where Jessop admired every inch of the sword while Day told him a little history about it.
“Mr. Day, you must have great confidence in Mr. Aster to let him handle your most prized possession,” Penn said.
“Aye, Captain Kramer,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Mr. Aster. That was some fancy flipping you were just performing. I think you know not just how close to the end of your life you came. Mr. Day would have cut your throat right here and now if you had dropped that sword.”
“My profound apologies, Mr. Day. It wasn’t my intention to worry you. Please note that I’ve not dropped a sword in nigh on five years,” he said as he spun the sword, the upper blade making a circle around his wrist, then grasped the grip once more.
“I spent most of my life with a friend’s family. Big Tom, the father, was the town smithy. Tommy, my friend, had no interest in learning his father’s trade, though Big Tom often needed him to lend a hand when the number of jobs over ran the amount of hours in a day.
“I spent every minute I could learning the trade and assisted Big Tom whenever I could manage. Mostly we worked on horseshoes, cart wheels, and other farming equipment, but on occasion we would get a sword for repairs or sharpening. Tommy and I would take turns playing with the sword when Big Tom wasn’t working on it.
Examining the sword for a moment he continued, “I’d say it was German. The sweeping hilt is not as fancy as you might see from the Spanish or Italians, but I prefer the simplicity of its lines.”
Day wiped his forehead with his forearm as he agreed nodding at Jessop’s assessment.
“Do you have any training in swordsmanship?” the captain asked Jessop.
“No. I’ve had some training in fencing, at my father’s insistence, but no combat training.”
“Would you like to learn? We try to train most of our men in some kind of combat, since we will be under siege at times, but when I see potential like yours, I like to promote that skill.”
“I would be an honor to learn from you, Captain.”
“Do you have any objections to my training your assistant at sunrise each morning, Mr. Day?”
“Not at all, Captain.”
“Good, then we’ll start tomorrow—top deck.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Jessop said nodding to the man, and continued, “Sir,” and nodded to Day in thanks.
“Now, get to work, son,” the smiling Day said handing the velvet fabric that had housed the sword to Jessop.
“I will. And I will take good care of her.”
“You better or….” Day made a slashing motion with his hand at his neck, though he smirked an odd smile as he did so.
* * *
The air was brackish and chilly as Jessop emerged from the middle deck where he slept. The wind was gusty, and white caps were forming making the water choppy, but a month on the Victory had made him an expert at walking despite the rocking ship. He remembered a time not so long ago he didn’t think he would ever get used to the rolling and heaving, but now he was solid on his feet.
The sky was lightening, but the sun could not been seen through the thick fog bank to the east. The captain’s back was to him as he climbed the stairs to the upper deck. He turned in greeting. “Mr. Aster—good day!”
“And to you, Captain.”
“Ready for your first lesson?”
“I believe so.”
“You must know so, lad. For learning to wield a sword is hard work and requires great discipline. If you are unsure, then you should not embark upon a path that requires such great dedication.”
“Of course, Captain.”
“Good. I won’t start with the anatomy of the sword since you come from a metallurgy background, you could probably teach me a thing or two about what makes up a proper sword, but I will tell you that everything you learned in fencing, well, makes for a very pretty dance, but not necessarily the best way to win a battle. First I’m going to show you a few disarming moves. A foe without a weapon is much easier to kill then one trying to take your head off.”
He handed him a beat up sword that had not been edged or sharpened; he’d obviously used this to teach others.
With the handle of his sword in one hand and his other gripping the blade tip, the captain held his sword above his head.
“What I’d like you to do is hit my sword in a downward motion, this would be my defense.”
Jessop made a downward chop with his sword to the horizontal blade. The captain twisted his sword to his right sending Jessop’s sword whirling to the ground, then in slow motion the captain made a backward motion as if to jab Jessop in the stomach with the pommel of his sword.
“Use the whole of your sword. Consider it an extension of your body. You’re fighting for your life, not to make a score.”
“Right,” Jessop said standing in a more defensive mode.
The next move he taught Jessop was a way of grabbing his assailant’s weapon at impact, adjusting his stance so his left foot was behind the right foot of the enemy then twisting the both to the left knocking the attacker backward off balance over the well placed foot of hero.
It was hard work and after the first week he was more sore than the first week of being on the ship. Every muscle ached, even ones he didn’t know he had, but with it, he found himself stronger and more confident. He’d always been strong, Big Tom had seen to that.
One of the things Big Tom said, “A smithy who can’t pick up his own anvil is not a very good smithy.” This had been a requirement he’d placed on Jessop and Tommy though he gave the young boys a smaller anvil than his own. Everyday they’d try to lift the anvil, for Big Tom wouldn’t allow them to learn the trade until they were strong enough.
Tommy and Jessop competed to outdo the other. If Tommy carried a bucket of iron ore for his father, Jessop carried two. It was like that whenever the two were together.
As the captain had said, sword fighting was very different from fencing, though the experience did give him an advantage in his learning curve. The captain mentioned he was a natural and within a month he was able to disarm the captain on occasion, though he wondered if the captain wasn’t being kind to keep up his confidence.