Warship Poseidon Read online

  “Not really. I was just about to teach them a lesson when you came along.”

  “What about this last one, Sean?” Jonathan asked.

  Rising with a little help from his friend, Sean faced the clumsy bully and smiled.

  “Aw. He’s no trouble,” Sean said.

  “I don’t want no trouble!” said the remaining bully, obviously afraid.

  “Boo!” shouted Sean, laughing as he started at the last standing bully.

  The boy ran as fast as he could out into the street, never looking back.

  From within the alley, there came a pinched voice from the dark-haired boy as he rolled on the rain-soaked ground, still in pain.

  “I’ll get you for this!” he managed to say.

  Jonathan quickly rushed to his side and bent over the boy’s strained face. He looked him in the eye.

  “You were stealing from us. That will not stand. I wish you no further harm. However, I warn you. If you ever bother my friend again, you won’t need to come searching for me. I will find you. Do you understand?”

  The bully regarded Jonathan for a moment. As he stared into Jonathan’s eyes, he realized that this young boy was no one to be trifled with. Resigned to defeat, he simply looked down and nodded.

  “Good,” said Jonathan. “It would be best if you were to find another neighborhood. Welcome to London.”

  Jonathan and Sean walked away, dusting themselves off, but to no avail. The soot from the chimney and the scuffle in the alley had left them dirty and a bit shaken. The addition of rain was turning the dirt that covered them into an oozing black paste, and though the water aided in cleaning their faces slightly, their clothing was completely ruined.

  “But at least our stomachs are full, right?” asked Sean.

  “Another day in the great city of London!” chuckled Jonathan. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Heading back to his home, as it were, Jonathan blended in with the thin crowd on Brick Street, eyes on the ground, searching for dropped coins or food as was his habit. Living on the streets was hard enough for a grown man, but to Jonathan, a mere child, it was nearly impossible and always uncomfortable and wretched. Many boys did not survive.

  As he walked, Jonathan thought of children who lived in homes in the better parts of town and how their lives must be wonderful. Inside, kitchens buzzed with activities that produced scrumptious meat pies and breads that filled the air with sweet aromas. There were sugar cookies and chocolate sweets and sometimes even a cherry tart or two. Children played parlor games, ran races in the parks, and had stories read to them out of big, mysterious books. Birthdays and special occasions always meant there would be parties and presents. And each night there were warm fireplaces and soft music that lulled little ones to sleep in their comfortable beds, surrounded by puffy pillows and soft blankets.

  After walking a few lonely and fruitless wet blocks, Jonathan turned down his alley, at the end of which was his three-sided wooden box. There was a tarp hidden within the pile of debris; he would not leave it out in the open, knowing it would be stolen. Its precious quality of being somewhat waterproof was his only defense against the harsher elements of rain, sleet, and snow. He retrieved the tarp and draped it over his box as the rain now picked up pace, turning from a drizzle to a mild downpour.

  It was here that Jonathan spent most of his days sitting silently in his miserable, gloomy box. At times, he would look down the length of his alleyway, out past the street into a window of a modest old house. The outside was nothing special, it being like most of the common homes he saw in the neighborhood. However, it was special on the inside. If he were lucky, Jonathan would sometimes see a father walking down a hallway carrying a little boy. He would watch intently as the man placed the boy in a small high chair and lovingly fed him porridge and milk.

  As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered that at one time he too had had a father and a mother and a house to live in, with a fireplace and, yes, even his own bed in his own room. It had been warm and dry, and there was always something to eat. He recalled most fondly that his mother and father loved him dearly, and they told him so every night when tucking him into bed. However, they were both gone now, and there was no one to care for him. He had become a street urchin, a boy like many others who lived in the gutters and the alleys, just trying to make it through another day.

  It was not the cold, wet rain, the foul smell of the alley, or even the difficult life he led that dampened his spirits. It was the simple fact that Jonathan vaguely recalled better days as part of a family, and that memory made his current situation almost unbearable. He missed his mother and father greatly. Each day he wondered about all that had happened in the last few years. Sometimes the sadness seemed to surround him like a bitter, dark cloud, and it weighed heavily upon his heart.

  * * * * * * * *

  As tales often tell, events do happen that alter lives, and so it would be for Jonathan Moore. His state of affairs changed dramatically the very next morning, an overcast, rainy day in March. Following another night spent shivering from the awful chill, he awoke cold and stiff, with his feet sticking out of the back of his box, which had become too small as he grew taller each day. Despite his meager nourishment, Jonathan seemed to be reasonably healthy, considering his current status, and he was growing like a weed.

  Sitting up, Jonathan looked outside of his box to notice that, once again, the morning brought no relief from the harsh weather. It had continued raining most ferociously all night, only just letting up as the sun rose somewhere above the dark-gray clouds that covered the city. Big drips of water still slid off the rooftops of the buildings that lined the alley. It seemed to Jonathan that most of the drips fell upon his box and somehow found their way inside to drop on his woolen cap, soaking it.

  This will turn out to be another fine day! Jonathan said to himself sarcastically. I will probably catch a cold by noon. But at least it’s quiet, and no one will bother me. Even evil men and bullies stay inside when it rains.

  It was just then, as he was thinking of trying to get some extra sleep, that he heard a commotion: running feet—dozens of them—approaching his alley. There were voices of gruff men swearing and calling out. He could hear a few screams and cries from young boys. One voice most assuredly belonged to Sean Flagon.

  Jonathan peeked out of his box in time to see Sean stop at the entrance to the alley. He looked at Jonathan, fear on his face, and yelled, “Run, Jonathan Moore! They are after us all! Run!”

  “Who is after us?” Jonathan called. But Sean was already gone.

  Jonathan cautiously crawled out of his box and stood up, shaking with dread. He peered down the alley into the street, not knowing what to expect. Within a moment, he saw a shadow against the wall growing larger and larger. Then a stocky, dark man appeared. He stared at Jonathan for a moment and growled loudly.

  “I see another one in a-here!”

  With that, the dark man began rushing toward him. Being smart and always prepared, Jonathan had practiced his escape route for just such a purpose, and he knew exactly what to do. With a streak of panic to propel him, he ran to the back of the alley. Swiftly, he climbed the crates, broken barrels, and planks of wood that he had stacked at the alley’s end. He scurried up, up, up, making his way to the top. From there, he could go over the high brick wall that separated the alley from the open square of shops and carts on the other side. He would be safe in the market; there were many nooks in which to hide.

  As he scrambled, he could hear footsteps coming fast from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the large man was almost upon him. He clambered to the top of the pile as fast as he could. Suddenly, he felt the man’s cold hands scratching and grasping at his ankles and feet. He spun around to see the stubble-faced brute. The man had dark eyes and a scar on his face. He was wearing a dark jacket and a funny cap with something written on it in gold, though Jonathan could not make out what it was. The man leered and snarled as he tried to better his g
rip on Jonathan.

  “Arr! Ya scruffy bilge-rat! Hold a-still! Don’t-a you know what’s-a good for you?”

  Jonathan answered with a kick to the man’s large and pimply nose, knocking his attacker backward. The man was shocked at the power of the blow and teetered back and forth for a moment on the pile of boxes and wood. He tried to grab hold of something to stop from falling, but the boy sent another kick to the man’s chest, finally knocking him down off the crates, to crash right through Jonathan’s box with a loud bang.

  “Ow!” the man cried. “I think I broke-a me buttocks!”

  Jonathan did not wait to see if that was true. He quickly swung his legs up over the last crate at the top of the heap and pulled himself up onto the wall. The rain had left the bricks slippery and wet, and that caused him to lose his footing. He clumsily went over the brick wall into the market square on the other side, yelling as he fell. His legs hit something soft and squishy.

  Expecting to see a pile of rags or a few sacks of flour, Jonathan heard a voice. “Ooof! Get off of me, ya little gutter pig!”

  He had fallen on a fat, drunken man sleeping in the street.

  “Pardon me, sir, I meant no harm!” Jonathan said as he rolled off the man and quickly ran from the corner of the square. Hiding behind carts and crates, he made his way along to the center of the square and then stood up to carefully look about. No one was there. It was empty, dark, and quiet. He sighed in relief, trying to calm his shaking nerves. Once he had caught his breath, he adjusted his wool cap and began thinking of what to do next.

  Suddenly, a voice called out from the far end of the square behind him.

  “There he is, lads! Faster! Faster! He’s the last one for this mornin’!”

  There were now four or more men rushing after him. Each appeared mean and dirty; all were clothed in a silly cap and dark jacket similar to the garb worn by the first man who had chased him. Jonathan now realized who, or really, what they were. These men were a press gang, a group ordered to capture men and boys to be sent out on England’s sailing ships to help fight the war or, possibly, to work in the yards that supplied the ships.

  Jonathan sped through the square, around the empty carts, and behind piles of boxes and crates. All the time, the men seemed to be getting closer and closer. He ran out of the market and down a side street, looking over his shoulder as the men pointed and screamed at him. Could he escape? He was so tired of running and so weak from hunger. Just the cheese sandwich from the day before was not enough to sustain his effort.

  He knew he must continue running, and he did, gasping for every breath. Then, his chance: a dark alleyway just ahead. Jonathan turned sharply into its shadows and ducked behind a large stack of barrels. If he could not outrun them, he could outthink them and hide. He tried to slow his breathing as he crouched behind the barrels, holding as still as he could. Peeking out after a moment or two, he saw the men run past, yelling and screaming. They had not seen him.

  Jonathan waited a few minutes for good measure, just to make sure the men were far, far away, then stood up, brushed himself off, and fixed his cap straight upon his head. He decided to walk back to the alley where his broken, cold box awaited him. But as he stepped out from behind the barrels, a tall, thin-faced man suddenly appeared, blocking his way.

  “Oh! Who are you?” Jonathan cried out in surprise.

  This man was much like the ones who had been chasing him, and he too wore a cap with something written upon it. His beard was a bit shorter than that of the man Jonathan had kicked off the crates, and he was thinner, for the most part free of large scars, and somewhat less pimply. As he approached, Jonathan could see he wore a thick, black, wool coat with large black buttons, and in the dim light, Jonathan could finally read what was embroidered upon the cap in gold letters: HMS Poseidon.

  “The question is, my son, who are you?” asked the thin man. With amazing speed, he grabbed Jonathan and held him at arm’s length with steely hands. He looked deep into the boy’s eyes and inspected his face from all angles, noting the color of his hair and eyes. Finally, he asked, “And what is yer name?”

  “I’m not telling you my name for anything,” Jonathan said, trying to sound brave and strong. The thin-faced man only laughed, showing his big smile, which was missing a few teeth.

  “Oh, really?” the man replied. As quick as a flash, he spun Jonathan about, pinned his arms in a tight grasp and swiftly tied a small rope around Jonathan’s wrists.

  “Ouch! Let me go!” Jonathan cried, struggling to break free. He tried to kick the man, but it was no use. He would not budge or let him loose.

  The man leaned into Jonathan’s ear and said, “’Ow about a little game, lad? Simple enough, yes? I will try to guess yer name, and all ya have to do is just tell me if I am right or wrong! Then I will decide if ya go free or ya come with me! Aye, it rhymes, right?” He laughed with a scratchy-wheezy cackle that Jonathan found very scary.

  “I don’t want to play your game! And you could never guess my name,” said Jonathan. “And that rhymes, too!”

  “Aye, it does—and well done!” said the thin man, surprised.

  “No one knows who I am, except my parents,” said Jonathan, “and they are gone!”

  Then the man smiled and said the most amazing thing. “Ah! Then yer name might be Jonathan Moore.”

  Jonathan was stunned into silence. How could this peculiar, skinny man know his name?

  The thin man was now grinning, mouth as wide as the moon in the sky, and he started to laugh once again.

  “Now I know I am right! The look on yer face tells it all! Ya are Jonathan Moore, and I have found ya! The cap’n will be so pleased—pleased as punch! And I will get an extra anchovy at dinner tonight, I can tell ya!”

  “Let me go!” protested Jonathan.

  “I am correct, am I not? Ya are Jonathan Moore?”

  “Yes!” said Jonathan, “How did you know my name? And who is the captain?”

  The thin-faced man turned Jonathan around and firmly but gently led him out of the alley. Still holding him, he pointed down the street.

  “The cap’n will need to see ya, that’s all I can say. Nonetheless, not to worry. No harm will come to ya. That’s my word.”

  The man led Jonathan along the lane, away from the center of the city.

  The man knows my name, Jonathan thought. He had obviously been searching for me, but why? And who is the captain? What is an anchovy? And why will this strange man receive an additional one merely for finding me?

  All these thoughts and feelings made him think about dinner for a moment, and Jonathan remembered that he was horribly hungry. Maybe he could have an anchovy for dinner as well, if there were any available. Maybe they were tasty, and eating one might almost be worth all this mystery and suspense.

  They continued down the street, the day now brightening a bit as the morning clouds lessened. The quietness was interrupted from time to time by the waking sounds of the city.

  Now and again, the thin man would chuckle and wheeze. Then he’d look at Jonathan and smile kindly.

  “Now, I am so sorry to ’ave tied ya up, but ya see,” said the man, “it is only fer yer protection and delivery. Ya are precious cargo, don’t ya know? I cannot lose Jonathan Moore. That would be quite serious.”

  Jonathan kept quiet, thinking as they walked on. After a few more moments, the man led him down a dark and dreary side street, and there Jonathan saw five or six men moving about two horse carts. One cart was a simple flatbed; the other had what looked like a cage upon it made of iron bars, the kind in which were kept dangerous animals such as tigers or lions. Though it was difficult to see clearly at first, eventually, as he drew nearer, Jonathan could see that there were things inside the cage, moving slowly about.

  “Now, lad, I know ya are a man of yer word, isn’t that right?” asked the thin-faced man.

  “Yes,” said Jonathan. “It’s all I have.”

  “True!” the thin man said with a laugh.
“That is all I have much of the time as well! So, if I untie yer hands, ya will not run? Ya will do as yer told?”

  “That depends on what you want me to do,” said Jonathan warily.

  “Oh, a simple thing,” the thin man said. “Just get in the cage.”

  As they approached, Jonathan strained his eyes to see what was in the cage. He expected to see wild boars or, even worse, bears. However, as he neared the enclosure, he saw the most amazing thing. Inside, shaking slightly, was Sean Flagon along with two other people—grown men, from the appearance of them. All sat nervously yet quietly in the bottom of the cage.

  “Sean!” he called out in surprise.

  “Well, I’ll be!” said Sean softly. “Jonathan Moore! They have got you, too?”

  At the mention of his name, a man tending the cart nearby turned and regarded Jonathan in astonishment.

  “Now, now, me lads!” said the thin-faced man. “Just ya be back to work. Mum’s the word! Say not a thing. It’s all up to the cap’n now!”

  “But, Steward!” said one of the men, “I ’eard ’im say ’is name was Jona—”

  “I said hush, Jones!” snapped the thin man, now known to all in the cart as Steward.

  Steward’s men smiled and went back to their work of hooking horses to the carts, though, now and again, they would sneak a peek at the boy called Jonathan Moore. Steward removed the rope about Jonathan’s wrists, opened the door on the back of the cage, lifted the boy up, and placed him inside.

  “In ya go,” Steward said to Jonathan politely. “Off to Chatham with ya.”

  2

  Aboard His Majesty’s Ship Poseidon

  Two of Steward’s men now sat on top of the cage and prepared to drive the horses as the rest of the men climbed upon the other cart and, once situated, sat silently staring at Jonathan. Both carts began rolling and rattling down the gloomy, gray street as Jonathan took a place on the floor and looked at all the others in the cage. Besides Sean, there were two older men, both weary and hungry, dressed as if they too lived on the street. They did not seem scared at all, just tired. One man was even asleep.