Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Aloud yelp of masculine terror echoed over the deck and a young sailor appeared out of the hold followed by a red-haired lass wielding a small axe and swearing loudly.

“I’ll teach ye to keep yer lecherous hands to yerself ye fucking gobshite!” she yelled giving chase down the deck towards the group gathered round the grog barrel near the mizzen mast. The lad, Connor recognised as Billy, a tall gangling youth still not quite grown into his limbs. The banshee on his tail took aim with her axe and threw it. Billy came to a jerking halt with a scream of agony and collapsed to the deck, the axe sitting neatly in one buttock.

Connor, who’d been allocated the role of assisting with the dispensing of grog that morning, flung the ladle in the barrel and ran towards the fallen youth as the termagant came to a halt over him panting and red-faced, arms akimbo. “See how you like your arse being grabbed yer little worm!” she said and spat.

Connor was joined by Windy, who immediately fell to his knees and tried to staunch the bleeding with a handkerchief.

“Fetch the doctor!” Connor yelled, examining the axe and trying to decide if he should attempt to remove it.

“Aye,” said Li Chen appearing above him, “she’s been sent for.” She turned and said crisply, “Someone hold Miss Wade, she’ll be going in the brig for that sort of behaviour.”

The redhead turned to flee and ran straight into McTavish’s broad chest. The man-wall grabbed her in a bear hug and rumbled, “Steady lass!”

She ignored this and began kicking and screaming. Unperturbed McTavish lifted her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder, addressing Chen, “Where do ye want her?”

Chen looked around and spying a Jamaican woman repairing a sail said “Kiyana, show McTavish the brig, will you?”

“Aye, ma’am,” she said putting down the sail and rising from the deck.

McTavish carted away his still kicking and screaming burden just as the doctor, another Chinese woman, appeared carrying a wooden box. She knelt beside the fallen lad who was blubbering into the deck, a fair amount of his blood seeping into the boards round his hips.

The woman was younger than Chen and smaller and slighter of build, like Chen she wore a rough linen tunic over loose pants.

“Do you want me to remove the axe?” asked Connor.

She nodded. “Remove pants too, likely there are stitches needed.”

“Bite the bullet Billy, this may hurt a tad,” said Connor and taking hold of the small hand axe, lifted it carefully from the muscles of the boys left buttock. Billy screamed and sobbed, and more blood welled up as the axe was pulled free. Connor rose with the axe, wiping it down with a rag handed to him by another crew member. There was quite a crowd gathered. Windy was still applying pressure to the wound under direction of the doctor. Connor examined the axe; it was lethally sharp.

“Who was that woman?” he asked looking up.

“Miss Jennifer Wade,” said Coats appearing at his elbow. “I believe she is the cooper. And a former convict.”

“What’s this about Jenni and an axe?” said Fury pushing through the crowd.

Connor held up the axe. “This yours?”

“Nay, it’s the lasses own. She’s a fierce temper on her, but she doesn’t mean any harm.”

Connor raised an eyebrow and waved mutely at Billy bleeding out on the deck. He’d not likely die from the wound directly, but the inevitable infection could kill him. Seemed a steep price to pay for doing something that any lad of seventeen or thereabouts would do, given half a chance.

Just then a scuffle broke out round the grog barrel. Connor handed the axe to Fury and moved swiftly back to the barrel. His legs were still unsteady on the deck, and he had to catch himself on the mast as he approached, trying to ignore the queasy sloshing of his stomach. The heaves were getting less frequent, but he’d still not managed to keep a full meal down yet. Windy had been unable to supply him any more of the precious ginger root. He was light-headed and weak as a damned kitten.

Two of the crew, Petey and Lob were staggering about in a clinch, random punches flying.

Connor lunged at Petey, the lighter of the two, pulling him off, his arms locking Petey’s behind his back.

Petey pulled, making him stagger, but he kept his feet and said sharply, “stop it or we’ll both end up on the deck.”

Petey whined, “He took me grog!”

Coats, who had the other man in a hold similar to Connor’s, shook Lob and said sternly, “That true?”

Lob hung his ugly head mulishly. “Not enough grog to keep a man’s soul together it ain’t!”

“It’s yer ration, same as everyone gets,” said Connor icily. “Give it back to him.”

Lob threw Connor a look of dislike and reluctantly handed back the flask. Connor let Petey go, so he could snatch the flask and guzzle it, wiping his mouth with his hand.

“Thanks guv,” he said with a smile at Connor that showed broken teeth.

Connor nodded and Coats let Lob go. Lob shrugged his shirt back into place and took up his own flask, drinking his ration quickly.

“I’m waiting Mr Mor,”said the pint-sized Black woman behind him. Njinga Nwadike was the ship’s rigger, the person responsible for all the ropes on the damned vessel. “Up you go,” she said prodding him between his shoulder blades with a stick.

He dragged his gaze away from the top of the main mast swaying with the swell of the sea, eighty feet above his head. God and all the Saints I can’t do this! Darkness threatened his vision at the edges, as panic skittered over his skin.

“You want my ten-year-old son to show you how it’s done?” taunted Njinga. “Hey Jabari, get up there boy!”

Connor took a step back as a boy of about ten, with lighter brown skin than his mother, ran at the lines and scrambled up faster than a spider. He reached the top and waved to them all below him, before descending just as rapidly to a round of applause from the crew.

The kid grinned and took a bow.

“Your turn, Mr Mor.”

He stepped up to the ropes again, but terror kept his limbs immobile, sweat dripped between his shoulder blades.

Another gentle prod of the stick reminded him he had no choice. It was this or lose face with the other members of the crew, to say nothing of the punishment he’d receive for insubordination. They’d all done it; he was the last of the new recruits to undergo this rite of passage. His life would not be worth living if he refused. Not that it was worth much at the moment anyway...

Fuck! I’ve survived worse than this! ‘Harden up you pussy!’Garmon’s voice rang in his head, and he straightened his shoulders instinctively. Garmon would not have hesitated to go up those ropes if he was here. The man was fearless.

Swallowing the lump of unreasoning terror in his throat, he grasped the ropes and set his foot on the lowest rung of the main mast’s rigging. His stomach swooped as the rig moved under his booted feet, swaying with his weight and the list of the ship. There was a brisk breeze and a mild swell. The sun beat hot on his sweaty back as he moved his hands and feet up the ratlines, his goal the tops’l at the apex of the mast.

The steady clap of encouragement of the men below was muffled by the roar of the rapid heartbeat in his ears. His stomach roiled as he put one foot on a rung and hauled himself up, reaching for hand holds with sweaty palms. He didn’t dare look down.

This was his worst nightmare. Ever since he’d been dangled by his ankles from an open window as a child, he had nursed a secret terror of heights and done everything he could to avoid them.

His breath rasped in his throat, his heart thudded, and his hands felt numb as he grasped the tar covered ropes and hauled himself one step higher. The whole rig swayed as the ship crested a wave and the wind buffeted the sail before him, making it snap and swell. Sweat dripped into his eyes and stung, but he didn’t dare let go to wipe them. His hands gripped the sticky tar ropes so tightly, they ached.

He kept going doggedly, if he came off and fell it would be the end of him, the end of this nightmare. In some ways it might be a relief.

His muscles shook with fatigue from lack of food and his head swam. He’d not been able to keep anything down until this morning, when he’d managed to keep his breakfast on board. But he was weak from days of heaving his guts up. If he fainted now, he would die.

He missed his step and his foot dangled through the ropes as he scrabbled for a handhold. His heart racing, he grabbed the rope and found the rung with his foot, clinging to the ropes and swaying in the wind. Mother Mary save me, he prayed under his breath.

Jerked out of his fatalistic stupor by sheer terror, he looked up at his goal and gritted his teeth. It still seemed like a long way up, but he couldn’t go back down until he’d reached the top. The chanting and clapping below him gave him heart, and he renewed his assault on the ratlines.

With racing heart and aching muscles, he reached the tops’l and clambered onto the platform to the sounds of cheers from below. His heart raced and he gasped for breath, a sudden rush of euphoria smothering the fear that had dogged every moment of the climb. He grinned and crossed himself in gratitude muttering a thank you Lord Jesus under his breath.

He gripped the ropes by his head to steady himself and looked around, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. The sheer beauty of the view distracted him from his fear. The sky was a clear pale blue, dotted with scudding white clouds. The sun glinted off the water, waves cresting gently with white foam and the shimmering blue ocean stretched to the horizon. It was a magnificent summer day. The air was clean and fresh. Something he’d never smelled in all his years of living in dirty, smog-filled London. The freedom up here–it took his breath away. The wind blew through his shirt, chilling his damp skin and his knees flexed instinctively as the ship rolled gently down another swell.

“You can come down now!” yelled Njinga through cupped hands.

Coming down was almost worse than going up, as he was forced to look down to place his feet on the rungs. The first step off the platform was the hardest. Once he was on the rat lines he sucked in a breath and blocked the thoughts of coming off that sparked his terror. I can do this! I got up here, didn’t I?

Boyed by the euphoria of success, he worked his way down carefully, his hands still clutching tightly to the ratlines and his heart racing in his chest, moving with stiff mechanical precision. His only thoughts the next handhold the next foothold.

A strong buffet from the wind sent the rig swinging, and he flattened himself against the ropes, clinging, as he was tossed about. When the rigging steadied, he kept moving down, hand over hand, each foot groping for and finding the rung below.

When he finally reached the deck, he kept his knees locked for fear they would collapse on him in relief to be on the solid deck once more.

He looked around at the sea of faces and took the flask of rum pressed upon him by the hulking McTavish. A generous swallow of the raw spirit sent a glow of warmth to his belly and steadied his nerves. His body was buffeted by the slaps of congratulations from the other men. The euphoria he experienced at the top, rose like a gentle wave, dispelling much of the fear that had knotted his muscles and cramped his stomach.

“We’ll make a sailor of you yet, Irish,” said Njinga with a wide grin, showing blinding white teeth. He glanced up at the tops’l, marvelling that he had made it all the way up there. If you’ve done it once you can do it again. He’d practice until the fear abated; it was the only way to beat it.

Feeling a sudden prickle over the nape of his neck, he looked round and his gaze locked with the captain watching him.

How long had she been there? Had she watched him climb?

She turned away, and he lost sight of her as the men converged on him again. He had seen little of her over the last few days as the state of his stomach preoccupied him. But on the few occasions he had caught sight of her, that prickle of awareness always preceded it.

“Here’s to you Irish!” said Fury, clapping him on the shoulder and raising his flask. He drank and Connor acknowledged the toast by raising his own flask.

“Didn’t think you were going to do it there for a bit,” confided Fury with a smirk. “Found your balls in time, did you?”

Connor smiled. “Never lost ‘em, Fury, but I’m a good Catholic lad. Just took a moment to say my Hail Mary’s. Doesn’t do to get the man upstairs offside when ye’re dancin’ in the wind so to speak.”

There was a murmur of assent from the other men. Not all of them were Catholic, Fury certainly wasn’t, but most of them were religious of some denomination and saw the sense in a prayer before climbing the rigging.

“Alright, parties over gentlemen, back to work!” said bosun, Lin Chen, clapping her hands. Fury gave her a sour look and Connor caught the gesture he made behind her back for the benefit of the men. Some of them smirked but no one was game to laugh out-loud.

While Fury was distracted, Connor caught the eye of two of the smirker’s and shook his head, making a cutting motion with his hand. The smirks vanished and the men dropped their eyes. Connor made eye contact with a couple of others who nodded to him in acknowledgement.

Getting the bosun offside would do none of them any good. Fury was already marked for trouble by the captain, it made little sense for the others to get dragged into it. They needed to keep their heads down and wait for another opportunity to escape.

The men were no longer allowed to sleep on the deck at night and the opportunity to take the small boat diminished with every day that passed. Connor and Fury had discussed a half dozen ideas and discarded all of them as unworkable. They were rapidly getting too far from the Channel to make any escape via the small boat feasible. The discussion had turned instead to taking the Sea Devil herself. But they disagreed on the methods of taking her and their last discussion had ended acrimoniously.

He was no happier with their circumstances than Fury. But Fury’s way would only bring more punishments down on their heads. There had to be a better way and Connor intended to find it.