Cat-O'nine Tails

I didn’t have a good feeling about this. ‘But what if Maclean finds out what you’re doing? The moment I signed up as a boy I as good as declared my guilt – no one will believe that I was forced to go into hiding.’ I cursed Maclean, then sighed. ‘We didn’t have time to think this through properly. I shouldn’t’ve gone along with it; I should’ve stated my innocence there and then. Instead I walked into the trap prepared for me, Frank too when he gave a false name. Now we can’t do anything unless we can find someone to believe Frank is who he says he is.’

  ‘But we’ve got to try something. You’ll not survive this if we don’t.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘I’m doing my best,’ I added more truthfully.

  ‘We know you are, and you’re managing very well considering you’ve been knocked out, starved and tormented by a sadistic captain in the last twenty-four hours. And don’t punish yourself: you are not to blame. Frank and I should’ve looked after you better – at least that’s what Syd says.’

  I grimaced. ‘I imagine he didn’t quite put it in those words.’

  Pedro squeezed my hand. ‘Well, no, he didn’t. He’s in a boiling rage. Look, this is a mess right now, but we’ll sort it out. You just keep alive and keep your secret.’ There was a shout from the deck. ‘I’d better go. Just hang on in there, Cat.’

  It felt doubly lonely when he’d gone. All I had were the stars and my thoughts. My hopes of rescue rested on the character of a red-haired lieutenant once met in a ballroom. Fate was a strange thing.

  I had never before given much consideration as to what the defenders of our nation, the seamen of His Majesty’s navy, ate for breakfast. The hours before dawn were spent pondering this all-important question. I had two wishes: that it would be hot and plentiful. When the bell for the end of my watch rang, I was down that halyard at a speed that even Captain Barton could not fault. It little mattered if I had left the skin of my palms on the rope: I was so cold, I could feel nothing. For the first time, I willingly sought out Maclean, hoping he would lead me to food.

  ‘Here’s my lad,’ Maclean said, steering me with a heavy hand on my neck into his mess, a space between two cannons on the upper gun deck.

  Five men and one woman were seated on benches around a suspended table, with a mess kid, or bowl in front of them. They looked up as we approached. The woman – the gunner’s wife, I guessed – smiled at me and shook her head. She had kind eyes and looked no more than thirty. The gunner – a taciturn man – sat proudly at her side, letting her do all the talking for them both.

  ‘The poor lamb looks blue with cold. Here, boy, sit by me and get this down you.’ She thrust a bowl and spoon into my numb fingers and patted the bench beside her.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ I sank down and began to bolt my food. It was skillygalee, a rich oatmeal gruel. Not up to Boxton standards but better than many a meal I’d scraped together in Drury Lane.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she exclaimed to her husband. ‘Called me “ma’am”!’

  ‘Aye, I heard,’ he grunted.

  She smoothed the hair on the top of my head. ‘Mr Maclean, I can see your boy and I are going to get on very well together. But you can call me Mrs Foster, dearie.’

  ‘I’ll say this for his last master,’ said Maclean, giving me a warning look, ‘he taught his boys to be polite.’

  The conversation carried on around me about people and places I knew not. Bowl empty, I sagged back into my new friend’s skirts and fell into a doze. Compared to the foul smells elsewhere on board, she smelt wholesome, even lightly perfumed, and, best of all, clean.

  ‘Aw, look at the little thing. Worn out and the day’s only just started,’ crooned Mrs Foster, stroking my hair soothingly.

  ‘Aye, the captain made him climb the mast ten times,’ said Maclean. ‘Good for his character.’

  Mrs Foster tutted and said something unprintable about the captain. I completely agreed.

  ‘Why not let him stay with me this morning, Mr Maclean?’ she asked. ‘I’ve some mending to do for the officers, he can keep me and the other girls company.’

  Mr Maclean got up abruptly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Foster, that’s a mighty generous offer but my apprentice is eager to start his duties. We’ve the inventory to check today.’ He gave me a kick in the shins. ‘Come on, Jimmy.’

  Reluctantly I scrambled to my feet. It had felt so good to have a motherly person caressing my hair that I didn’t want it to stop.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Foster,’ I said, bowing to her and the company. This sent her into peals of laughter.

  ‘Goodbye to you too, Jimmy,’ she called after me, waving her hand.

  Once out of sight, Mr Maclean backed me against a bulkhead.

  ‘None of your fancy ways in here, or you’ll feel the back of my hand. And keep away from the women. Got it?’

  It seemed I could do nothing right – not that I wanted to please him, only spare myself further punishment.

  ‘Aye, Mr Maclean.’

  He gave me a box round the ear for good measure and pushed me down into the hold.

  ‘Count the casks of peas. When you’ve done that, start on the water barrels.’ He passed me a lantern.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘And I don’t want to see your miserable face until noon, you understand? I’ll be sitting here making sure no one disturbs you.’

  I crept into the belly of the ship, relieved to be out of sight of Maclean, but fearful of what I would find. Reader, if you’ve not been in the hold of a ship before, you will not appreciate what a haunting place it is. You’re not alone. For company, there are numerous rats, bold ones who are not afraid to sniff you over in case you offer them a tasty bite. The penned animals, destined to be slaughtered for fresh meat, moo, cluck and bleat mournfully, the smell of dung adding to the already noxious atmosphere. Then there’s the slap and slosh of the water in the hold, reminding you of the watery grave awaiting just the other side of the planks. Few ships are completely watertight. Most have to keep a pump working from time to time to empty out the seepage before it damages the stores. And then there are the stores themselves: casks and barrels closely packed. It takes a small boy – or girl in my case – to rummage among them for the count and it’s dangerous work too if something is not securely fastened.

  But I was blowed if I could be bothered.

  I had been abducted and threatened by this man. I was not going to lift a finger for him if I could get away with it. I looked at the list he had given me: a hundred and ten casks of peas. I crossed it out and put a hundred and nine – the cook had probably opened at least one since we sailed. I then squeezed myself into a space too small for Mr Maclean to reach, grabbed a thick stick to beat off any rats, and settled myself down to sleep. To survive this voyage I would need my wits about me and that is what I intended to achieve.

  I slept surprisingly well and woke much refreshed, ready to do battle once more. Guessing noon was almost upon us, I crawled back out of the hold and handed Maclean the list. He looked at it and sniffed.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aye, sir, I counted them twice over.’

  He gave a humph but didn’t dispute the figures any further. The only way to give me the lie was to do the work himself and you can guess what he thought of poking around in the dark.

  After the noon meal I was allowed outside to participate in the cleaning, or what Maclean grandly called ‘the swabbing’ of the deck. All this nautical terminology was making my head ache. Incomprehensible orders were constantly being bellowed: belay this, reef that, up the mizzen, trim the top gallants. I felt as if I’d fallen among the canting crew. Thieves are well known for having their own language; sailors, it seems, have theirs too. Rest assured, Reader, this is not one of those stories which delight in befuddling you with such stuff. Laying my hand on my heart, I promise to keep such naval jargon to a minimum.

  Scrubbing the decks had the advantage that Frank was able to make his way towards me. I could see that his knuckles were cracke
d and bleeding – not surprising when you consider that he never had to do a day’s work in his life. It was murder on the knees – mine already felt rubbed raw.

  ‘Where’ve you been all morning?’ he muttered, trying not to move his lips.

  ‘Sleeping,’ I murmured. ‘Between a cask of salted pork and next Sunday’s dinner.’

  He smiled in relief. ‘Good for you.’ He glanced over his shoulder to check Maclean wasn’t watching. Fortunately for us he was arguing with the carpenter over by the steps to the quarterdeck. ‘He’s not offered you any . . . er . . . insulting behaviour, has he?’

  Dear old Frank. Here I was with a black eye, grimy and doubtless smelling none too sweet, and Frank was worried for my virtue.

  ‘No, Frank, he hasn’t,’ I replied, serious for his sake. ‘I think that’s the last thing on his mind. He’s too busy trying to stop me being adopted by Mrs Foster and the other wives.’

  ‘Syd wants a word.’

  ‘I bet he does.’

  ‘He’s over by the water barrel.’

  The seaman in charge of our cleaning party gave me permission to get myself a drink. I could sense Mr Maclean’s eye on me as I wandered over to the barrel. I filled a mug and glugged the water. I can say one thing for it: despite being green-tinged, it tasted better than the stuff served in the Pump Room – that’s if you ignored the little beasties wriggling about in the bottom.

  Syd was coiling rope nearby. I walked past him and leant casually on the rail, my back to Maclean.

  ‘Hello, Syd,’ I said softly.

  ‘What the ’ell do you think you were doing, Cat Royal?’ he whispered furiously. If we’d been back in Bow Street in his butcher’s shop, he would have been bellowing. ‘Going down to the docks to save me! You should’ve kept well away. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Syd. You’ve done very well, being thrown on board this ship and whisked off to who knows where. We needn’t’ve tried to help you. No doubt you wanted a change of scene, a breath of tropical air – do you the power of good.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Cat. What’s ’appened to me is one thing, but you – this isn’t right.’

  ‘Course it’s not, but what do you propose I do about it? I didn’t ask for any of this, you know.’ The ship dipped into a wave and I lurched against him. He discreetly set me on my feet. ‘How did you end up here, Syd?’

  ‘Mick Bailey.’ Syd spat the words out as if they were poison in his mouth. ‘And I earned ’im a fortune this summer! Didn’t want to share it with me when it came to it; had me press-ganged instead.’

  I resisted the temptation to tell him ‘I told you so’. I’d warned him about his manager before now: nothing Mick Bailey did could surprise me.

  ‘And what about you, Cat?’ Syd murmured. ‘The boys said you were set upon?’

  ‘Yes, someone’s paid Maclean to keep Frank out the way and I’m the hostage for his good behaviour.’

  ‘I’m goin’ to kill ’im.’ Syd wrung the rope in his fists, glaring at Maclean.

  I had feared this would be Syd’s approach.

  ‘No, you’re not. If you want to protect me, don’t start by getting us both hanged. I’m wanted for murder apparently; let’s not make it the two of us.’

  I knew this would be hard for Syd: realizing that he could only help me by doing nothing. I heard him sigh and he returned to neatly coiling the rope.

  ‘So, ’ow are you managin’?’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m fine. Really I am. Yesterday was a bit of an eye-opener, but today’s been pretty good so far.’

  ‘If there’s anything –’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to say. I know.’

  ‘Oy, squirt!’ I felt a sharp pain as something lashed across my shoulders. I spun round to see one of the bosun’s mates, burly individuals whose job it is to whip slackers into a more industrious frame of mind, threatening me with a length of rope. ‘Get back to work: this ain’t no pleasure cruise.’

  Syd sprang in front of me, which was far more effective than the whip in making me move. This was the wrong fight for him to pick.

  ‘Aye, sir. Sorry, sir. Feeling seasick,’ I said with a realistic retch. I knew only too well what that felt like, being a poor sailor.

  The bosun’s mate took a step back, worried I was about to puke over his spotless white trousers.

  ‘Tom Thumb drank the water with nothing in it,’ chipped in Harkness, my friend from the masthead, who had come to see what was happening.

  ‘That’ll kill you, young’un,’ said the mate, shaking his head. He looked at me more closely. ‘You’re the one who had to climb the mast ten times last night, ain’t yer?’

  ‘That’s right, Nightingale, up and down like a squirrel he was,’ confirmed Harkness.

  The mate took a step nearer. I flinched back, Syd clenched his fists, but Nightingale only wanted to whisper some advice in my ear.

  ‘Listen, Tom Thumb, keep out of the captain’s way. Look busy even if you ain’t. Don’t drink that poison,’ he nodded to the water, ‘without a shot of rum to purify it. Understood?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Now, get back to work.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  As I holystoned the deck, scraping the timbers smooth, I reflected that Nightingale had just given me more sound advice in one short speech than most people give in a lifetime. There were more friends at hand than I had imagined.

  Over the next few weeks, our ship sailed swiftly westwards, blessed with favourable winds. At first, any strong swell brought a recurrence of my seasickness but slowly I became accustomed to the unsettling motion of the vessel and found these bouts grew less frequent. It is strange how you can become used to the most horrible circumstances, even take some pleasure in them. I had never travelled so far in my life and could not help but feel excited by the prospect of visiting the warmer climes of the West Indies. I derived some comfort from the fact that I had successfully avoided Barmy Barton. The captain had not stopped unleashing his cruelty on the ship’s company, but fortunately these thunderbolts fell elsewhere. One midshipman was lashed for being late for his watch. Six seamen were given three nights in the brig and no rations for drunkenness. The carpenter was scolded for hammering when the captain was asleep. Barton possessed a tormented soul, for every little thing drove him wild with rage out of all proportion to the offence. I couldn’t help wondering what ghost from the past haunted him, giving him no rest. Maclean had hinted at something, but he was the last person I was going to ask for an explanation.

  And yet, Barton could also be disconcertingly charming; with him, you could never tell which way the wind was blowing. Pedro had become something of a favourite. In addition to double rations, he was summoned every evening to play to the officers’ mess. Music soothed our master like nothing else could. This gave Pedro the very welcome perk of eating his share of the captain’s leftovers – far better stuff than the ordinary seamen’s diet. He was now rarely expected to take part in the night watch, being groomed instead to be the ship’s musician. He accompanied the sailors as they raised a sail or wound the capstan, varying the beat to suit the task. On these occasions, the ship felt a happy place to be: an island of music and industry afloat on the blue-grey seas of the Atlantic. The seamen began to whisper that he brought them good luck: we had a fresh wind filling out the sails for many days. It was cold, but otherwise kindly weather for winter.

  As for Syd, he had no trouble earning his place among the men. The secret of his boxing success was his agility and strength – excellent qualifications for a sailor. He had no fear of heights and soon numbered among the elite topmen, responsible for the very highest of the sails. I could hardly bear to watch him out on the yardarm with only a footrope to stop him falling. In our free time in the evenings after supper, he taught all comers the basics of boxing – another activity highly approved of by the captain. It soon became a common sight to see six or seven men, stripped to the waist even in this freezing weather, puf
fing away as they pummelled each other. Syd had always dreamed of having a boxing school, but I bet he hadn’t imagined it would be afloat.

  At first, Frank had more problems finding his feet. He fulfilled his duties without distinction, not enough to earn either praise or punishment. Then, one day, he was handed a pack of cards. That changed everything. Taught the tricks of the trade back in London by one of Syd’s gang, Joe ‘the card’ Murray, Frank soon had a devoted following of admirers. When it was discovered he could also read and write, he was suddenly very popular. Seamen of all nations demanded his services to write letters home to their wives, mistresses and mothers, holding them ready for when we met with the next boat heading back to England. As the main currency on board was grog, Frank could’ve been drunk all the time if he wished, so many owed him their ration.

  So everyone was doing well – everyone but me. True, I had plenty of sleep, thanks to the continuing inventory of the hold, a most imaginative task on my part, but I dreaded my time in reach of Maclean above deck. He seemed to regard me as a useful vent for his frustration and I’m sure that the secret knowledge that I was a girl added spice to his nastiness. Mrs Foster scolded him for his gifts of undeserved blows and kicks but that only made it worse: Maclean accused me of bleating to her. I felt wretched but dared not say anything to Frank or Syd. I confided instead in Pedro; he knew enough of men’s cruelty to understand that I just needed someone to talk to, that no one could help.

  ‘The problem is,’ I told him on Christmas Eve up on the cross-trees, the usual place for our private chats, ‘that Maclean’s attitude is infectious. I’m getting cuffed and pushed about by almost everyone now. If even my so-called master doesn’t care two hoots for me, no one else will. It’s nothing deliberate by the others, just a habit.’

  Pedro nodded. ‘So I’ve noticed. They don’t respect you. You’ve got to earn your place somehow.’

  ‘Oh yes, and how exactly? What can I do? Pick a fight with someone?’ I could see Syd down below correcting the stance of one of his pupils. ‘But that’d only confirm to them that I’m nothing when I get beaten to a pulp.’