Shattered Icon

by Bill Napier

  By mid-day my muscles were aching and my back was sore. Presently, smoke began to drift up from the depths of the ship, mingling with the smells of tar and sweat which were everywhere, and at the instructions of Mr Twiss we stopped and climbed down broad ladders to a large room with benches and tables. Here the smell of wood-smoke was strong, and came from an adjoining open kitchen. We queued and I was given biscuits and a huge jug of beer. The biscuits turned out to be as hard as rocks. The air was filled with bangs as they were tapped against corners and edges of benches.

  'Hunger!' cried the Turk, next to me, waving at a sailor. A small, muscular man, carrying a bowlful of biscuits, grinned and sat down opposite us. 'Still avoiding the pox, then? And keen for more punishment, it seems?'

  'Aye,' said the man called Hunger. 'Where do you think we are bound? I surely don't know.' He leaned forward. 'But this is a very small crew for such a large ship.'

  The Turk nodded. 'I thought so too. And supplies are meagre. They say Sir Walter Raleigh lies behind this expedition.'

  'Tavern rumour,' replied Hunger contemptuously.

  'Will you not venture a guess?' The Turk, amazingly, broke a biscuit with his teeth and began to crunch noisily. I drank my beer greedily: the work had been hard and my throat was dry.

  Hunger said, 'We'll be in search of Caribbean gold. You'll have seen the gunports - ten of them, enough to put the fear of God into any Spanish captain.'

  'Aye, empty gunports. Where are the cannon to fill them? And the gunners to work them? We have scarce enough men on board to unfurl the sails.'

  'Which we shall do shortly, I'll wager.' This from another man who had joined us. The smoke was beginning to sting my eyes but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to it. I coughed and drank more beer. I was not used to it and it was beginning to have an effect on me, not an unpleasant one.

  'Caribbean gold. I do not doubt it, Mr Chandler,' the Turk agreed. I began to wonder if everyone knew everyone else on this voyage.

  'And the auto-da-fe, unless the ship is better manned than this.'

  'Auto-da-fe?' I asked.

  The man looked at me in surprise. 'You do not know of the auto-da-fe?'

  I shook my head, bewildered.

  The man threw back his head and laughed. 'And the Turk, no doubt, enticed you on board?'

  'I had my reasons for wishing to join the ship and had no need of the Turk to persuade me.'

  'Be careful not to offend young Scotch,' the Turk said in a half-joking voice.

  Michael joined in with enthusiasm. 'He has a short temper and is capable of extreme violence. I have seen him, with my own eyes, leave three men howling on the ground, trying to push their bowels back in place.'

  I chose not to dispute these assertions, thinking that such a reputation might afford some protection amongst my new companions in the days ahead.

  'The light loading is a ruse, I'll wager,' said the man called Hunger. 'Intended to confuse Mendoza's spies. I believe we will sail round Portsmouth and take on more men and supplies. Then we'll see.'

  Full of curiosity, I asked, 'Mendoza?'

  The man called Chandler looked at me. 'What backward people the Scots are. Do you know anything?'

  'I know how to cut a throat,' I said.

  Chandler looked at me through narrowed eyes. No doubt he was trying to assess how much of my speech was bravado and how much was meant. But he had no time to say more. A squat, burly man was walking amongst the sailors, a short cudgel in his hand. He held it strangely and it was a second before I noticed that he had two fingers missing. His face was so covered with black beard and whiskers that he looked like a furry animal. Now he was standing at our bench. Small, pig-like eyes, hard as rocks, stared at me. 'Finish up and get on with the loading.'

  'Aye, Mr Salter.' The tone of humility in the Turk's voice surprised me greatly. Somehow I did not think that my reputation as a fifteen-year-old cutthroat would make much impression on this man.

  I cannot describe the magic of the next few days. In response to the harsh commands of Mr Salter, we climbed the rigging and unfurled the sails. From the high masts I could see much of London and even the countryside beyond. Then, as the wind caught the sails, we began to slip along the Thames. The Turk pointed out Greenwich and the Isle of Dogs as we passed, and the river slowly broadened until, by the end of the first day, we seemed to be a mile from the nearest shore. Then a great lantern was lit at the rear of the ship and we sailed on through the dark. It was not long before a sense of nausea overcame me, and to the laughter of the others I had to hurry along a corridor, climb stairs in the dark and find my way to the edge of the ship, where I emptied my stomach into the sea.

  On the third day, following shouted instructions from Mr Salter, the ship began to turn towards a large town with an enormous harbour. Rows of pretty white houses and shops stretched away on all sides, and its streets were bustling with people. It happened I was furling a sail, whose name was mysterious to me but which was high enough for the act to cause me some fear, with Hunger and the Turk. 'What town is this?'

  'Plymouth, Scotch!'

  We were slipping alongside a long quay, heaped with sacks, barrels and other supplies. A few children waved. We drifted past a sailing ship not much smaller than our own. 'The Lyon,' said Hunger in a tone of admiration.

  'And the Roebuck,' said the Turk. 'But what ships are these?'

  The Turk, I believe, could not read. Hunger said, 'The Dorothy and the Elizabeth.'

  But there was little time to admire the sight. Having docked, there was loading to be done. There were scores of soldiers. I was surprised to see that many of them carried pikes like my own. And there was such a supply of provisions as I had never seen: chests, casks, crates, sacks, hogsheads and creels full of dried fish and prunes. And enough barrels of cider, wine and beer to keep the whole assembly drunk for months.

  There was a harsh shout on the dockside: 'Make way!' A large group of men in naval uniform, carrying short cudgels, were bundling several dozen men of all ages, haggard and grey-faced, between them. Several of these men seemed drunk.

  'Who are they?' I asked the Turk. We were rolling barrels on to a net for the crane men to lift.

  'Prisoners, by the looks of them,' said the Turk. 'And tavern scum.' He seemed to have forgotten that he was in a tavern when I first saw him.

  'Press-ganged,' Hunger informed me. 'Men are afraid to serve. And little wonder, after Sir Humphrey's expedition.'

  Another sailor, whose name I later learned was the Hog, stopped to stretch and wipe his brow. He said, 'They say that, before the disaster, there was strange voices heard at the helm of the ship and strange sea-creatures were caught with their harpoon. And before the storm which sank them, Mr Cox saw white cliffs which vanished as they approached.'

  'Nonsense,' Mr Chandler told me. 'It's the astrologers who keep men from this voyage. The planetary conjunctions are not good. Jupiter and Saturn came together in eighty-three, starting the age of the Fiery Trigon. We are entering a period of great catastrophe. Thomas Porter predicts much violence against travellers, and Euan Lloyd tells us there will be tempests, fogs, mists, storms and shipwrecks.'

  'Tales fit only for women,' Hunger informed me. 'It is true that many sailors are prone to such nonsense. But no, Scotch, what is truly keeping men from this voyage is something of this world, not the spirit one or the celestial one. It is the fear of auto-da-fe.'

  That phrase again, always spoken with fear: auto-da-fe. Not even the lure of Caribbean gold, it seemed, was able to overcome that fear.

  It took three days of backbreaking work to stuff the hold of the Tiger. Ten massive cannon were dragged on board in pieces and assembled. I had the impression that these great guns were reassuring to the Turk and his friends. After that, the mariners and soldiers climbed aboard, and the ship suddenly became cramped, with hardly space to move. And then, at last, there came the gentlemen. It was late afternoon when the Turk beckoned me urgently towards the side of the ship.
We leaned over the rail and looked down on a small group of men. 'That is Walter Raleigh,' he said with something like awe. 'He is the Queen's favourite, newly knighted. And the man next to him is Thomas Harriot.'

  'Christ! Philip Amadas,' said Hunger, dismay in his voice as a tiny man emerged from a carriage.

  'And who are these?' I asked. For two men of very strange appearance had emerged from a second carriage, accompanied by more gentlemen.

  'All London knows of them,' said the Turk. 'These are Manteo and Wanchese. Savages from America.'

  'And now it's clear enough,' said Hunger. 'We are heading for America.'

  'By way of the West Indies, I do not doubt,' said the Turk. 'And a little plunder.'

  'Thank Christ for the gunners,' said Hunger.

  I was kept busy for the rest of the day: chickens, pigs and goats had come aboard. There was little room for them in the narrow square of deck assigned to me by Mr Salter, but I believe that I organised it well, and I felt some pride that I had found a place, however modest, in this great enterprise. At last, the gentlemen came aboard, most of them joining the Tiger. Raleigh remained on the dock, then left in a carriage. When, at dawn the next morning, on the ninth of April 1585, the ships slipped quietly out of Plymouth harbour, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension.

  But it was a full thirteen days before I summoned up the courage to ask the Turk about the auto-da-fe.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was not long before I had my first encounter with Mr Salter. I am grateful for the beating he gave me. Not because it filled me with hatred for my assailant, which it did, but because it filled me with determination to leave the ranks of the tavern scum at any price and attach myself to those of the gentlemen.

  Following instructions, and imitating the Turk closely, I had climbed riggings, crawled along masts, hauled on ropes until my hands were raw, scrubbed the deck and done all the things that the deckmaster Mr Salter had demanded of us.

  A strange sensation which had slowly been growing in my head somehow connected with my stomach. A feeling of unease, hard to describe, increased slowly as the day progressed until it filled my whole being with wretchedness. It was not long before I was wishing that I was dead.

  The incident which precipitated my beating happened at the very highest point of the ship, on the main topgallant sail. The Turk was sitting astride the yard while I, in a state of terror, hauled at a rope following his instructions. From here I could see the other five ships of the expedition spread around us on the sparkling sea. They were rolling from side to side, and up and down, and corkscrewing, as the wind blew them through the waves. At this height the roll of the ship was greatly exaggerated. I seemed to remember a principle about leverage enunciated by Aristotle, but was too miserable and frightened to think it through. As the mast swayed from side to side the dreadful feeling intensified. 'Turk,' I said. 'I'm going to be sick.'

  'It's the rolling of the ship, Scotch.' He seemed unaffected by it. 'Now catch this and heave. Harder, are you a girl?'

  'How do I stop the ship rolling?'

  'You cannot, foolish boy. But you will grow accustomed to it.'

  I doubted it: far below me, several experienced mariners were hanging grey-faced over the rails. One of them began to vomit into the sea. It was too much for me. 'I must go down now.'

  'You cannot, Scotch.' The Turk glared at me. 'Not until we have unfurled the sail.'

  But I had to. At any cost I had to reach the side of the ship and empty the contents of my stomach as quickly as I could. Carefully, I sidled along the yard and picked my way past the Turk. To pass him I had to lean outwards, gripping him by his shoulders while feeling my way along the rope with my feet. A foot slipped, and for some seconds of horror I teetered between life and death on the swaying ship, while the Turk's nails dug deeply into my forearm. But I passed him, reached the mainmast thankfully, and began to clamber quickly down the ratline, the wind fluttering my shirt.

  Mr Salter was looking up at me, his eyes a mixture of hostility and mystification. He opened his mouth to shout at me. Unfortunately, at that very moment, bile rose within my mouth and I retched out the contents of my stomach: a white frothy stream poured out, containing within it half-digested lumps of biscuits, dried fish and peas. Mr Salter tried to leap aside, but because of the rolling of the deck his jump was clumsy and my vomit went cleanly onto his head and down his jacket. There were gasps from around the rigging. Someone muttered, 'God, lad, he will kill you.'

  I started to climb back up the rigging, wishing it extended to the clouds above, but Mr Salter's roar of command brought me down. He was using a handkerchief to wipe the vomit from his head and neck while I stood before him, trembling. Then he took off his jerkin and placed it on the deck, and slowly picked up the cudgel which he had dropped as he jumped. It was short, polished, narrow at its handle and broad at its base. He tapped it a few times in the palm of his three-fingered hand. He said nothing, but his brittle blue eyes were filled with fury.

  The first blow was to my stomach. It was a hard, upward thrust with the cudgel, which he held with both hands. The blow doubled me up and put me to the deck, unable to breathe. Salter then hauled me up by the hair and began striking me on shins, arms, legs, ribs - anywhere he could reach. When at last he let go of my hair and I fell to the deck, the blows continued on my back and buttocks. I began to wonder if his fury would last all day and if I would be alive at the end of it. Then at last, while I lay prostrate and moaning, I heard a distant voice say: 'Now clean the deck, you Scotch bastard!'

  That night, lying in my hammock, unable to find any sleeping position which did not cause agonising pain to one bruise or another, Mr Bowler, a Cornishman who had sailed with Frobisher in eighty-four, told me: 'He doesn't like you, Scotch.'

  'Why not?' I could hardly speak. 'It was an accident.'

  'You can read. You make him feel ignorant.'

  'Aye,' came a voice out of the darkness. 'But at least it will keep Salter off our backs.'

  'Keep up the reading, Scotch boy.' The sound of men laughing rumbled around the berth. At that moment I hated them all with a great and passionate intensity. And as I lay stiff and throbbing from a beating far worse than any my stepfather had ever given me, and thought, if only I had never left home!, I decided that somehow I would have to find a position below decks, away from Mr Salter and his needle eyes and his truncheon. For if I did not, the day would surely come when I would thrust my ballockknife into his stomach again and again and again, and that would be the end of me.

  For several hours I turned every way I could, drifting in and out of nightmares, listening to the creaking of the ship and the snoring of the men around me, and smelling the stench of sweat and tar. Sometime after midnight I heard the rhythmic tap-tap of footsteps on the deck above. Someone was pacing to and fro, to and fro. The night-watch, I supposed.

  Once, in the early hours, the sound of low, muttering voices came down through the hatch. Then, strangely, there was a muffled thump followed by silence. This was followed some moments later by a scraping sound, which I did not understand. It was consistent with something being dragged along the deck. And then there was silence again, apart from the thousand night noises of the ship. In other circumstances my curiosity would have been roused to the point where I would have gone up to investigate. But my exhaustion was too great and my bruises too painful for me to care.

  By the next morning I was so stiff that I was unable to leave my hammock. My arms were swollen and every breath brought pain to my ribs. The Turk brought me water but I had no strength for the biscuit which he offered me, even after he'd broken it into pieces with his yellow teeth. Two mariners played a game of backgammon awhile, rattling their counters on the big table. But after that, the berth-hold was empty for much of the day and I lay alone, slipping in and out of half-sleep.

  In the afternoon, the sound of feet coming down the hatch ladder wakened me from a bad dream. As my eyes focused I saw that Mr Harriot
was examining me closely. He said, 'You cannot help me.'

  'Sir?' My voice was a whisper.

  'You have not been above deck these past few hours, am I right?'

  'That is so, sir.'

  'Aye. We have lost a Mr Holby. He was last seen at dinner yesterday.'

  Mr Holby. One of the gentlemen. A faint recollection came back to me. Was it a dream? No, it was real. 'Sir, I heard a strange disturbance in the early hours of this morning. It may have no connection with Mr Holby.'

  Mr Harriot said nothing, but his eyes encouraged me to continue.

  'Two people were talking on the deck above. Then there was a faint thump, and then the sound of something being dragged. After that, silence.'

  The man's expression did not change. Then: 'I hope you are not saying that Mr Holby was knocked down and dragged overboard?'

  Uncertain what I was getting myself into, I said in some alarm, 'No, sir. I only report what I heard.'

  'Did you hear a splash?'

  'No, sir.' I struggled to a sitting position. My throat was parched. The wind was fresher and the sway of the ship was steepening. Through the hatch I saw dark, fast-moving clouds.

  'What is your name, boy?'

  'James Ogilvie, sir.'

  'And what happened to you?'

  'I vomited over Mr Salter, sir.'

  For a startled moment I thought I detected a glint of humour in the man's eyes. I thought, I will never have another opportunity like this again. Boldness and desperation made me add, 'And I can read and write. And I have read the Lives of Plutarch and I know the propositions of Euclid.'

  The man peered at me in astonishment, as if a cabbage had spoken to him. 'Indeed? What, then, is the theorem of Pythagoras?'

  'That the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle equals the sum of the squares on the other two sides.'

  His astonishment increased, and I could not help but add: 'And I have found a way to prove it other than by using shears and rotations of triangles in the manner of Euclid. I can prove his theorem by dissection. I take the large square on the hypotenuse and divide it into pieces which I can rearrange to fit exactly into the two smaller ones.' I remembered this well. I had played the game with sticks in our barn one afternoon while, I fear, our cow had gone unmilked.