by Lee Henschel
McFerron finished his repair and raced leg-over down the main stay. More top men went aloft then, to set the royal staysail. Soon thereafter Eleanor’s motion steadied enough for Starky to replace a sheave worn through in the storm. And by the forenoon watch Eleanor was in good order and under full sail. It made of her a splendid thing, a most wondrous thing, her sails buffed pink in the slant of morning light and her towering masts sweeping across the sky. The rigging sang, strummed by a moderate breeze, and Eleanor drove most eager, the great Atlantic now a slate of grey, cresting far to leeward and capping white.
Mr. Lau announced we were standing well into the Bay of Biscay, bearing south by southwest, making near eight knots and about to cross the forty-fifth parallel, midway between the north pole and the equator exact yet not halfway to the blockade at Cadiz. We ran under full sail for another day until we raised the Spanish coast at El Serrón, a small off-shore island.
El Serrón sat low and desolate, with one small village at the southern tip, barely more than a fish camp. Mr. Lau claimed there was a spring near the place. He’d been there once before, watering Zealous twenty years ago. At neap tide, he recalled, they’d anchored three hundred yards off the southern tip in seven and one-quarter fathoms, with firm bottom. Although Eleanor had no pressing need, Captain Cedric agreed to stand us in for watering. Lieutenant Kyle took his marines ashore in the cutter to fill casks. Mr. Starling sent Reggie with the expedition, bearing salves and powders for the villagers. Reggie was most eager to go.
“I’ve never been to Spain before, Harriet.”
While the marines and Reggie were ashore I washed Gottlieb’s clothes, a fine woven robe he called his bisht and a green one he called a thobe. I’d just hung his them in the mizzen shrouds to dry when the cutter returned and Reggie came looking for me.
“Reggie! How was Spain?”
Reggie plopped on the deck by the pump looking exhausted and discouraged.
“A squalid place. Very sparse. Barely a soul there, and most of them shied from us or pretended not to understand what we wanted. The lieutenant speaks Spanish and I know a word or two, so I was able to follow some when he spoke to Mr. Posada, their jefe.”
“Jefe?”
“That’s a mayor of some sort, I think. Anyway, the lieutenant asked about what ships had passed and Mr. Posada claimed he was nearly blind and saw very little now days. I thought not, as he eyed my medicines sharp enough, even though when I offered them he refused.”
“Why?”
“If Mr. Starling’s powders and salves were found on that island the people there would be in serious trouble. El Serrón has water don’t you see, and it’s isolated and easy for an enemy ship to re-provision. So to discourage the practice a Spanish war ship stands in now and then and lately it’s been a fourteen gun Spanish brig. Santa Isadora. Mr. Posada said the brig’s easy to identify because its main course sail is pale blue and showing a big red Templar’s Cross on it. And he says her captain’s a ruthless one. The man pressed the entire crew off one of their trawlers and took their catch as well. When Mr. Posada protested the captain threatened to hang him if the village was ever caught consorting with the enemy.”
“That’s a good reason not to accept anything from anyone.”
“That’s why Mr. Posada was uneasy about us being there. But Lieutenant Kyle reassured him that if Eleanor ever engaged Isadora we’d treat their fishermen as non-belligerents and try to send them home.”
“Most considerate of him.”
“I suppose it is, Harriet. But who’d ever want to live on El Serrón? The place is fly-blown, and reeks of rotting fish, and if the wind . . .”
Just then Mr. Starling called from the spar deck, “Mr. Spoon! You will be here now!”
Reggie ran off. Just and as I called good-bye, Botherall caught me up.
“Botherall!”
“It’s Mr. Botherall.
“Mr. Botherall?”
“I suppose you haven’t heard. Mr. Baker’s death caused a shortage of midshipmen and I was next on the list. I’ve been promoted to acting midshipman.”
“Good on you, Mr. Botherall!”
“So now I’m in charge of ship’s boys.” His faced coloured worrisome. “And I’m wondering . . . have you seen Tate?”
“No. Has anyone looked on the orlop? He tends to run and hide down there.”
“Mr. Pogue says the boy’s not there.”
“How would he know? Tate’s bound to hide from that one if he can. I don’t trust Pogue.”
“That’s Mr. Pogue, Harriet.”
“Sorry, Mr. Botherall. I don’t trust Mr. Pogue. Do you want me to go there and look for the little blighter myself?”
Botherall nodded, then went on. First I finished my chores and checked once more on Gottlieb. He was praying and it appeared he would be at it for quite some time so I left him on his rug and headed for the orlop. I’d been there once before. A dim place, with only filtered sun light sifting down through the gratings. And damp, below Eleanor’s water line. Her hull was six inches thick down here, only six inches keeping out the Atlantic as it boomed along in eerie resonance. I was alone. There were no duty stations on the orlop. The deck was meant for storage and there was much of that. Amidships was Eleanor’s powder magazine, locked and sealed in tar against the damp. Alongside it a double row of casks holding potable water. Next to them the spirit locker, a hogshead of brandy for the officers’ mess and one hundred casks of rum to make grog for the men. Gunny sacks of dried beans, kegs of salt pork, herring, and tobacco, cartons of ship’s biscuit stacked to the beams. Bolts of sail canvas. Buckets of tar, coils of standing rigging, a row of stud sail booms lashed to the deck. Each item stowed methodic to keep Eleanor in proper trim.
Tate could easily find a secret place down here. He was a small lad. Frail and timid, and withdrawn inside his simple mind. I looked for him, calling out his name and announcing that I was his friend. I kept thinking of my brother, Albert. He was two years older than me and two years younger than John. Albert was a giant, and simple. Easy to outwit. And over time he came to be in awe of me, thinking me most clever, and would stand against John if he thumped me around overmuch. Albert was unlucky to be the way he was, and fortunate to have a family that sheltered him from the world.
Perhaps it had been that way for Tate, but then something grievous bad likely happened and he ended up on the streets—and now here, little more than a stowaway on a man-of-war. Eventually I came upon a small section of deck recently holystoned. And there, tucked away behind the bales of oakum, a small tin box with chipped blue paint and dented sides. I knew the tin belonged to Tate. He seemed always to have the thing with him. It felt light in my hand but not empty. Something slid around inside. The lid was held fast by a thong tied in a sailor’s half-hitch and I smiled at that. Tate had finally learned how to tie a hitch. I went to open it, to see what was inside, and thought better. This box was the boy’s only possession, the only thing in his life that was his and his alone and whatever was inside deserved to be left undisturbed. I set it down. Then a voice, the voice I’d kept at the back of my mind came whispering again, as it had on my first night aboard Eleanor.
“Sukiyama. Sukiyama.”
I heard footfalls on the ladder and shot to the deck behind the stacks of oakum. Hard-soled shoes sounded on the orlop coming on slow until they stopped in front of me. Yellow suede pumps and pewter buckles, worn by no one else but Pogue. I had Botherall’s permission to be on the orlop, but if Pogue found me down here he’d report me anyway. What was he doing down here? He seemed idle and in no hurry, just tapping a fancy shoe and sighing, a sigh caught short as more footfalls sounded on the ladder. Pogue waited quiet as if expecting someone, someone we both smelled even before he arrived.
“God, but you stink, man.”
“Hold your tongue, Pogue, or I’ll . . .”
“Or you’ll what? You go knockin’ the little bugger around and then come runnin’ fer me ta take care ’a the bloody mes
s. I ’ad to holystone the deck to get rid of the stain ’e made.”
“The boy opposed me. So I hit him. Not that hard, I don’t think. You’re to blame you know. You know my temper. You shouldn’t have offered me one who might resist. Where is he now?”
“I chucked ’im over in the storm off Ushant.”
“Chucked him? But when I left he wasn’t dead. Do you say you threw him in still alive?”
“Aye. I do say.”
“Good Christ, man! How could you do that?”
“Bloody ’ell, Coutts. You near killed ’im yerself. ’ee was good as dead so ’oi just finished yer work. I’ve a good mind ta report ’ya ta Ajax.”
“No one saw me down here. It would be your word against mine. And who do you suppose they’d believe? A lowly midshipman? Or ship’s purser?”
“No one’s goin’ ta believe a piece of work such as yerself, man. Likely they’d not believe either of us.”
“Then we’re in this together . . . so no more of your clap. This may end up for the best, actually. I shall continue to carry his name for a source of revenue.”
“Ain’t you the cold one?”
“Business is business. Did anyone see you throw him over?”
“Botherall. But what ’e seen was me chuckin’ a sack of garbage and ’e can’t prove otherwise. And if it comes ta anyone askin’ . . . well, poor little Tate, ’ee just got ’imself swept overboard in the storm while no one was lookin’.”
“Very well. Just keep your mouth shut. I must get back now so if . . .”
“Not so fast. You owe me for settin’ ’im up with you.”
“I owe you nothing. You provided faulty merchandise.”
“Well now ain’t that just peachy. I’ll be sure ta remember it when you come askin’ me ta set up yer next ‘rahn-day-voo.”
“But . . .”
“But nuthin’.”
“Well if you think . . .”
“Stow it, Coutts. If ya’ want ta retain me services ‘eer’s what you’ll do. One. I get me a fresh set of togs immediate . . . for services rendered previous. Two. For any and all future considerations I get a’ extra ration of grog every Sunday. And three. I get Tate’s pay ticket.”
“Bunk! You’re naught but a reprobate!”
“Awe, now you’ve gone an’ ‘urt me feelins’ Coutts . . . such as they are.”
“Damn your eyes, Pogue! I’ll not do it.”
In a flash Pogue drew his knife and brought it to Coutts’s throat.
“Take the deal, Coutts. Or I’ll stick ya’ like a pig.”
“Yes! Yes, of course I’ll take the deal.”
“And?”
“And you’ll have your togs this evening. And your extra grog beginning Sunday. This very Sunday.”
“Don’t forget the pay ticket.”
“Yes, of course. The pay ticket. Most definitely.”
Pogue grinned and drew back his knife.
Coutts breathed deep. “But you’ll have to do better than the likes of Tate.”
“Oh? And just ’ooh did you ’ave in mind?”
“Harriet. I want Harriet.”
Chapter Eight
Pogue quit the orlop. Coutts waited a few minutes, then he left, too. I stayed behind hidden in the oakum, horrified by what I’d just heard. I cried for Tate . . . and for me. Poor Tate, stuffed alive in a gunny and thrown like jetsam into the storm. It could have been me! Now you’re gone, Tate, and we’ll not ever know. Reggie and me were supposed to look out for you. Maybe if I’d told someone about Coutts after my first night aboard, maybe then you’d still be here. But I didn’t tell it . . . I didn’t say what I thought Coutts was after, for the shame of it, and because I didn’t know what would happen if I did say, except for more ‘shut your mouth, boy.’ I was afraid to say anything even to Reggie, though I knew he’d listen. Who else but Reggie would listen, or care? It would be just more nonsense from the cabin boy, and then more yelling for me to be quiet. But now I will tell them. All of them! I’d not keep my mouth shut and I’d call out what happened to Tate, what Coutts and Pogue did to the lad. Now! This very instant!
Just as I moved from cover, the ship’s drummer started banging away in the waist. Good God! We were clearing for action! Both watches swarmed the companionways, beating feet all along the gun deck, hatches and gratings slamming shut and battening down, bulkheads broken down and stowed away. And now came Reggie . . . absolute flying down the ladder, crashing hard on the deck and scrambling to his action station to set up a surgery. The orlop was my action station as well, to serve in the magazine as a powder monkey for the quarterdeck carronades. But I didn’t go there. Instead I chased after Reggie.
“Reggie! I know what’s happened to Tate!”
“Not now, Harriet. They’ve sighted a brig flying a Spanish ensign and with a blue main course. It’s bound to be Santa Isadora! And the captain will take her.”
“I’m scared, Reggie.”
“You mustn’t be, Owen. It’s only fourteen guns and I doubt they’ll fight.”
A musket fired, followed by a scream.
“Things are moving a bit fast just now, Harriet. Tell me later.”
I grabbed Reggie “But I heard it. The Sukiyama!”
“What? When did you hear it?”
“An hour ago. Down here on the orlop.”
“Mr. Spoon! Be here now!”
Reggie slipped my grip and was off. I ran after him onto the spar deck where a marine lay on his stomach with a wound low in his back, braying most loud while Mr. Starling tended him and Sergeant Archalatta screamed to be heard above the din.
“A musket discharged by accident, sir, and Private Leslie here were in the way of it.”
Mr. Starling peered in. “Close range. I see there’s powder burns.”
“Yes, sir. Gonna bleed out, ain’t he?”
“Yes.”
Private Leslie moaned. “Oh, me mum. Where’s me mum.”
“Steady now, laddy-buck. Naught but a asshole. That’s what death is, and everyone’s got one in the end.”
“Enough, Sergeant. Spoon, help me roll him over and have a look at the real damage.”
Reggie and Mr. Starling rolled the marine over as gently as they could but he howled and then passed out, lying in a pool of blood. His quivering guts spilled from the gaping exit wound in his stomach. Mr. Starling told Reggie to prepare a swath of sail cloth. I stared at the wound and Mr. Starling barked at me to either get out of the way or help Reggie. I held one end of the swatch as Reggie cut a length.
“Reggie, listen to me. I know what’s happened to Tate.”
Mr. Starling cut me off. “Don’t bother him, Harriet. I need him to help bind this man.”
They wrapped Leslie’s stomach and the sail cloth was soaked in blood even before they could secure it.
“Now get him below. Take his arms, Sergeant. Spoon, you take his legs. You help too, Harriet.”
Archallata took Leslie’s arms, Reggie and I took his legs and we shuffled toward the companionway. Private Leslie was dead before we made the orlop. We laid him aside gently and Reggie ran to inform Mr. Starling.
First Baker, then Tate, now Leslie. All dead. I stood transfixed by the utter stillness of Leslie. Silent and grey. Like mum. Father and the mid-wife hadn’t let me look at mum lying there silent and grey. But I did. For the first time since leaving Newbury I heard the home rhythm. The very first sound in my life: the clack of mum’s loom as she sat weaving.
A giant powerful hand touched my shoulder.
“He’s dead, boy. No more can be done.”
“Ajax! They killed him.”
“It was a misfire, boy.”
“No. I don’t mean Private Leslie. I mean they killed . . .”
“Listen to me, boy. You have powder to run. They’re waiting for it on the quarterdeck. ”
“Aye, Ajax.”
I ran the charges for the gun sections. Captain Cedric frowned at me and was about to say something but he look
ed away, to leeward, observing a brig nearly two thousand yards distant, and approaching the Spanish coast. He stood with Mr. Lau and Rainey as the brig came about.
“Shall we hoist our colours, sir?”
“No. Let her ponder us for a bit. I want to see what she’s up to.”
“She’s trying to make Cabo Pentonciño, sir, and enter Port Fisterra before we cut her off.”
Captain Cedric glassed the brig through his telescope “Aye, and she’ll reach it on this tack. Then she’s free of us. But she keeps falling off, Mr. Lau, as if she wishes to be cut off.” He collapsed his telescope and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t like it.”
“May I speculate, sir?”
“If you will.”
“Her captain knows our only way to take that brig is to cut her off before she makes Cabo Pentonciño. And we’d be likely do do that, sir, except there’s a shoal running between him us.”
“Where away?”
“Direct off Pentonciño. It runs for eleven hundred yards. The locals call that shoal Socabo.” Mr. Lau pointed. “Look there, sir”
“I see it now. It’s too shallow for us to cross over.”
“I bet that brig’s captain thinks that as well, sir, and hopes we’ll keep closing on her and not see the shoal until it’s too late for us to avoid and run aground.”
“So you think he’s falling off. To lure us, sir.”
“Aye, sir. He wants us to try cutting him from Fisterra.”
Rainey replied. “The brig’s just sent up a hoist, sir. I believe they’re signaling the semaphore at Pentonciño.”
They all turned their telescopes to the semaphore tower standing alone on the point.
“The semaphore responds. What do you think they’re communicating, Lieutenant?”
“Perhaps they’re calling for El Narval to come out.”
“El Narval?”
“At Fisterra they maintain a xebec, sir, named El Narval.”
“It’s unusual to see a xebec on the Atlantic coast.”
“Aye, Mr. Lau. But I saw one in action several years ago when we raided on Fisterra. She was well handled on that occasion, reversing directions in just one stroke and with thirty sweeps she moves wicked fast. Powerful, too. She has a twenty-four pound smasher in her bow. My guess is that brig’s calling out that same xebec.”