Cat-O'nine Tails

by Julia Golding

  But Syd wasn’t listening; he was really fired up about something.

  ‘And what’s this I’ve been ’earin’ about you last night, Cat?’ Syd continued.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘’Ad too much to drink, they’re sayin’.’

  I shifted my collar higher, but too late.

  ‘What’s that on your neck?’

  ‘Well, it’s –’

  Syd grabbed my arm and pulled the shirt down.

  ‘’Ell’s teeth, Cat Royal, you’ve got a tattoo on your back!’

  I tried to push him away, but his grip was too tight. ‘Lucky it wasn’t my chest, hey?’

  ‘This ain’t a jokin’ matter. You’ve ruined yourself.’

  I felt a surge of anger. ‘Of course I haven’t. It’s just a tattoo, for heaven’s sake!’ If Pedro noticed my abrupt change of tune, he was too diplomatic to mention it. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t exactly my choice, Syd. I hate it when you talk to me like that!’

  ‘Like what?’ Syd was so incensed he appeared to have forgotten he was still gripping my collar.

  ‘Like it’s all my fault. Let go or I’ll thump you.’ I slapped at his hand.

  Unfortunately, Harkness happened to be passing.

  ‘Did you hear that!’ he crowed. ‘Tom Thumb’s challenged the Butcher!’

  Like iron filings to a magnetic, we found ourselves in the middle of a crowd of eager sailors. Bets were already exchanging hands.

  ‘Thirty seconds: that’s how long he’ll last!’

  ‘No way. Five, that’s what I give him.’

  ‘Five minutes?’

  ‘No, you idiot, seconds.’

  ‘Hey, hey!’ said Syd, finally letting go of me and holding his hands up. ‘I’m not fightin’ the shrimp.’

  ‘It’s not up to you, shipmate,’ said Harkness, clapping me on the back right on my tender shoulder. ‘The little’un challenged you.’

  I was about to declare my complete lack of desire to fight when Pedro stepped on my foot.

  ‘Give him a few moments to prepare,’ demanded Pedro. Syd and I rounded on him, speechless.

  ‘Right,’ said Nightingale. ‘Clear a space there.’

  I grabbed Pedro by the arm and pulled him away from eavesdroppers. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘No, I’ve not. Weren’t we saying only the other night that you need to earn the men’s respect? Think about it, Cat: if you refuse to fight now, you’ll be bullied for the rest of the voyage. Take on the biggest man in the crew and they’ll admire you for your pluck if nothing else.’

  ‘But this is Syd we’re talking about! Remember him: six foot of muscle, punch like a sledgehammer?’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Pedro gave me a most annoying smirk. ‘But you forget you have one major advantage.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘He won’t want to lay a finger on you. In fact,’ Pedro now frowned, ‘I think that’s going to be the main problem. If he doesn’t make it look like a real fight, this won’t work. There’s nothing for it: you’ll have to make him thump you at least once – goad him to do it.’

  ‘You’re telling me to ask Syd to punch me?’

  ‘He’s too kind to do any real damage –’

  ‘You’ve clearly not been to enough of his fights if you think that.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll tell Syd what he has to do.’ Pedro turned towards Syd, who was standing looking puzzled. Harkness was doing a furious trade, taking bets from the excited crewmen.

  I held Pedro back by his jacket. ‘He won’t do it, even if he knows why he should.’

  ‘Exactly, so you’ve got to force him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Come on, Cat, you’ve one of the sharpest wits in London: surely you can think of something!’

  He left to explain the plan to Syd. I rolled up my sleeves, deep in thought. I could see what Pedro was trying to do, but it wouldn’t work. Only the utmost provocation would cause Syd to lose his control with me.

  Oh no. I’d just realized what I could say.

  ‘What’s going on, Cat?’ Frank appeared at my side, watching the preparations for the bout with interest. ‘Who’s Syd taking on?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I know. It’s Pedro’s idea, not one of his best.’

  ‘Pull out – stop this now!’

  But it was too late for that. The men suddenly stood to attention as the captain strode among us. With any luck, I thought, he would put an end to this madness.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Barton asked sharply.

  ‘Someone’s challenged the champion, sir,’ said Harkness, shifting nervously like a boy caught with his pocket full of scrumped apples.

  ‘Excellent!’ The captain rubbed his hands together and looked around the circle. One of his eyes came to rest on Nightingale. ‘Who’s the challenger?’

  ‘Jimmy Brown, sir,’ Harkness replied hoarsely.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boy, Tom Thumb, sir.’

  There was a moment when we all wondered how he would react, but the see-saw of his mood came down in good humour.

  ‘Capital! I’ll put a shilling on the boy being knocked out in the first round.’

  The men cheered. I was pushed forward by Harkness as Nightingale stood as referee.

  ‘Right, men,’ grinned Nightingale, ‘each round lasts three minutes. Nothing below the belt, remember!’

  ‘Not fair!’ called out Harkness. ‘Tom Thumb can’t reach any higher.’

  A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. The whole ship’s company had gathered to watch. I spotted Lieutenant Belsize at the captain’s shoulder. He went up in my estimation because he at least looked worried. Maclean stumped up behind to find out what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Pardon me, s-sir,’ stuttered Belsize, ‘but is this wise?’

  ‘Course it’s not!’ roared the captain. ‘It’s David and Goliath!’

  Syd and I faced each other across the deck. With a rueful smile, I raised my fists. He shook his head.

  ‘Come on, you big oaf, afraid of me, are you?’ I jeered, trying to will him with my eyes to play along.

  ‘That’s right, Jimmy, you tell him!’ shouted Harkness.

  ‘Set to!’ announced Nightingale, jumping out of the way.

  I fell upon Syd, pummelling his stomach, doing absolutely no damage except to my knuckles.

  ‘Fight me, you big . . . big girl!’ I shouted. That felt good. Even if my blows did nothing, I was enjoying the chance to let rip. I’d been bottling up my anger for too long.

  Two big open palms started catching my punches and turning them away. Two big feet started to move around the deck. Good: I’d got some reaction.

  ‘He’s just playing with the boy!’ complained some of the more bloodthirsty of the crew. ‘Hey, Butcher, finish the whippersnapper!’ He must’ve been one of those with a bet on me lasting no more than five seconds.

  ‘Crewman, fight the lad properly or feel the lash!’ barked the captain.

  The mood of the crowd soured. The joke no longer felt so amusing with one of them threatened with punishment. I began to pray that Syd would take at least one swipe at me, though I knew that he’d think any number of strokes better than harming a hair on my head. I had to do something.

  ‘Time!’ Nightingale stepped in, signalling the end of the round. I fell back to my corner to where Frank was waiting. He wordlessly passed me a cloth to wipe my brow. He didn’t have to say anything for me to know that he heartily disapproved of my antics.

  ‘Thanks.’ I splashed water over my face. ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘I’m not answering that. What’s all this about, Cat?’

  ‘Syd and I argued; someone got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘What on earth were you arguing about?’

  ‘My tattoo.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I’ll show you later.’ I gave him a reckless grin.

  ‘Yo
u’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ grumbled Frank.

  ‘I would be, if Syd would just make it look like a real fight.’

  ‘He won’t; you know him.’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Nightingale tapped me on the shoulder. I returned swiftly to the ring to the cheers of the crew. I began to understand why boxers might enjoy this; if it wasn’t for the prospect of pain, to be the centre of all this adulation is fun. I bowed to my supporters.

  ‘Come on, you big girl’s petticoat, come and fight me man to man!’ I shouted.

  Syd shuffled back reluctantly. He leant towards me, hands hanging loosely by his side.

  ‘Give it up, Cat. Let’s shake ’ands and call it a day.’

  ‘No. Barton’ll flog you for refusing an order,’ I hissed. ‘Fight me, please!’

  His blue eyes were full of anguish. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Set to!’ bellowed Nightingale.

  ‘Fight me, blast you!’ I took at swipe at his jaw, lowered within reach. My knuckles connected with a crunch. The sailors whooped and cheered as I hopped away, shaking my hand in agony. Syd just stood there and rubbed his jaw. This was no good. Barton was now boiling with anger at the lacklustre performance of his champion. I’d have to use my weapon of last resort.

  ‘You’re weak, Syd,’ I muttered as I attacked his stomach again. I hated what I was about to do. ‘No girl . . .’ (punch), ‘could ever . . .’ (punch, punch), ‘fancy you!’

  Still no response.

  ‘You kiss like a maiden aunt . . .’ (thump!)

  Syd’s fists curled; his body tensed.

  ‘I like a real man . . .’ (thump), ‘like Billy Shepherd’ (punch, punch). ‘He kisses a girl . . .’ (punch), ‘properly.’

  Whack! Before he knew what he was doing, Syd’s fist connected with my face and sent me flying back on to the deck. I lay looking up at the rigging, seeing stars.

  ‘The fight’s over,’ I heard Syd declare.

  Two polished buckle shoes appeared by my head. ‘Good show, lad,’ said the captain. ‘Have this.’ He dropped a shilling beside me and strode off.

  Frank rushed to my side and helped me sit up. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, horror-struck. ‘Syd’s run off. He looks furious.’

  I groaned. ‘Stupid stuff. I had to provoke him.’

  ‘Well, you certainly did that,’ said Pedro, taking my other side. ‘I think he’s blacked your other eye.’

  ‘Go find him for me,’ I begged. ‘Tell him it meant nothing, that I said the first thing I could think of to make him fight me.’ I hadn’t yet had time to calculate what harm I’d done to our friendship with my admission that I’d kissed his one-time rival: a lot more than a black eye, I guessed.

  Frank nodded. ‘All right. But no more of this, Cat.’

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d take on all comers next. I just love rearranging my facial features.’ I touched my puffy eye.

  ‘Well done, Jimmy!’ said Harkness, arriving at my side with a flagon of ale.

  ‘Aye, I think you flew when he knocked you over. Spectacular, it was,’ agreed Nightingale. A number of other men now gathered around us, slapping me on the back. It seemed Pedro had been right after all.

  Frank had some difficulty tracking Syd down. Syd went ashore directly after our fight and only returned very drunk at midnight. Frank and Pedro ladled him into his hammock and came in search of me.

  ‘Is he still furious about what I said?’ I whispered as we crouched in a dark corner of the gun deck. Around us rumbled the snores of scores of men sleeping after too much carousing in the taverns of Hamilton.

  Frank shook his head. ‘You don’t understand: he’s furious with himself. He says he can’t face you again.’

  ‘That’s silly. I made him do it!’

  ‘No, Cat, I made you make him do it,’ said Pedro glumly.

  ‘But Pedro, your plan worked! I’ve never been treated so well on board. Everyone’s proud of my black eye. Think how many cuffs and blows his one punch has saved me! And we both came away with our honour intact.’

  ‘Not Syd. He hit a girl. He’ll never forgive himself,’ Frank muttered.

  ‘Right, that’s it: take me to him. I’m not putting up with his nonsense.’ I stood up but Pedro pulled me back.

  ‘Leave him. You won’t get any sense out of him for the moment in any case,’ he said. ‘He’ll wake tomorrow with one thumping headache.’

  ‘Besides, don’t you want to hear how I got on?’ asked Frank.

  I sighed and sat down. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I found a tavern keeper who’ll send the letter for me. He said there’s bound to be a homeward-bound ship calling in soon.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Even if we were still in danger, it was a relief to know that our reputations might be restored and the grieving Avons partially comforted. However, I still felt pessimistic about this plan. ‘You were careful, weren’t you? Maclean suspects that we’ll try something.’

  ‘Of course I was careful. No one saw. Trust me.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I wasn’t sure. Maclean seemed confident he’d hear of any attempt to send word home. Hamilton was a small place and he’d been here before, but we had to try – whatever the consequences.

  The following day, Syd was still avoiding me, nursing a hangover and a foul temper. Every time I took a step towards him, he shot off in the opposite direction. But he couldn’t keep me away forever: we were on a vessel only 165 feet long and 45 feet wide – not much bigger than the stage at Drury Lane. Granted there were five hundred men to hide among, but he had no escape: we’d soon be at sea again. He didn’t stand a chance.

  That evening, during the recreation period after supper, I was taken along by Harkness and Nightingale to hear Pedro play. The seamen who weren’t on shore leave were still feeling in a holiday mood. My friend was accompanying those who fancied themselves as singers or dancers. A Scotsman had just finished a fast, but not entirely accurate, jig and was taking his bow.

  ‘Let’s have a song!’ cried Harkness. ‘You, Nightingale – do you live up to your name?’

  ‘Me?’ laughed the bosun’s mate. ‘I sound like a crow. What about Jimmy the giant killer?’

  ‘No, I can’t carry a tune to save my life,’ I lied, backing away.

  ‘Nonsense, let’s hear you,’ cried Harkness.

  Pedro raised an eyebrow, waiting for instructions.

  ‘I . . . er . . .’ It seemed easier just to get this over with. ‘How about ‘The north-east wind did briskly blow’?’ Pedro nodded and struck up the ballad that had been popular at Drury Lane last season.

  I had a reasonable voice according to Frank’s mother, herself a trained singer; it was nothing to rival hers, of course, but sweet enough in its own way. I tried to roughen the edges and make it sound more boyish as I sang my tale. The sailors were good listeners, following each beat of the story, and I began to enjoy myself. The grisly tale ended with the hero being eaten by a shark – a fate with which these men of the salt sea could sympathize. I bowed to acknowledge the applause. They then began to debate the seamanship displayed by the hero.

  ‘Stupid idiot,’ commented one old sailor, ‘he should’ve stayed in the boat. Sharks can smell you a mile off.’

  ‘His lady must’ve been a buxom wench for him to forget that, him being a sailor and all that,’ added another.

  My choice of song seemed to please them. I was now besieged with requests but fortunately Drury Lane had furnished me with many such tunes; indeed, I was surprised to find myself singing things I’d forgotten I knew. It was as if the door to a whole treasure-house was unlocked and I could pick a gem or two to flash before them. And in that bittersweet moment of the performance, it felt as if Pedro and I were back home, playing on stage. When our eyes met, I knew he was thinking the same. Seizing my chance of happy forgetfulness, I sang myself hoarse until my duties on the watch called me away. I left the impromptu concert feeling rather pleased with myself. Thanks to a punch from Syd and a few
singing lessons, I no longer need be afraid of anyone on the Courageous.

  Apart from Mr Maclean, of course.

  And the captain.

  Bad weather kept us in port, much to the relief of the men who valued the opportunity to drink their wages in Hamilton. I didn’t relish the fretful movement of the ship on the stormy waters, even sheltered as we were. It brought back my old feelings of seasickness. I had spent my first ever sea voyage to France with my head in a bucket and I had no wish to revisit that particular scene from my past.3 Fortunately, I was too busy to be ill. To keep me occupied but out of his way, Maclean sent me to work for the carpenter who was overseeing the ongoing task of repairs. The chippie was quick to assess my usefulness. A pot of paint was thrust into my hand, a strap lowered over the prow, and I was instructed to devote the next few days to touching up the battered paintwork on our figurehead. The bare-breasted wench with long flowing hair that graced the front of the Courageous was a great favourite of the crew so it was a task that carried with it some responsibility. She soon became my confidante as I chatted away to her. I decided that she must understand what it was like to be a girl among all these men. She was certainly very patient with all my complaints, particularly about Syd’s behaviour since the fight.

  That’s men for you, she seemed to say, they can’t handle their emotions. Treat us women like children but when it comes to their own feelings, they are babies.

  Those peaceful few days brought me a surprising contentment, considering everything. The smell of the paint summoned memories of scenery construction back home in the theatre. Even with the squally weather, it was far warmer than England in January. When the sun did shine, it brought out freckles all over my skin – not the fashion for ladies, I know, but I felt healthier than I had since retiring to the stultifying confines of the morning room at Boxton.

  Ever eager for my welfare, Frank was quick to notice the change that had come over me. He swung down to join me one day. I was whistling merrily as I traced the raven curl on our lady’s wooden brow. He said nothing for a moment, just watching me.

  ‘What?’ I said at length.

  He smiled.

  ‘What’s up, Frank?’

  ‘Nothing, Cat. It’s just good to see you yourself again.’

  ‘Hardly.’ I gestured to my attire with paint-splattered hands.