Harry said, “I’ve got to show you sumthink.”
He dropped his pants and bent over. Even in the dim light Matthew could see his anus was bloody and red, a terrible sight. Matthew was horrified.
“W-what did he do to you?” he struggled to ask. When Harry told him, Matthew couldn’t help it. His face went green, and then he threw up into the black bilge water.
“He did this to you?” he finally managed to ask.
“All of the last trip. But he doesn’t frighten me anymore. See, I’ve now got this terrible disease. He did it to me and it’s incurable and he’s gonna die.”
“Will you die?” said Matthew, and Harry just nodded. There was silence for a moment.
“What am I going to do?” Matthew eventually cried out, his eyes filling with tears.
“Well, I think I might have an answer. I seen it work once. When it looks as if he is about to get you into the cabin, you should get a sailor’s knife or break some glass. If you scratch your bum real bad and put mustard from the galley on it, it will hurt real bad, but it will look all covered in pus. It might hurt but it’s nothing to what the captain will do and it might just put him off.”
Matthew could hardly think, but Harry surely seemed to know what he was talking about.
“And what if he still wants to do… bad things?” he moaned.
“Then tell him you’ve got syphilis and you’re gonna die.”
“Is that what you have got?”
“Yes.”
Matthew did not know what to say, or what to think. Poor Harry seemed old before his time, already dead and they both knew it. It hurt to think their new friendship might all too soon be over. So he confided in Harry, telling him what had happened to him back at the house, with the beating and the fire and how he killed the man and how he came to run away. They went back on deck, each carrying a cask and now Matthew could see that Harry moved always with pain. They were both too young to understand such bestiality.
The first meal time came at the sounding of six bells, which is really the ship’s bell struck six times. Matthew had watched that the potatoes didn’t burn and helped stir the peas into the pease pudding. He cut up lettuces and helped as best he could. Before the first of the passengers arrived, the boys were allowed a potato and a bite of pork and any scraps at the end would be theirs.
Although Harry's story was still burning in his mind, Matthew began to get excited at the prospect of seeing Miss Jessica. But the genteel passengers who came to dinner were few in number, many having succumbed to the roll of the ship. As he was forbidden to go near the pit, he was still no further in his quest. For three more days he tended the galley and learned what he could, but always his mind was on sighting Miss Jessica or her son Douglas. But even this wasn’t easy as there seemed to be children everywhere; Cookie said there were at least twenty-six on board. Were they all sick? Could they possibly be in the pit? He doubted that, for Miss Jessica was most certainly a lady of breeding. She wouldn’t have to go anywhere near such a terrible place.
The ship had passed The Needles off the Isle of Wight, rounded Cape Finistere and was now out into the Atlantic proper. This renowned bad-tempered piece of water, particularly around the Bay of Biscay, opened his eyes to terrors he had not even had nightmares about. They were struck by a gale, although the Captain said it was but a small one, of no consequence. Matthew, along with most of the passengers, was sure he was going to die. With each roll, tons of icy cold water cascaded over the bulwarks, enough to sweep a grown man completely off his feet. First it rolled to one side, where some of the water escaped out the scuppers. Then the ship would roll the other way and a horizontal and lethal wall of water would cross the deck, willing any human to let go his lifeline.
Most of the passengers continued to stay in their cabins and the crew only came on deck for their watches, while those in the pit only came on deck to ablute or to be sick over the side. For another forty-eight hours the wind continued to blow. The screeching in the rigging was wearying to the passengers but even more especially so to the crew, for every wind increase or decrease meant going aloft to alter sail again. Sails constantly needed reefing or letting fly, while the big timber yards from which the heavy sails hung needed trimming with every shift of wind.
Matthew looked at the others around him and doubted that there could ever be a more abject collection of human beings and animals in the world, boxed together and joined only by their misery. Nonetheless, Matthew actually felt in very good spirits. He was putting on weight, with all the extra un-eaten food and he was being so busy with cooking duties he never had time to be sea sick.
When not fetching or preparing food, he would fall immediately sound asleep in his hammock, rocking to the rhythm of the waves. He never saw Little Jenny, nor Miss Jessica, though he did continually try to sight all those who came to his part of the deck.
Chapter Three
Meeting Miss Jessica
On the morning of their fifth day out, Matthew woke earlier than his usual time. Thinking he must have missed his call, he rolled out of his hammock, which he reckoned to be the most comfortable sleeping place in the world. He ran up on to the deck, for he didn’t want to be late, as today he was to learn bread making. It was still night time and the stars were bright as diamonds, only now being softened by the pre-dawn light that touched the eastern sky.
The sounds of the previous change of watch had barely disturbed him, but a new motion did. On deck the moan and whining from the wind was now replaced with a far more gentle orchestra of sounds - the unhurried creak of tarred rope in blocks, the light stomping of the crew in the morning chill, the myriad of soft sounds of sails hauling a massive ship through placid waters. Out to the sides, angry waves had given way to a rolling sea aft of the beam, pushing them down the Spanish coast. His youthful exuberance delighted in the pleasant ambience of the ship and its ocean voyage. A feeling of excitement spread through him, a genuine joy for being somewhere so agreeable. Even his tasks to be more pleasure than chore; this work was no hardship compared to life in London. In the galley, the cook grunted and bade Matthew to ladle out eighty cups of flour. To this Mr James added water, poured the mix into a large tureen with a revolving blade and ordered Matthew to turn the handle till his arms fell off.
By the time he could turn the handle no more, the sun was nearly over the horizon, which meant it was time to make the porridge and the tea. The two cauldrons were half filled with water that now boiled on the top of a massive cast iron stove, blackened by many hundreds of such meals. From casks, he ladled three big mounds of tea into one of them, then went to feed the animals in their cages and pens. He liked the pigs and the sheep, but the horse and the cows were just too much. Their faces and teeth were enormous and very frightening. By the time these chores were done, the sky to the east was getting lighter. Quite a number of the steerage passengers were on deck, breathing the fresh, clean cool morning air. But again, Miss Jessica was not amongst them.
As he came round the galley corner from the animal pens, he saw the Captain talking in low tones to Mr James. He stopped dead, as if his feet were encased in stone. He could feel wetness between his legs and bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. The Captain moved away without looking back and it took all his nerve to walk up to the cook.
“W-what did the Captain want?” he stammered.
“Actually, he asked about you.” Matthew thought his bowels would let go.
“Yes, he said you appeared to be doing well and he might give you some coins at the end of the trip.”
“And… nothing else?”
The cook looked at Matthew carefully before answering. It was obvious that they both knew the same dark secret. It made Mr James angry, but he was able to answer truthfully, “No, he didn’t.” Nothing more was said, but Matthew knew that the bad times had nearly come. He was now so nervous he had trouble helping with the rest of the breakfast. When Cookie told the boys to clean the pots, he could touch none of the
scraps, the very thought of food revolting him.
Soon enough, they had finished their work, the morning rays were warming the decks and everyone knew it was going to be a beautiful day. Matthew’s stomach, in total contrast, was in absolute turmoil. He fidgeted and despite himself, kept looking upwards to the rigging that soared into the sky above them. The thought passed through his mind that if he was up amongst those great sails, the Captain would never be able to reach him.
“How high have you been up there?” he asked Harry.
“To the first crow’s nest,” Harry replied.
“I’m going to go all the way to the top.” Harry looked at him.
“Gawn, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Yes, I would,” said Matthew, and without another thought, he bolted off to the nearest rail. The masts were held up by very thick plaited wires, the ends being parcelled and served around a large wooden or metal eye.
The eye, or multiples of them, carried rope lashings down to a strong point, called a chain plate, bolted on to the hull. This system enables wire rigging to be pre-made to an approximate length and the mast then raked forward or back slightly to suit. At each side of each mast were three or four wires going to nearly the same place. It was an easy matter to lash a rope ladder, called ratlines, between these wires, enabling the crew to simply climb up to the sails whenever needed.
It was up these lower ratlines that the young Matthew, already feeling fitter and better fed than ever before in his life, began his climb. Thirty steps up, he was breathing heavily and already the deck, when he dared to peek, looked very far below. All the wires bunched up together as they reached the mast and the first obstacle was the lower ‘crow’s nest’. This is one of the lookout posts for dangers, be they other ships, land, whales or icebergs. Ships carry at least one man on lookout up there all day, every day. Now a sailor up there on watch reached down a friendly hand and bodily lifted him up.
The view was amazing. There appeared to be acres of canvas, curved in the steady wind: a beautiful sight of power and motion. At this level, sea birds flew curiously close and he was able to make out their sharp eyes and effortless gliding technique. The sailor on lookout duty laughed and helped him start up the mast to the next level. The climb was now nearly vertical and much harder but he pressed on, trying not to think of anything, particularly the possible dire consequences of his impetuous actions. The crow’s nest at the next cross tree presented him with a problem. To get into it, he had to reach outwards to a hole, which he then had to climb through.
In doing so, his whole body briefly hung from his arms. This was much more difficult than the first level below; nonetheless, with all the courage and the nimbleness of youth, he struggled on to the platform, gasping. By now he was quite scared and certainly not feeling nearly as brave as when he started.
Yet there was still a further level, with a smaller spar, that seemed so high as to be in the clouds. A small rope ladder reached to the very top, where the company banner streamed away from the wind. The ladder, like the others, was unprotected. To lose grip and slip from this dizzy height would mean a quick and fatal fall to the deck or into the water.
He looked up, the mast head swaying hypnotically, challenging him, daring him and mocking him. For minutes he clung there, willing his body to go further upwards, till at last, Matthew had to admit to himself, that he was defeated. The topmast had beaten him - he later found out that it did so with many other sailors. Tears of frustration filled his eyes, but nothing he did would make his limbs move upwards.
With an angry sigh, Matthew moved to the hole to climb down and froze stock still, rigid as a piece of steel. Below the cavernous hole was nothing but space. He could not see any handholds or footholds. He knew the rope ratline was against the mast and really within easy reach; he just could not face lowering himself down the hole. He was stuck between two directions of fear. Way below, he could see passengers emerging from their cabins, steerage folk now taking the air; he could even pick out individual crewmen whom he had come to know. Ladies in bonnets gathered in loose, convivial groups and a number of children were dodging around happily between them. A knot of men in hats clustered by the rail, wreaths of smoke curling from clay and meerschaum pipes. None bothered to look upwards, and he would have given five dinners to be safely back on deck again. Meantime, he was quite trapped and only Harry and the sailor lower down knew he was up here. He spied Harry and was mortified to see that the Captain had his hand on his shoulder. He was talking to Harry - and now both were looking up at him.
He could not hear any words from anyone on deck, but it was obvious the Captain was far from happy. His hand cuffed Harry’s head. It then went on to point at the First Mate and then up the mast. By now a lot of the passengers were gazing upwards and Matthew’s embarrassment rose.
Mr Mate Olsen, the First Mate, was a big Scandinavian. His fists were like ploughshares and the muscles on his body were scarred from dockside brawls over the years. He kept himself aloof from the others, passengers and crew. He had never said a word to Matthew.
Now the boy could clearly see Mr Olsen begin a steady climb up the ratlines towards him. Matthew knew he was in a lot of trouble. If Mr Olsen was angry, he might just throw him overboard. Perhaps he might break his head off. Whatever happened, the prospect did not look good. He waited nervously as the man climbed steadily and effortlessly towards him. He was as nimble as a great monkey, climbing hand over hand, arriving not even out of breath. They were within ten feet of each other before Matthew heard him speak.
“Come down,” commanded Mr Olsen in a deep voice.
“I – I can’t,” replied Matthew.
“Come down,” Mr Olsen’s voice was firmer, louder, and less patient.
“I – c-can’t. He will kill me.”
“Who?”
“The Captain.”
The First Mate stopped climbing and talking. His eyes didn’t leave the face of Matthew, and they stared at each other for a long moment.
“So you know then.”
“Y-yes and he is not going to do that to me,” said Matthew defiantly.
Mr Olsen stood there, his big hands and feet secure on the rope ladder. His eyes scanned the boy. He looked him up and down, as if inspecting him all over, but it wasn’t the same as when the Captain did it. He suddenly looked sad. There was another long pause before he spoke.
“How old are you, lad?” “Ten years, sir,” replied Matthew. There was a long pause while Mr Olsen thought through his options. He then said, “I have a son back in Oslo who is your age. I can’t protect you but I will try to think of something. What is your name?”
Matthew told him.
“We must go down, and then perhaps I will talk with the Captain.” Matthew could see that with Mr Olsen he had a small chance, beyond the opportunity of getting down from his spot. He accepted the assistance and together they made their way through the lower crow’s nest. Down the ratlines, and at the massive blocks, still a man’s height from the deck, Mr Olsen jumped, landing on the deck.
As Matthew went to do the same, a woman’s voice from the crowd called out his name. He looked up to find the face, which upset his timing. As he landed on the deck, his left ankle seemed to fold under and something snapped audibly. He screamed with the worst pain he had ever known - and then promptly passed out.
When Matthew surfaced some time later, he found he was in the tiny cubicle called the sick bay. His leg was throbbing and felt as if it was on fire, but there, bending over him, was the most wonderful sight: the face of Miss Jessica. He saw some blood on her clothes and her bonnet was askew, but it was her; it was really, really her.
Chapter Four
The Story of Jessica Hooks
As becoming the life of an English gentlewoman, Jessica Charmagne Dentain had indeed grown up in a more fashionable part of town. Blessed with above average good looks, a mane of golden hair, a slim athletic body and an intelligent bubbly manner that set many hearts to quicken, sh
e was a beautiful and popular young lady. She was given a good rounded education by her merchant father, who expected her to marry one of the local young banking men, who would undoubtedly work out his life in a dreary office in the city. The prospect of her life as a banker’s wife, stretching on to final oblivion, just appalled her and she looked for the first decent escape.
He turned up as Thomas Hooks, the son of a family friend; he arrived for dinner one evening and fascinated her with his tales of high adventure. By the tender age of nineteen his family’s business had already taken them to India and thence to Australia and New Zealand.
That he was ready to take a wife, Jessica was quite sure and she would be the one. In due course the event happened and the only scandal to be heard about them was that Douglas their first born arrived eight months later. Thomas and Jessica Hooks set up in a modest terrace house, in a good area and the young couple seemed destined for a perfect life together. They both enjoyed to travel and went abroad as often as possible, enjoying the fruits and delights of Europe. They drank Italian wines, flirted with art and each other in Paris. Though their friends were few, they began to settle into a good life together.
Then, Douglas fell ill with pleurisy that nearly took his life, and the house was damaged by fire. Not six months later, Thomas was riding a horse that shied away from a fox and in a freak accident, castrated himself by falling on to a fence post. He died a painful death alone in the fields. Jessica’s beautiful golden hair went white with shock overnight, although this did not detract from her young beauty.
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