by Wilbur Smith
They might yet get it. His ordeal wasn’t over. Now he was up, he had to edge out along the main yard, with nothing under his feet except the thin foot rope. Reluctantly, the other sailors joined him. They ran along the yard, balancing like monkeys and immune to the roll of the ship. Some jostled Christopher intentionally, treading on his fingers or knocking his shoulders as they passed.
They want me to die.
His fingers slipped and fumbled as he struggled to undo the gaskets that bound the sail. The foot rope swung under him, the thinnest thread that felt like standing on thin air. Then there was the descent, the terror every time he lowered a foot, finding each foothold by touch because he didn’t dare look down.
When he finally reached the deck he clung to the shrouds, not trusting his legs to keep him upright. He nearly vomited over the side. But deep down, a small ember of satisfaction glowed inside him. He’d done it. From across the deck, Danesh mouthed, ‘Well done.’
The slap of the starter rope across his shoulders scattered his thoughts. He spun around, raw and vulnerable, to see Crawford leering at him.
‘I didn’t order you to come down.’
Christopher bit back the retort that came to his lips. Automatically, he lowered his head and waited for Crawford’s temper to pass.
‘I want you keeping lookout. There are pirates in these waters. If one of them gets within a mile of us, I’ll skin you alive.’
Christopher flinched as if he’d been hit again. He looked up at the main top, impossibly high. Could he really go there again?
Crawford followed his gaze, and an evil smile spread across his lips.
‘You won’t see anything from there. I want you on the crosstrees.’
High above the main top, the crosstrees were little more than a wooden grating sticking from the top of the topmast. So small, Christopher could hardly see it from the deck. Even looking up at it made him dizzy.
He didn’t move. Crawford licked his lips and coiled the rope. He flexed it, testing its strength.
‘Are you disobeying an order?’
Christopher fought back the tears that were pricking his eyes. He would not give Crawford the satisfaction.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then get your lily white arse aloft before I have to order you again. And you’ll stay there,’ he added, ‘until I give you permission to come down.’
Christopher began to climb.
He had hated before, but he hated this more than anything in his life. Even more than his father. Indeed, he rarely thought of Guy any longer. The constant work of handling a ship, forever fumbling, always the last to finish his tasks, left no time for idle thoughts. When he stumbled off watch, he would curl up in the forecastle, nursing his aches and rubbing oil on the blisters that formed as big as pagoda coins on his hands.
The rest of the crew shunned him. As a white man, he was alien; as a sailor, they despised him. Only Danesh showed him any kindness, and even he seemed cautious about being seen with Christopher too often. He had never been so lonely. In time, he began to look forward to being sent up to the crosstrees, though he could never look down. Sitting among the sails, he felt like a god in the clouds, far above mortal men and their petty fears and hatreds. In those moments, he tried to imagine his future with Ruth, the house they would live in and the fine presents he would buy her. But all too often, those thoughts turned dark, as he began to dream of how he would get even with Crawford, his father, and every man who had ever done him wrong.
One afternoon, during the dogwatch, he went below to fetch water. He liked going into the hold. The smells of baling yarn and freshly packed cloth reminded him of the Company warehouses where he’d played as a child.
‘Chris,’ Danesh hissed from the gloom. ‘See this.’
Something gleamed in the palm of his hand. A brass key.
‘What’s that for?’
‘The forward locker,’ whispered Danesh. ‘I stole it from Crawford’s cabin while he was inspecting the rigging.’
The forward locker was where they kept the spirits. It was supposed to be for the use of the crew, but it was widely rumoured that Crawford kept most of it for sale on his own account.
Christopher glanced anxiously over his shoulder. ‘What if he finds us?’
‘He won’t miss a few bottles. We can sell them in port. Hurry.’
Danesh slipped the key in the padlock and sprang it. The sharp tang of spirits wafted out through the open door.
‘You stay here and keep lookout. If he catches us, he will flay us alive.’
Danesh handed Christopher the key and ducked into the store. Christopher stood there, staring. He knew he should run, leave Danesh to his fate and disclaim all knowledge if he was caught. It wasn’t his idea. But Danesh was the closest thing he had to a friend on the ship. If he lost him, he’d have nothing.
Feet thudded on the deck above; the ship’s movements made shadows flit across the square of light that came through the hatchway.
‘Be quick,’ Christopher called. ‘I think someone’s coming.’
Danesh reappeared, with four bottles of brandy cradled in his arms. He laid them on the floor.
‘Crawford keeps enough to make an elephant drunk,’ he whispered. ‘One more load will be enough for both of us.’
‘No,’ hissed Christopher. ‘Let’s go now. We—’
The ladder creaked under the weight of a heavy tread. A pair of shoes appeared, giving way to a pair of fat legs in white stockings, then a pair of breeches, then a corpulent torso straining the buttons of its shirt.
Quick as thought, Danesh dived behind the anchor cable, whose huge coils made a nest big enough for a man. Christopher, petrified, stayed rooted to his spot.
Crawford ducked his head under the hatchway and stepped off the ladder. Deliberately, he took in the open locker, the bottles at Christopher’s feet and the key in his hand.
‘I thought I might find someone here when I noticed my key was missing.’
Christopher said nothing.
‘How did you get it? Who helped you?’
Christopher stared straight at Crawford, fixing his gaze so he wouldn’t betray Danesh with a stray glance. Crawford took it as arrogance.
‘Do you think you’re better than me because your father’s Governor of Bombay? Do you think that gives you the right to steal from me?’
Crawford’s face was dark with rage, like clouds threatening thunder. Christopher knew that look. He braced himself.
‘Boatswain,’ Crawford bellowed. ‘Bring Mr Courtney on deck, and summon all hands to witness punishment.’
Rough hands dragged him up the ladder. By the time he reached the top, all the crew had gathered around a small barrel that had been set out behind the mainmast. Crawford went to his cabin and returned with a length of rope, thinner and suppler than the starter rope which he usually used. He ran it through his fingers, then tied two knots in the end.
‘Prepare the prisoner,’ he ordered.
They bent Christopher over the barrel. The iron hoops, which had been sitting in the sun, seared welts across his naked chest, but he knew that was just a taste of the pain to come. The boatswain held his hands, while one of the sailors pinned his feet, so he was stretched over the barrel like a piece of laundry.
Behind him, Crawford rolled back his shirtsleeve. Methodically, he uncoiled the rope. He cracked it on the deck, twice, limbering himself up. He planted his feet firmly, reached back his arm and the first blow hit Christopher with a sound like a musket shot. The pain was excruciating. He bit down on the rag between his teeth, determined not to cry out. Before he could even draw breath, a second blow hit him between the shoulder blades. Then a third, then—
He almost lost count. Pain came in waves, one after another so fast they blurred together into a single moment of agony. Crawford had abandoned all pretence of discipline: this was a thrashing, savage and uncontrolled, as if he wanted to crush every bone in Christopher’s body.
But Christop
her forced himself to keep counting. Through the agony, he counted every stroke. It was how he had survived his father’s beatings, and it was how he survived this one, drawing strength from the number he had endured. Totting up the blows in some imaginary ledger, to be repaid with interest one day. As long as he could number them, he would survive them.
The blows became weaker. Crawford swung his arm with undimmed fury, but he was tiring. He dropped the rope, its end frayed and matted with Christopher’s blood and skin. The crew drifted back to their tasks. The men who had pinned him let Christopher go: they were spattered with his blood. He rolled off the barrel into a heap on the deck. He closed his eyes, soaking up the pain.
Someone put a mug of rum to his lips and he drank thirstily. Danesh. It didn’t make the pain go away, but it did dull it a little.
Danesh cleaned his back. Crawford refused him fresh water: he had to use a bucket dipped over the side. The salt water hurt almost more than the whip. A black haze covered Christopher’s sight; he wanted to move, but his limbs wouldn’t obey.
‘Forty-nine,’ he croaked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Forty-nine lashes.’ Christopher grinned, his lips cracking with the effort. ‘He couldn’t even get to fifty. Weakling,’ he said, and fainted.
A week later, the Joseph anchored in the port of Trivandrum. The crew were merry: it was their first opportunity to go ashore since Bombay, and they planned to enjoy themselves to the full. Crawford brought out a table and stool onto the main deck, and the men queued to receive their pay.
Christopher waited until all the others had finished, scrawling their marks in the book and walking away with a few coins in their fists. At last, when it was his turn, he stepped forward and put out his hand. Crawford leered at him.
‘What do you want?’
‘My wages.’
‘Of course.’ Crawford made a great play of counting out the coins. He pushed them across the table, but as Christopher reached to take them, he grabbed his wrist and bent it back until the coins spilled out.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Tears of pain blinked in Christopher’s eyes. He thought his wrist would snap.
‘Taking my wages.’
‘Are you thieving from me again? Those belong to me.’
‘You said four rupees a week.’
‘You signed on as my apprentice. That means all your wages go to me.’ Crawford let go of Christopher’s wrist, so that he stumbled backwards into the group of watching sailors. No one caught him; he landed hard on the deck. Crawford swept the coins off the table and put them back in the box. He snapped it shut and stood, hand twitching at the knife in his belt.
‘Have I made myself clear?’
Christopher lay on the deck, clutching his wrist. Hatred consumed him: all he wanted was to stick the knife in Crawford’s guts and see him bleed out on the deck. He felt the eyes of the whole crew watching him, enjoying his humiliation, and he hated them too.
He pushed himself upright, ignoring the pain that shot through his wrist, and faced down Crawford. The master looked surprised to see him standing.
‘I understand,’ said Christopher thickly. He didn’t trust himself to say more.
Crawford was about to provoke him again, but something made him pause. Even in the few weeks of their voyage, Christopher had changed from the callow youth who had come aboard in Bombay. His shoulders had broadened out, and his arms had become thicker. He no longer stooped as much. But it was in his face that the difference was most obvious. Harder and firmer, with black eyes that unsettled with the intensity of their gaze. Though Crawford would never admit it, they frightened him.
He turned away. ‘Lower the boats,’ he ordered. ‘We’re going ashore. Not you,’ he barked at Christopher. ‘You stay aboard to keep anchor watch. Anything happens to my ship while I’m away, I’ll nail you to the topmast and let the crows have you. Understand?’
Christopher saw Danesh giving him a sympathetic glance. None of the others even glanced in his direction. All Christopher could do was watch as they clambered into the longboat and rowed ashore. Danesh went too. A group of women waited on the beach to welcome them, dragging each man towards the nearest punch house. Whatever pay they’d had, it would be gone by morning. That was no consolation to Christopher.
He settled down in the shade of the awning, whittling a piece of wood with his knife. He had the ship to himself, and he revelled in the solitude. All his life he had been kept on his own, an only child forbidden to mix with the other children in the settlement, because his father deemed them inferior. Of the few he had befriended, most had died or gone back to England. His mother kept to her chamber, for fear of rousing his father’s temper. He was used to being alone.
But he now realized that he would never make his fortune this way. Even if he survived Crawford’s bullying, it would be years before he had enough money even to buy himself a new suit of cheap clothes. He could not ask Ruth to wait so long.
There was another lesson he had learned from his father. Sitting in the Governor’s house, quiet and unnoticed, he had watched men come and go from his father’s office. In the silent house, conversations carried. He had heard men abuse his father in terms he could not have imagined, and walk out of the office with their heads high, convinced they had won a victory. And he had seen those same men weeks or month later, boarding ships to England in poverty or disgrace, broken men who had lost everything. One had even been taken aboard in irons, all for having been discovered in a unnatural act with a sepoy drummer boy.
Never forget. Never forgive. And take your vengeance when it will most hurt your enemy. He had discovered a new axiom.
He brooded on this, until the sun went down and the land disappeared. The lights in the harbour burned bright against the darkness.
He lit the ship’s lamps fore and aft, and checked her anchor cable. He went to the galley, and helped himself to stew from the pot the cook had left. Rummaging through the stores, he found a bottle of arak, the local liquor. He gulped down three or four mouthfuls, delighting in the fiery taste. It gave him courage.
‘I didn’t escape my father to serve another tyrant,’ he muttered to himself. He slipped through the hatch to the lower deck. Much of the Joseph’s cargo was bulk goods, bales of cloth and sacks of rice too large for his purposes. He scrabbled around until he felt the smooth sheen of a parcel of silk. That would do.
This close to the waterline, he could hear the water lapping against her timbers. Every creak of the ship echoed down through the mast. Something knocked against the hull – probably just a wave, or a piece of driftwood, but it set him on edge. Sweat prickled his hands; the liquor rose like bile in his throat.
He stuffed his pockets with betel nuts from a sack, hoisted the silk bale over his shoulder and stole up the companionway. The longboat was still ashore, but there was a small jolly boat he could row single-handed. He took out his knife and started sawing through the ropes that held it.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ growled Crawford. He stood silhouetted against the stern lantern, casting a long shadow across the deck. ‘Are you stealing from me again? Didn’t I beat it out of you last time?’
He had come aboard without Christopher hearing. Whether because he did not trust Christopher, or because he had come back to finish the boy without witnesses, Christopher never found out. The captain stepped forward and punched Christopher in the face so hard he flew backwards into the rigging.
‘You’ll have to hit me harder than that,’ Christopher told him. A dangerous wildness had come over him. ‘You hit like a small girl or an old woman.’
With a grunt, Crawford charged. Christopher stood his ground. He put up his hands, forgetting for a moment he was still holding his knife. In the dark, rushing like an enraged bull, Crawford didn’t see it either.
Instinct took over. Christopher swayed out of the way of Crawford’s lunging fist, and as the big man grappled him he thrust forward.
The knife slid into Crawford’s belly almost before Christopher realized it. Hot blood gushed out. Crawford screamed and writhed; he tried to pull away, but only succeeded in opening the wound further. His guts spilled out over Christopher’s hand.
Christopher jerked away, pulling the knife free. Crawford clutched his stomach to hold in his entrails, bellowing like a wounded bull.
The sound must have carried far over the water. Surely, someone on shore or aboard one of the other boats would soon hear and come to investigate – and find Christopher with a knife in his hands, covered in blood. He had to end it.
He had no choice. Christopher tightened his grip, lifted the knife, and plunged it between Crawford’s ribs straight into his heart.
Crawford dropped – dead. Christopher stared down in disbelief at the corpse that lay at his feet. The knife fell from his hand; he was shaking all over.
‘You are a murderer,’ a cold voice like Guy’s whispered in his head.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the body. The thing that had been a man, now simply a butchered piece of meat.
‘You did this,’ insisted the voice.
But the longer he looked, the more he forgot his guilt. Warmth returned to his veins; he stopped shivering. The man who had flogged him, beaten him, taunted and cheated him was dead. He could not hurt Christopher ever again.
‘I did this,’ he told himself. His whole body tingled, like taking a hot bath on a cold day. ‘How did I live so long, cowering, and never realize my own power?’
He wiped his bloody hands on Crawford’s breeches, then rolled the body over and rummaged until he found the man’s purse. Coins clinked inside – his coins. He took the purse and stuffed it in his breeches.
Something else caught his eye. A key, tied to a leather cord around Crawford’s neck. Too small to fit the lock on the spirit locker, but he had seen it before that day. It was the key to the money chest, bright with the blood that had spilled from the hole in his heart. Christopher took it, snapping the cord in his haste. He wound it around his wrist, and hurried to the cabin. The money chest lay stowed under Crawford’s cot. Even with the crew’s wages taken out, it still took all his strength to carry it out on deck. A good sign.