The Animal Stars Collection

by Jackie French

  At three bells, the next watch on duty were called to their stations. The rest of the crew stayed relaxing, unless all hands were called to practice drill—what to do if fire broke out, or if they were boarded by pirates or enemies, or needed to man the guns.

  But today something else was happening. A grating was being raised on the main deck below. Another steer was to be slaughtered, the Goat decided, or maybe a sheep. The Goat hated slaughter times, the cries of the terrified animal, the smell of blood.

  But no sheep was separated from the others in the pens today. Instead, young Mr Monkhouse called for permission to come up to the quarterdeck from the officer on watch, the soft voiced Yankee, Mr Gore.

  The Goat stared as the young man strode up to her pen. What was he doing? Jonathan Monkhouse had never come up onto her deck before without carrying hay or grain or water. The Goat reared back in sudden suspicion.

  ‘Eeegh!’ she cried. Then she gave another sharp bleat to call her kids to hide behind her.

  But it was too late. Jonathan hauled up one of the kids over the edge of the pen, tucked the struggling animal under his arm, then grabbed the other.

  The babies bleated in shock and distress.

  ‘Eeehhh! Eeegh!’

  The Goat didn’t wait to answer them. She charged!

  The pen wall clattered to the deck. She butted Jonathan on his backside, so hard that he fell over. One kid went flying out towards the rails. The other landed hard, under the winded youth. It squealed in terror.

  ‘Eeehhh!’ yelled the Goat. She butted Jonathan’s fallen body, clattered over to the kid by the rail, then realised she’d left Jonathan free to struggle down the stairs with the other kid. How could she protect both her babies?

  The kid bleated pitifully in Jonathan’s arms. Was it hurt? The Goat watched, desperate and afraid, standing protectively over the remaining kid as Jonathan handed her baby to the butcher.

  Now Jonathan approached her again.

  The remaining kid shivered and cowered behind her. The Goat faced her attacker. A small crowd of sailors had gathered to watch on the deck below.

  ‘Do you need a hand, Mr Monkhouse?’ That was Lieutenant Gore’s voice; he sounded amused.

  ‘No, sir. I can manage,’ Jonathan gasped. ‘She’s only a goat,’ he added, as though trying to convince himself.

  ‘Very well, Mr Monkhouse.’

  One of the sailors below called out advice, then the others joined in. Jonathan ignored them. So did the Goat. Her eyes were fixed on the advancing youth.

  Nearer, nearer. The Goat reared, and charged again. But this time Jonathan managed to slip aside at the last moment. The Goat slid towards the railings, skidded and managed to stop. She turned swiftly…

  But it was too late. Jonathan had grabbed the kid and retreated down off the quarterdeck. The Goat made to follow as the sailors below cheered.

  Suddenly a rope slipped round her neck. She pulled frantically. The knot slipped tighter, almost strangling her.

  It was the master, Molineaux. He pulled on the rope so hard she lost her footing as she was dragged back. Molineaux fastened the rope to the mast.

  The Goat was trapped.

  She struggled to her feet again and peered down at the lower deck. The men were moving off now. The show was over.

  The kids were bleating, terrified, but she could no longer see them. She called back, frantically, and heard them reply, ‘Errgh! Eeegh!’

  Then suddenly one gave another kind of cry: higher, sharper. The sound was cut off as quickly as it started. The other kid was silent too.

  What had happened? The Goat called again: ‘Eeegh!’

  No answer.

  She could smell the blood. Not sheep’s blood, or cow’s blood…

  ‘Eeegh! Eeegh!’ she bleated.

  Still no reply. She tugged and tugged, but the rope refused to give. Someone below laughed, and made a noise imitating hers, ‘Baaaaaaa!’

  The Goat called above his noise. ‘Eeegh! Eeegh!’

  Where were they? Surely they must answer!

  ‘Eeegh! Eeegh!’

  She called all afternoon. But there was no reply.

  CHAPTER 8

  Isaac

  1st September, 1768

  Rattatat! Rattatat!

  It was the drum beat to call the crew to quarters for the night. The Goat must have heard it too, thought Isaac. Her calling grew more frantic. Darkness was coming and her kids were gone.

  How long will she call for them? wondered Isaac. How long till she realises they are gone for good?

  Isaac went below with the others, and hauled his hammock down from the nets on the ceiling, brushing off the cockroaches that had sheltered there during the day. There were never enough hammocks for all the crew, but it didn’t matter—on board ship there always had to be men on duty, watching out for rocks or whales or other ships, or standing by to change the sails. There was never a time when everyone could sleep at once.

  Isaac climbed into the hammock and lay down. Sleep refused to come. He had washed in one of the buckets of salt water after helping slaughter the kids, but he could still smell the blood.

  The Goat was still calling, high and lonely on the upper deck. For some reason the sound reminded him of how his mother had looked as she’d said goodbye to him on the quayside. She’d still been watching as he crossed the gangway onto the ship. For the first time he realised that she must have felt like crying too, just as the Goat was crying, for the young son she wouldn’t see grow up.

  If he and the Endeavour returned, he’d be a man, not her little boy. But so many ships on voyages like this disappeared, who knew where or when. Even those ships that did return almost never came back with the same crew who had left. Storm, disease, scurvy, pirates, shipwreck on rocks or reefs, or sandbanks that shifted in the night, wreckers who lured ships onto the rocks to steal their cargos; each one took their toll.

  Suddenly a longing for home overwhelmed him. But he would rather be flogged than let the men hear him crying. Isaac rolled onto his stomach, and buried his face in his arm, and sobbed as quietly as he could.

  At eight bells the ship’s lights were extinguished—though often there’d be a crack of light from Joseph Banks’s door, where the scientist was still at his books. Sometimes, too, the faint tones of the violin sped through the ship—the great man was bored, and wanted entertainment while he read so he had called his violin player to amuse him.

  But tonight the ship was quiet, apart from the tap of the master of arms’ boots as he did his nightly rounds—or as quiet as a ship at sea would ever be, with the creak of the timbers and the flap of sails, the ever-present beat of waves, and the squeak of the rats that took over the ship as their own as soon as it was quiet, despite the best efforts of the cats and Banks’s greyhounds.

  Finally the Goat stopped bleating. She must be asleep, thought Isaac. He wiped his eyes, and blew his nose on a sleeve of his shirt. It was a good linen one from home, not navy-issue sailcloth like the other sailors wore.

  And then he slept as well.

  CHAPTER 9

  Isaac

  2nd September, 1768

  It was hard to wake up this morning, after so little sleep. Isaac was yawning in his hammock when he heard laughter up on deck. He left the hammock hanging for its next occupant and ran to look.

  Over in the east the dawn was a pale pink. The rest of the sky was still grey, but already seagulls sailed above the ship, hoping for scraps thrown over the side. A small crowd of sailors stood staring up at the quarterdeck. Isaac followed their gaze.

  For a moment all he could see was the Goat. She had broken out of her pen again and was standing with her legs apart, her head down, glaring. Then he saw Jonathan Monkhouse.

  The boy was sprawled on his stomach. As Isaac watched he picked himself up and began to advance towards the Goat again.

  ‘Three times lucky!’ yelled someone. ‘Go to it, boy!’

  ‘Get her in a headlock!’

&n
bsp; ‘My money’s on the Goat!’

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Isaac.

  One of the sailors grinned, showing a mouth of crumbled brown teeth and black gaps. ‘It’s milking time, ain’t it? But Her Ladyship there don’t want to be milked.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Eh, lad, would you trust the blackguard who stole your kids? That’s it, lad!’ This last was to Jonathan Monkhouse, retreating quickly before the Goat could charge again. ‘If ye run fast eno’ ye’ll get to Tahiti afore us!’

  Jonathan was panting as he reached the bottom of the companionway. ‘It’s impossible! She just doesn’t want to be milked!’

  ‘She must,’ said Isaac without thinking. ‘Her udder must be near to bursting by now, without her kids to drink the milk.’

  ‘Know about goats, do ye, Mr Manley?’

  It was Mr Molineaux. He must have come up from below deck while Isaac had been staring with the others.

  ‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir, I mean I know a bit, sir.’

  ‘Essex, isn’t it? You have goats in Essex?’

  ‘Yes, sir, there are goats in Essex, sir. But we don’t have any goats at home, sir.’

  ‘Cows?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Near enough.’ Molineaux grinned. ‘Up you go, boy. Mr Monkhouse here has done his best. You have a go.’

  Isaac gulped. He’d only milked a cow a few times, with old George who looked after the garden, and that had been Sweet Sally the brown-eyed Alderney, happy to stand in her stall and munch her hay, paying no attention to what was happening behind.

  How could you milk a stroppy animal like the Goat?

  But the Goat must have been milked before, he thought. Day after day, all around the world. But this morning she’s grieving. She’s suspicious…

  Everyone was watching him, he realised. He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best too, sir.’

  Jonathan Monkhouse grinned. He handed Isaac the pannikin of oats. ‘Here. Sweeten her up with these. She likes oats. I’ve spilled the half of them,’ he added. ‘The milking bucket’s still up there.’

  Isaac nodded, his eyes still on the Goat. I have to go slowly, he thought. If I approach her too fast she’ll think I’m trying to hurt her.

  ‘Good luck,’ added Jonathan.

  ‘Put a cushion on yer bum!’ yelled one of the sailors.

  Isaac began to climb the companionway. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him. They’re waiting to see me butted down the steps, thought Isaac. At least the captain wasn’t there to see his humiliation.

  The Goat stared at him, as though daring him to come any closer.

  ‘It’s all right, girl,’ said Isaac automatically. ‘Here.’ He held out the pan of oats.

  The Goat looked at him suspiciously.

  Isaac took another step forward, and then another.

  The Goat’s nostrils flared. She took a step backwards.

  She’s going to charge, thought Isaac. I’m going to be butted across the deck or down the stairs, and they’ll all laugh.

  But the Goat didn’t charge. She lifted her head and sniffed.

  For a sudden horrible moment Isaac thought she could smell her kids’ blood on his hands. But instead the Goat just stood there, as though she was thinking.

  Remembering.

  She took a step forward and then another. Isaac stepped forward too, holding the oats at arm’s length in front of him. He was close enough to see the black slits of her eyes, to smell her goaty scent.

  The Goat bent her head to the oats, glancing up at him now and then as she licked the grain up with her tongue.

  What had happened, wondered Isaac. Why had she accepted him and not Jonathan Monkhouse?

  ‘Eeegh,’ said the Goat softly, looking up from her oats.

  And then he realised. She knows my smell, he thought. I was the one who rescued her kid during the storm. Of all the people on the ship I am the only one she trusts.

  He felt a lump in his throat. He didn’t deserve her trust. He’d helped kill her kids.

  But she can trust me now, he thought. I’ll do my best for her. He felt determination sweep through him. From now on, he promised her silently, I’ll look after you. Poor lonely goat on a wide empty ocean. I’ll make it as easy for you as I can.

  ‘Eeegh,’ said the Goat again. Almost as though she understood what he was thinking.

  But the first thing he needed to do was get her milked. She must be in agony, with no kid to drink her milk for nearly twenty-four hours.

  The milking stool was over near the abandoned enclosure. The bucket was there too, where it had rolled when she’d first attacked Jonathan Monkhouse. Isaac stepped over towards the enclosure as slowly as he could. The Goat followed him, keeping her nose in the pannikin of oats.

  Isaac grabbed the bucket with his other hand, righted the upturned stool and sat on it. The Goat glanced at it, as though to say, ‘I know what that is.’ But she kept eating.

  Still slowly, he put the oats down on the deck.

  ‘It’s all right, girl,’ said Isaac. He continued to speak to her as slowly and calmly as he could, sitting on the stool and stroking her side.

  The Goat glanced round at him. She seemed to be saying, ‘You’re all right so far. But I’m waiting to see what happens next.’

  Isaac reached for the nearest teat, trying to remember what old George had told him. Squeeze, don’t pull. Apply pressure smoothly from the top of the teat to the bottom. Gently but firmly.

  The Goat’s teats were so much smaller than a cow’s. The smell was different too, and the long hair was coarser. But she felt warm, just like Sweet Sally.

  She flinched at the first touch of his fingers. Her teats and udder were taut and hot with all the milk meant for her kids. He stroked her side again, speaking slowly and quietly, and she relaxed. He reached under her, found the other teat and wrapped his fingers gently around it as well. The first jet of milk squirted into the bucket, then another and another. He had the rhythm now. The milk frothed slightly with every squirt.

  It was strange to sit so hunched over to milk an animal. Maybe tomorrow I can coax her to hop up on a coil of rope, he thought, so I won’t have to bend. And there were only two teats to milk, instead of old Sally’s four. But he could still almost imagine he was at home.

  The same smell of hay and dung, of warm animal and milk. The same rhythmic sounds of milk in the bucket. And in the kitchen Maggie’d be pulling the bread out of the oven, and would give him a crust, still hot and dripping butter, with plum jam or honey. And then…

  Suddenly he realised there was only a thin stream from each teat. The bucket was two-thirds full.

  ‘Thanks, girl,’ he whispered.

  The Goat ignored him, even when he stroked her side one last time and picked up the bucket. She was intent on licking the last of the oats from the pannikin.

  Suddenly she kicked out. Her foot struck the bucket, nearly sending it over. But Isaac had grabbed it in time.

  He grinned at her. ‘No you don’t, girl.’

  ‘Eeegh?’ The Goat looked around at him, almost with admiration.

  Did she like him? Isaac didn’t know. But at least she had accepted him.

  Even so, he didn’t turn his back on her, just in case she changed her mind and charged him. He could just imagine the sight: him and the bucket of milk going flying down onto the lower deck, pursued by the Goat. He backed away instead, then bounded quickly down the stairs, the bucket in his hand.

  The crowd was still there. Someone gave a cheer, a bit ironically, though mostly the men looked disappointed. They’d been waiting to see how far he’d be butted. A boy successfully milking a goat was too tame to be a show.

  Mr Molineaux was waiting, too. Isaac waited for him to congratulate him on a job well done. But Mr Molineaux just nodded. ‘Take the milk to Mr Matthews,’ he said briefly. Mr Matthews was the captain’s servant. He looked after Cook’s clothes and collected his food from the galley. ‘Then c
ome and see me,’ Molineaux added, and turned and went below.

  The men had drifted away now. Only Jonathan was left. He grinned at Isaac. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re Goat Boy now for the rest of the voyage.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ asked Isaac.

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘There are other jobs. You ever go fishing back home?’

  ‘A bit,’ said Isaac.

  ‘After breakfast a few of us are going to help Mr Banks’s servants net some fish. Not for eating—they’re looking for new specimens already. Want to join us?’

  ‘Please,’ said Isaac. Jonathan gave him another grin and sauntered off. Isaac was smiling too as he carried the milk down to the captain’s servant. It looked like he’d found a friend.

  And a goat.

  Looking after a goat, it seemed, was an almost full-time job, especially when the goat in question shared the upper deck with the captain and the gentlemen.

  ‘You listening, lad? Because I’m not going to say this again,’ said Mr Molineaux.

  Isaac nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Molineaux.’

  ‘Right. This here is the feed bucket. The Goat gets her grain in this, twenty handfuls twice a day. About two or three pounds a day, it works out to. Now, this is the milking bucket. Milk her after you feed her, then take the milk down to captain’s servant, Mr Matthews, just like today. You with me so far?’

  Isaac nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Molineaux.’

  ‘This is the hay fork. You used one o’ these afore?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Molineaux.’

  ‘Good. She gets fresh straw for bedding twice a week and a biscuit o’ hay twice a day to eat until we run short.’

  ‘How will I know when we run short?’ asked Isaac timidly.

  “Cause I’ll tell you, that’s how. And when we’re in port you’ll be in charge o’ taking her ashore to get fresh grass, or cutting grass yourself if it’s a short stay. And if you let her escape I’ll have your guts for garters. Now, you milk her first thing in the morning, so the captain has fresh milk for his breakfast, and you milk her dog watch too, before you have your supper, and you sweep up the droppings so the officers don’t put their foot in any muck during the night watch, and you scrub before breakfast, too. Now, you remember what I told you about how she should look?’