Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  The word ‘battle’ sent a shiver down John’s spine.

  ‘Have you ever been in one – in a battle?’

  ‘No, but if we’re heading south towards France, we’re sure to see action. It’s two years since Trafalgar. We slammed the French navy then, but Napoleon’s still riding high in France and Spain. There’s bound to be another battle soon.’

  ‘Is that where we’re going? To France? Or Spain?’

  Kit shrugged.

  ‘They tell us last of everyone. I don’t know. Thundering Sam’s waiting on his orders.’

  ‘Who’s Thundering Sam?’

  ‘The captain. Captain Samuel Bannerman. Everyone calls him Thundering Sam. Because of his loud voice, I think.’

  He thrust out his chin, opened his eyes wide, deepened his high-pitched voice as low as it would go and growled, ‘For king and country, lads, and the last man up the ratlines’ll be clapped into irons!’

  John laughed. Kit’s mimicry was so excellent that for a moment the captain had stood before him.

  ‘He’s good, though, isn’t he? A good captain, I mean?’

  John remembered the rush of enthusiasm the captain’s speech had sent coursing through him. He held his breath, willing Kit to say yes.

  ‘He’s the best,’ Kit said simply.

  He had opened his chest now. There were a few spare clothes in it, a book half hidden under a cloth, and a bulging linen bag.

  ‘The bag,’ Kit said awkwardly, shuffling it aside. ‘Just something of my mother’s.’

  ‘I won’t touch it,’ John said quickly.

  He picked up his bundle and untied it. The purser’s assistant had tidily folded his clothes before wrapping them up. He picked up his new shirt and trousers, ready to place them in the chest, but then stopped, startled. Lying between the layers of clothing, its straps folded neatly, was the satchel.

  ‘What is it? What’s that?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just something of my father’s,’ said John, putting the satchel quickly down into the chest. Following some obscure instinct, without knowing why, he hid it under a layer of clothes.

  Chapter Ten

  John had little time during the rest of the short winter afternoon to think about the reappearance of the satchel. It must have been by pure chance that the man on the receiving ship had bundled it up with his clothes before Mr Creech had come looking for it. But why had Mr Creech gone to so much trouble to get hold of a shabby old leather satchel? There was nothing in it, after all, but a sorry muddle of dog-eared papers.

  There must be some deed or other in there, thought John, that Father overlooked. Maybe it . . . no, it couldn’t be – but what if it was something that showed what a cheat Mr Nasmyth is? What if it proves that Luckstone really is ours after all? I’ll look through it as soon as I get the chance.

  His heart lifted at the thought, but he told himself he was being foolish, and a moment later Mr Tawse called out to him.

  Mr Tawse was looking through the contents of a gun case, making Jabez squint down the barrel of each musket and check the workings of the flintlocks.

  ‘We’d best get you kitted out with your hammock, John, before the day’s much older,’ he said. ‘Get Kit to take you down to see the purser.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did ye ever want to be a drummer boy, young John? In the army like?’ said Jabez.

  ‘No,’ said John, puzzled.

  ‘’Cause that’s what you’d be zaying in the army. It would be “Yes, zir” this, and “Yes, zir” that. It’s “Aye aye, zir,” in the navy.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ echoed the parrot.

  ‘’E knows.’ Jabez cocked a loving eye up towards the bird, who was sidling backwards and forwards along the lid of a cutlass case. ‘You listen to ’Orace. You does what ’Orace tells you, you won’t go far wrong.’

  ‘Yes— aye aye, sir,’ said John.

  The purser’s den was on the orlop deck, in the deep dark bowels of the ship. To reach it, John and Kit had to fight their way through the swaying throng of carousing women and sailors on the lower gun decks, scramble down a companionway and grope their way forward in the semi-darkness of the orlop deck. Short as they both were, even they had to bend down, as the beams overhead were so low.

  It was quiet down here, apart from the creaking of ship’s timbers as she moved up and down on the water, and the thuds and shouts from the gun deck overhead. The air was thick, and there was a rotten smell of foul water which made John wrinkle up his nose.

  He was so busy peering forward into the gloom, trying not to bang his head on the beams, that he didn’t notice that Kit had stopped and he nearly bumped into him.

  Kit put out a warning hand. Peering over his shoulder, John saw two dim figures standing by a stack of full sacks.

  ‘You didn’t see anything, then, when he stowed his gear away?’

  With a sinking heart, John recognized Mr Higgins’s voice.

  ‘No, sir.’ It was Nat, speaking eagerly, as if anxious to please. ‘He kept his back turned, all sneaky. Him and Mr Tawse’s servant, that boy Kit, they was whispering together. Like they was hiding something.’

  ‘Whispering? Hiding something? They don’t even know each other.’

  ‘Well, but maybe they do, sir. Very thick together, they was, and him and Tom Todd too, like they’d all known each other before.’

  The watching boys saw Mr Higgins’s arm go out as he cuffed Nat’s head.

  ‘Don’t be foolish. And don’t try to be clever with me. You’ll get some pennies if you do as I say, but you can keep your ideas to yourself. And if you open that loose mouth of yours . . . What was that?’

  His head jerked up, as if he had heard something. He swivelled round, peering into the darkness. Kit and John, in the deep shadows, held their breath.

  There was a moment’s silence, then the two dim figures moved away behind a partition.

  ‘This is what I want you to do,’ came Mr Higgins’s voice, but the boys could hear no more.

  It was me they were talking about. I’m sure of it, thought John. It’s something to do with the satchel again. If only I could find a corner where I could hide away and look.

  Kit had gone on ahead, and John had to hurry to keep up with him before the darkness swallowed him up.

  Half an hour later, John had been issued with his hammock and the boys had climbed up through the layers of the ship to the deck above.

  ‘In the daytime, you stow your hammock here, see?’ said Kit.

  He untied the canvas that covered the nets running round the edge of the deck to reveal a wall of tightly packed hammocks. John hardly saw what he was doing. After the stuffy darkness of the lower decks, the fresh air up here was wonderful to breathe. He looked round, almost surprised to see the familiar profile of Edinburgh still there on the horizon and the huddle of houses round the port of Leith. He’d been transported into another world since he’d come on board the Fearless. It was hard to believe that the old world was still there, unchanged.

  He noticed for the first time a line of ships, some big warships, like the Fearless, others smaller frigates and cutters, which lay with their sails furled at anchor out in the Firth of Forth. Was one of them the Splendid? Had his father been taken out to her yet? It was horrible to think that he was probably a mere mile or so away, yet far, far out of reach.

  He looked down over the side of the ship. Small boats were crowding alongside, the people in them shouting up to those on the decks above. Men and women were climbing on and off the ship, and barges full of supplies were being lifted on board with ropes and winches.

  If I could get down there without being seen, and hide in one of those boats, I could get ashore, thought John.

  He was almost ready to try it, his feet itching for the feel of solid ground under them, but almost at once the urge passed. Where would he go, once he was on land again? Where would his next meal come from?

  He was aware that Kit was watching him curiousl
y.

  ‘We’d best go below again,’ Kit said. ‘Mr Tawse, he doesn’t like us going round the ship when we’re in port. He doesn’t like us seeing all the . . . you know, the women and everything.’

  Reluctantly, John followed him down the nearest hatchway.

  ‘Do you like him? Mr Tawse?’

  Kit shrugged.

  ‘Yes. He’s good. Only when he drinks too much grog – then you’ll see.’

  ‘He gets angry?’

  ‘Angry? Wild! You’ll see.’

  The now familiar space behind the canvas screen appeared to be empty when Kit and John went inside, except for Nat Claypole, who was kneeling on the floor with Kit’s chest open in front of him, his hands reaching inside it.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing, Ratface? Get out of my chest!’ shouted Kit, darting forwards.

  Nat jumped up. His eyes shifted guiltily, but he stabbed an accusing forefinger at John.

  ‘Ask him. He’s a thief, he is. Stole my pocket knife when we was having our dinner. I seen him. Picked it up off the table when no one else was looking. Found it just now, didn’t I, where’d he’d hidden it in your chest.’

  ‘You liar! He’s lying!’ John could hardly see for the red mist clouding his eyes. He leaped forwards, fists bunched, but Nat had dodged out of the way, and John had to catch hold of a low beam to prevent himself from crashing down on to the deck.

  ‘Your knife was in your pocket all the time, Ratface,’ said Kit with disgust. ‘I saw you put it there yourself.’

  Tom and Davey had appeared now.

  ‘What is it? A fight? Did John punch Nat?’ said Tom hopefully.

  ‘No, but Nat deserves it,’ Kit said scornfully. ‘We caught him looking in my chest.’

  Davey made a distressed noise.

  ‘It weren’t me. I never did. I never looked in your chest, nor in nobody’s chest, Kit,’ he said.

  The others ignored him.

  ‘Nat said I’d stolen his pocket knife. He called me a thief.’ John was panting with indignation.

  Kit pushed Nat out of the way, slammed down the lid of his chest, picked it up and took it behind the nearest gun, tucking it away under the barrel.

  ‘What’s this? What’s the noise and fuss?’

  Mr Higgins’s unwelcome face appeared through the gap in the canvas screen.

  ‘It’s that boy, John Barr,’ said Nat, his voice high pitched. ‘He’s a thief, he is. Stole my pocket knife. I found it in Kit’s chest where John stowed his baggage.’

  Mr Higgins stepped further in.

  ‘Thieving is a very serious matter,’ he said, with grave satisfaction. ‘Thieves get a flogging, and it’s no more than what they deserve. Where’s the proof?’

  ‘Here! Here!’ said Nat excitedly, holding up his knife.

  ‘Proof of what?’ said Mr Tawse, appearing suddenly. ‘Why, Mr ’Iggins, to what do we owe this pleasure?’ His small frame was stiff with dislike.

  ‘A matter of discipline, Mr Tawse. This boy here, John Barr, has been accused of stealing.’

  The master gunner’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Nat Claypole.’

  ‘Stealing what?’

  ‘My pocket knife. From the table. At dinner time,’ said Nat smugly.

  ‘Witnesses?’ rapped out Mr Tawse.

  ‘Yes, I saw him, sir,’ said Kit, poking his head out from behind the gun where he was still crouching. ‘I saw Ratface – Nat, I mean. He put the knife away in his own pocket, then he just pretended to find it in my chest. It was all spite, sir. Just plain spite.’

  ‘Thanking you kindly, Mr ’Iggins, for your interest in my boys’ morals,’ said Mr Tawse icily. ‘Now, if you would be so kind as to leave . . .’

  He indicated the canvas screen with a dismissive gesture.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Mr Higgins had hooked his thumbs into the buttonholes of his jacket and was standing firm, his feet apart. ‘The father of this boy was accused of theft this very morning by a respectable citizen of Edinburgh, within my hearing. It’s my belief that John Barr is the son of a notorious criminal, and that he himself is harbouring stolen goods. I demand that his belongings be searched.’

  The master gunner drew himself up to his full height, so that his eyes were on a level with Mr Higgins’s chin.

  ‘May I remind you, Mr ’Iggins, that you are on my premises?’

  ‘And may I remind you, Mr Tawse, that matters of discipline in this ship come under the bosun’s jurisdiction, and that as I am the bosun’s mate, they fall to me. Do I make myself quite clear?’

  They stood in silence, glaring at each other.

  ‘Please, sir,’ said Kit, breaking into the silence, ‘I don’t mind if you search my chest. John doesn’t mind either, do you, John?’

  He dragged the chest out from under the gun, picked it up and carried it over to the two men. Mr Higgins bent down and flung it open.

  John stared into it, his heart in his mouth. What was all this mystery? What was there among his belongings that everyone seemed so eager to possess? And if, by some awful chance, there was something incriminating in the satchel, and he was branded a thief – the thought of the shame and the punishment that would follow made his blood run cold.

  Mr Higgins had knelt down and was eagerly throwing John’s and Kit’s few clothes out on to the deck.

  ‘One pair of canvas trousers. One spare jacket and neckerchief. One pair of torn breeches,’ itemized Mr Tawse with awful sarcasm, picking up the garments one by one as Mr Higgins threw them down.

  John’s mouth had fallen open. There was no sign, anywhere, of the satchel. He looked up and caught Kit’s eye. A mischievous grin had crossed Kit’s face, but he covered it at once with an air of wondering innocence.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Higgins at last, rising awkwardly to his feet, ‘everything seems to be in order.’

  ‘So it does,’ agreed the master gunner with mock surprise.

  ‘I’ll be off, then.’ Mr Higgins was already backing uncomfortably towards the canvas screen.

  ‘There’s one more little matter that perhaps I can oblige you with,’ said Mr Tawse with painful politeness. ‘I believe I heard you explain this morning to Mr Erskine as how you were short of a servant. Nat Claypole here was assigned to me, but I find after all that he don’t suit. I believe he would do for you very well.’

  ‘No! Mr Tawse! Please! I never meant – it was all a mistake!’ said Nat, whose face had gone a sickly green.

  Mr Higgins nodded curtly.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tawse. You, Nat, get your belongings and come with me.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Silence fell when Mr Higgins, with the unhappy Nat following him, had gone. John moved first, making for where Kit still stood beside the gun, only to find his way blocked by Jabez Barton’s massive chest.

  Mr Tawse elbowed Jabez out of the way.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly to John. ‘All of you, sit down.’

  Without a word, the gunner, his mate and the boys took their places at the table.

  ‘Now then.’ Mr Tawse’s small round face, normally so cheerful, had lengthened with severity. ‘I want the truth, John Barr. All of it. Accusations has been made against you. Thieves on a ship is what none of us wants. Shipmates must sleep easy in their ’ammocks knowing that their few possessions are safe and sound. What have you to say for yourself?’

  John took a deep breath. The injustice of the accusation had stung him to fury and he was afraid that he would violently lose his temper.

  ‘I never even touched Nat’s penknife,’ he began, trying to control the rage in his voice. ‘He took against me as soon as I came on board. I didn’t do anything to him. First he tried to upset my dinner, and then . . .’

  Mr Tawse held up his hand.

  ‘Kit here has spoken for you as regards the penknife. Was what you said correct, Kit? You’re on your honour to tell the truth.’

  Kit nodded, his face reflecting the seriousness o
f the occasion.

  ‘Yes, Mr Tawse. I did see Nat put his knife in his pocket. John couldn’t have taken it. Nat did try to spill John’s dinner. He’s a nasty boy, Mr Tawse. He was nasty to all of us. He—’

  ‘We are not concerning ourselves with Nat,’ said Mr Tawse, ‘but with John. John, we accept Kit’s evidence. You did not steal Nat’s knife.’

  John shuddered with relief.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tawse,’ he managed to say.

  ‘But –’ Mr Tawse’s forefinger tapped the table – ‘other things was said. Mr ’Iggins expressed the belief that you have about you stolen property. Is this true?’

  His brown eyes, clear and stern, stared into John’s.

  John hesitated, unsure whom he could trust. He looked sideways at Kit, taking courage at his reassuringly trusting smile, then back at Mr Tawse and down at the table. At last he came to a decision.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but there’s something I don’t understand. Please can I tell you what’s happened? I’d like to tell you all of it.’

  It took nearly half an hour to recount the whole story, starting with the loss of Luckstone in Mr Halkett’s office, the murder of Mr Sweeney in the close, the furious mob, the press gang in Leith, the unexpected appearance of Mr Creech on board the receiving ship and his strangely desperate attempts to acquire the satchel.

  ‘So where is this satchel now?’ The dent between Mr Tawse’s eyebrows had been getting deeper as he tried to follow the complicated tale.

  ‘Well,’ said John reluctantly, ‘it was there when I untied my bundle. I put it away with my other things in Kit’s chest.’

  ‘You mean it’s disappeared since you boarded this ship?’

  Mr Tawse’s eyebrows had risen now, wrinkling the leathery skin of his tanned forehead into deep lines.

  John looked at Kit, whose eyes had opened in a question. John nodded. Kit stood up from the table and dived under the gun. He wriggled out again and held the satchel up for everyone to see.

  ‘’Ow in ’eaven’s name did it git down there?’ said Jabez Barton, who had been following John’s story open-mouthed, but with increasing bewilderment.