Secrets of the Fearless Read online

  A cheer that was more like a roar broke from the crew, and there was a rattle of muskets as the marines, massed in ranks on the quarterdeck, presented arms. Then came the sound of fifes and drums behind them. Everyone recognized the tune, and the words of ‘God Save the King’ rose from six hundred throats.

  As the music died away, a strange elation seized the men. John felt it too.

  ‘If Johnny Crapaud takes my head off with one of his cannonballs, I’ll bequeath to you my Nancy,’ the sailor beside John was saying to the friend beside him.

  ‘I’ll be too busy for women and all that malarkey,’ the other laughed back. ‘I’ll be drinking down the money we’ll get when we’ve captured this plum prize.’

  The minutes ticked by. Slowly, steadily, the Fearless was closing in. The innocent morning sun lit up the French man-o’-war, glittering on the barrels of the many guns bristling from the sides of her massive black hulk. As John watched, her sails dropped and he could see her sailors climb into the rigging to furl them.

  ‘Knows she can’t escape old Thundering Sam,’ said a voice in the crowd. ‘Look at her. Making ready to stand and fight.’

  The bosun’s whistle sent the Fearless’s men racing aloft to take in her own lower sails, but then he saw no more, for the next command sent everyone down below to join their gun crews.

  ‘If I don’t see you again before it starts, good luck,’ John said to Kit. His throat was tight. He wanted to say more. He had suddenly realized how much he liked Kit and relied on his friendship, but he couldn’t find the words to tell him.

  ‘Good luck to you too,’ said Kit, shaking the hair back from his face. ‘And you, Nat. You were wrong just now. I’ll care if you die. So mind you don’t.’

  A smile broke over Nat’s thin face.

  ‘Oh, Johnny Frenchman can’t kill me,’ he said, with an attempt at a swagger, and then he was gone.

  A strange feeling of unreality had come over John, but he was more aware than ever before of everything around him. He noticed as if for the first time the shifting patterns of sunlight reflecting off the sea on to the low ceiling of the gun deck. He took in the acrid smell of sweat from the six men in his gun crew, who were already standing beside their gun.

  Mr Stannard was making a final check of the hand spikes, ramrods and shot of the gun. The men were in their usual positions, each one precisely placed, as if they were rehearsing yet again. The familiarity of it was steadying.

  ‘All you have to do, lads, is remember your drill, listen out for the commands and hold steady under fire,’ Mr Stannard said to the circle of grim faces. ‘If I should fall, number two will take my place.’

  A strange calm had descended upon HMS Fearless. No one talked much. The creaking of the ship’s timbers as she floated to her destiny was all that could be heard.

  Someone handed out cotton to stuff into the seamen’s ears, to deaden the deafening crash of the guns. John saw the lips of several men move, and he guessed they were praying. The young seaman next him was rubbing his hands, over and over, round and round, as if he was washing them.

  ‘Powder monkey!’ Mr Stannard called out suddenly. ‘Go below for the first cartridge!’

  John took off like lightning. From every gun a boy or a young marine was doing likewise, streaming down the companionways towards the powder magazine. John received the deadly package of gunpowder from a hand thrust through a hole in a woollen curtain, and stowed it with even more care than usual inside his jacket. A moment later, he had sprinted back to his gun and was putting it carefully in the salt box.

  He could feel from the sideways rocking of the ship that she was drifting now.

  We must be almost upon her, he thought, his heart skipping. It’s going to start now.

  Mr Stannard leaned over the muzzle of the gun to peer out through the gun port.

  ‘Is she close, Mr Stannard?’ one of the young gunners asked, nervously licking his lips.

  ‘Aye. I can see her name too. She’s the Courageux. That’s the Courageous, I reckon, to the likes of you and me.’

  Someone aloft had begun to sing, and one by one the gun crews joined in.

  ‘You Frenchmen don’t boast of your fighting,

  Nor talk of your deeds on the main . . .’

  But the words petered out as the gun captains up and down the gun decks began to call out their orders.

  ‘Cast loose the gun! Run out the gun! Elevate! Load with cartridge! Shot your gun! Prime! Point! Make ready!’

  The men jumped to obey in perfect unison, then waited, silent, their muscles tensed. John’s ears were pricked. Every one of his senses was alert.

  Boom! Crash!

  The eerie stillness was shattered with terrifying suddenness. Then came a sound like iron hail rattling against the walls of the ship. From further down the gun deck a terrible scream rang out, as the first round of French shot, pouring through a gun port, took its first two victims.

  ‘Hold steady, boys,’ Mr Stannard said, his young face grim. ‘Wait . . .’

  ‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’

  The command, shouted from one hoarse voice to another, ripped through the ship. The Fearless trembled from stem to stern as her guns roared out flashes of orange flame. Smoke drifted back through the gun ports, but John didn’t wait to see it clear. He was dashing away already to fetch the next cartridge of powder.

  From then on, he had no time to think or feel. Time after time the Fearless’s guns roared out, and time after time the Courageux sent back her deadly fire. The men at their guns had torn off their jackets and shirts and were working stripped to the waist, their bare feet slipping in the blood that was soon staining red the sanded floorboards. They worked like demons, cheering each round as it was fired off, ignoring the terrible damage inflicted by the French cannonballs, which were smashing holes in the sides of the Fearless, each one taking off a head or a limb and sending in its wake deadly flying splinters, as sharp as spears.

  ‘Well done, my brave boy! Well done!’ shouted Mr Stannard every time John raced back to him with another round of gunpowder.

  John didn’t feel brave. He felt nothing except for the need to keep running, to keep his gun supplied. He saw without taking in the terrible sights around him, the wounded men, the severed limbs, the blood running in the scuppers, and he barely heard the cheers, screams and groans. He was aware only of the regular pounding roar of the guns and the deadly answering hail of fire. He realized suddenly that he was speaking out loud, and found he was repeating, over and over again, the words of the Lord’s Prayer.

  ‘Our Father, which art in heaven . . . Our Father, which art in heaven . . .’

  He stopped only once, when he bumped into Tom, who was running to supply his own gun at the far end of the ship.

  ‘Nat’s down,’ Tom panted. ‘I’m supplying his gun too.’

  ‘What, Nat? He’s not dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Kit is.’

  The air seemed to spin round John’s head.

  ‘Kit? Dead? It’s not true. It can’t be true!’

  But Tom had already dashed away.

  ‘Move on, can’t you? Are you hit, or what?’ Another powder monkey was pushing him aside.

  John nearly stumbled as he hurried back to the gun deck, and the terror that his cartridge would fall and explode drove everything else from his mind. But when he reached his gun he saw that it wouldn’t be needed after all. A French cannonball had hit the gun’s muzzle, rendering it useless, and its deadly ricochet had hit two of the crew, killing one outright and taking the left arm clean off the other. The remaining sailors were now helping to carry the injured man down to the surgeon in the cockpit below.

  Mr Stannard was standing alone, wiping his forehead with a bloody hand.

  ‘A horrid business, eh? Too many brave fellows dead. But grieving’s a folly, eh, John? Grieving’s nothing but a folly.’

  John saw that his hands were trembling.

  Kit, he thought. No, it can’t be tru
e.

  He wiped his arm savagely across his nose.

  ‘Listen,’ said Mr Stannard, gripping his arm. ‘Can you hear it?’

  ‘Hear what, sir?’ sniffed John.

  Mr Stannard didn’t answer, but a slow smile spread across his face.

  ‘The silence, lad. The silence. The firing’s stopped. It’s over!’

  John turned his head to listen. The gun captain was right. There was hardly silence, as the groans of the wounded rose from right and left, but the terrible rattle and crash of the guns and muskets had ceased. And now, from above, he could hear a ragged cheer go up, an English cheer.

  ‘We’ve done the job,’ Mr Stannard said, sliding down till he was sitting with his back against the wooden carriage of the gun. ‘We’ve taken her.’

  ‘Please, Mr Stannard,’ said John, ‘can I go below and look for my friends?’

  The gun captain’s eyes were closing with exhaustion. John didn’t wait for an answer, but darted off as fast as he could.

  Chapter Eighteen

  John hardly knew where to begin in his search for news of Kit. The whole ship was in such a state of chaos that he felt almost lost even in the most familiar quarters. There were gaping holes in the sides where French cannonballs had smashed right through the Fearless’s timbers. Above, on deck, the sails were in tatters, torn to rags by grapeshot. Splinters and spars lay everywhere, and the decks were red and slippery with blood.

  He was in too much of a hurry to look closely at the French ship, which now lay quietly alongside, but a quick glance showed him that her masts had been shot away and her rigging and sails lay half submerged in the sea. The French sailors, sullen and defeated, were being mustered on deck by gleeful British midshipmen.

  Hurrying through the debris, stepping over exhausted men, John hunted for Tom. Tom had been the one who’d known about Kit. He’d know what had happened.

  Instead of Tom, he found Jabez Barton. The gunner’s mate, with a ruffled Horace clinging to his shoulder, was gathering up bloodstained cutlasses, which had been assembled in a pile on the deck. Though his face was blackened with gunpowder, his eyes brightened at the sight of John.

  ‘Eh, lad, but you did well. I seen you in the battle. Up and down, dodging in and out, more like an imp of Satan than one of God’s own creatures. You’ll be the speediest powder monkey in the fleet, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Mr Barton, Tom told me about Kit.’

  Jabez shook his head sorrowfully.

  ‘Aye, poor boy. A nasty wound in the shoulder. I zee him fall myself.’

  ‘Where is the . . . What did they do with the body?’

  ‘With the . . .’ Jabez looked puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean – no doubt they cast him overboard, John, down into the deep, like all the other poor brave fellows. ’Tis a dismal thing to think on, the end of a boy’s life, for all ’e weren’t naught but a skinny, sour, unhappy bit of a lad, but even zo—’

  ‘Sour? He was never sour!’ John said hotly. ‘He was my friend. The best I ever had.’

  Jabez looked surprised.

  ‘Nat Claypole? Your friend?’

  It was John’s turn to look bemused.

  ‘Why Nat, Mr Barton? Why did you say Nat?’

  Jabez shook his head.

  ‘I thought you knew. Didn’t Tom tell you? How Kit and Nat was up on the deck where their guns was positioned? Well, Nat saw a Frenchy up in the tops aiming ’is musket, and ’e jumped right in front of Kit. Took the ball into ’is own ’eart, like the proper little ’ero we never knowed ’e was. Knocked Kit flying, but ’e saved ’is life. The next ball caught Kit, but only in the shoulder. Down in the operating room ’e’ll be, I don’t doubt. ’Ere, John, where are you going? You don’t want to go down there. ’Orrible it is, the sights to behold down there.’

  But John hadn’t waited to hear end of this speech. He’d taken off like a leaping dolphin and was hurtling down the nearest companionway towards the surgeon’s lantern-lit domain in the dark bowels of the ship.

  Even if he hadn’t known where to find it, the cries and groans of the injured men would have shown him the way. He hesitated as he neared, dreading what he might see.

  Mr Catskill, the Fearless’s surgeon, had set up his operating table at the far end of the cockpit. His broad back half hid the man who lay stretched out in front of him, but in the light of the lantern swaying overhead John could see that Mr Catskill had a saw in his hand, and that he was using it with all his strength on a man’s arm. A whistling scream emerged from his patient’s throat, in spite of the gag he was biting on, and there was a thud as the severed arm fell to the floor.

  John turned away, his stomach rising.

  One of the surgeon’s mates, whose clothes were smeared with blood, pushed past him, a basket of rolled bandages in his hands.

  ‘Out of the way, boy. What are you doing, humbugging around here, getting in the way?’

  ‘I’m looking for a boy. Kit. Kit Smith,’ said John. ‘Is he here? He has a musket ball in his shoulder.’

  A strange look, almost a smile of amusement, crossed the man’s face.

  ‘Oh, you want Master Kit, do you? Over there. In the corner. Nasty wound, but he’ll do.’

  Kit was lying in the quietest part of the cockpit, at the end of a long line of groaning men who were all waiting for the surgeon’s attention. His face, even paler than usual, was contorted with pain, but he smiled at the sight of John.

  John felt tears start to his eyes. Kit looked smaller, younger, almost like a little boy.

  ‘I thought . . . Tom said you’d died.’

  ‘No, but Nat did.’ Kit’s voice was weak and John had to bend down to hear him. ‘He saved my life, John. He was a hero.’

  ‘I know. Mr Barton told me.’

  ‘I feel so sorry that I wasn’t nicer to him.’

  ‘You were better than the rest of us.’

  Kit shook his head fretfully.

  ‘No. I will always regret—’

  ‘But what about you, Kit?’ John interrupted. ‘Your wound, is it bad?’

  Kit gritted his teeth as a shaft of pain shot through him.

  ‘Not as bad as many here. There is a musket ball in my shoulder. Mr Catskill says he will take it out when he’s finished with the amputations. It will hurt.’ He tried to put on his Captain Bannerman face. ‘“You will be tested to the limits of your courage . . .”’ he began, but grimaced and stopped. ‘I’m scared, John. I’m really scared.’

  ‘But the pain won’t last long, Kit. And you’re not going to die. You’re going to get better.’ John tried not to sound as if he was asking a question. ‘When I thought you’d died, I . . .’

  ‘You still here?’ The surgeon’s mate was back. ‘If you’re going to stay you can make yourself useful. Fetch a bucket, why don’t you, and cart off all them amputated limbs. Then you can start scrubbing the blood off the—’

  ‘No, no, I must go,’ John said hastily. He wanted to touch Kit’s hand in a farewell gesture, but was afraid of hurting him. ‘Good luck, Kit, with the operation. I’ll see you soon. I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Not down here, you won’t.’ The surgeon’s mate was still hovering. ‘This little messmate of yours’ll be shipped up to the sickbay soon as Mr Catskill’s done his work. All nice and airy it is up there. All dainty and quiet.’

  He went off at last, shaking his head and laughing.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ John said, puzzled. He looked down at Kit again, but Kit’s eyes had closed and his lashes lay dark against his chalk-white cheeks.

  John gratefully gulped in the clean fresh air when he came back up on to the open deck. The ship was already being put to rights. Sailors were swabbing away the sand and blood while others scrambled around in the rigging, lowering the torn sails. The French prisoners, guarded by marines, had been herded into their prison quarters below. The guns had been securely lashed, and fresh cannonballs were being brought up to fill the racks.

  Nat, th
ought John. Nat Claypole. Who’d ever have thought it?

  He could almost see Nat’s weaselly face, his pale, sly eyes and thin down-turned mouth.

  I only saw him smile once. Nobody liked him. Maybe that’s why he was so mean.

  He tried to summon up a feeling of grief for Nat, but instead he felt only gratitude. Kit was alive, that was the main thing. Kit had been saved.

  The bosun’s whistle sounded, and a joyful command rang round the ship.

  ‘Up spirits! Splice the main brace!’

  Casks of rum were already being brought up from below, and the seamen were gathering to get their ration. Someone fetched up a fiddle, another a flute, and as the sun sank down towards the silvery sea, the Fearless settled down to lick her wounds and celebrate her victory.

  It wasn’t until the middle of the next morning that John was able to visit Kit again. Mr Tawse had downed his grog the night before like a man with the thirst of a desert. It had set a kind of rage upon him, and the ship had rung to his curses. Everyone had kept out of his way. John, Tom and Davey had crept off to join their various gun crews, and John, slumped down with his back against the gun, had fallen asleep in the middle of a long rambling story Mr Stannard was telling about a mermaid he was sure he’d once seen off the coast of China. John woke early, stiff and sore.

  In the morning, Mr Tawse had been like a wounded bear, growling and snapping at anyone who dared approach him, and setting the boys to start a new task before they’d had a chance to finish the first one.

  It was Jabez who sent him off at last to the sickbay.

  ‘Get you off now, John, and find out what that young malingerer Kit is up to,’ he said, trying to sound severe, with one wary eye on Mr Tawse.

  John shot off at once, darting away as fast as he could before Mr Tawse could call him back.