Secrets of the Fearless Read online

  ‘The man’s lying,’ he said, in a trembling voice. ‘The murderer’s his friend, Herriott Nasmyth. I witnessed the deed myself.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘If you witnessed it yourself, why did you run away?’ someone shouted from the far end of the room.

  ‘Take him,’ Creech said to the men behind him, who surged forward.

  They found their way blocked by the bulky form of the recruiting officer.

  ‘He’s mine,’ he said shortly. ‘You can’t have him. He’s volunteered to serve his king and country. He’s taken the king’s shilling.’

  ‘The king’s shilling? Joined the navy? I have not!’ shouted Patrick.

  ‘What’s this, then?’ said the younger man triumphantly. He had taken Patrick’s mug, and now he turned it upside down so that the coin which he had slipped into the bottom of it fell into his hand.

  Patrick tried to pull himself free from the officer’s hand, which was now gripping his shoulder.

  ‘This is outrageous! You planted that coin there yourself. You can’t! I . . .’

  The officer shook him in a manner that was not unfriendly.

  ‘Take my advice, my lad. A career in His Majesty’s navy, even for a gentleman like yourself, is better for your health than a dungeon in the Tolbooth. Take him out, Daniel!’

  Before John could understand what was happening, his father was being bundled out through the door of the inn, with the officer, who had picked up his chest, hurrying after him.

  ‘Father!’ screamed John.

  He scrabbled on the floor for the bundle and satchel, and darted after them, but before he could reach the door he felt a hand tugging at the satchel. Mr Creech was trying to wrench it off his shoulder.

  ‘The documents,’ Mr Creech was saying. ‘Your cheat of a father hasn’t handed over all the documents. Give them to me!’

  ‘Get away from me!’ yelled John at the top of his voice.

  He lashed out with his foot. The tip of his boot caught Mr Creech’s shin with a satisfying crack, and the man yelped and let go of the satchel strap. A second later, John was out of the inn, running after his father and the recruiting officer, who were already halfway down the harbour stair, about to step into a small boat moored to a ring in the dank slippery wall.

  ‘Let me go!’ Patrick was shouting. ‘I can’t leave my son! Get your hands off me!’

  But the rope had already been untied, it had splashed down into the water, and the gap between the boat and the harbour wall was widening as the younger man vigorously worked the oars.

  ‘Johnny! Go to London!’ Patrick was calling out. ‘There’s enough money in the satchel. Your cousin’s name is Sarah Dawes. Mrs Dawes in Shoreditch. Find her!’

  Behind him, John could hear feet on the cobblestones.

  ‘Bring my father back!’ he shrieked out across the water. ‘I’ll go into the navy with him! I’m volunteering! Take me too!’

  He heard a laugh from the boat, and the splashing stopped. The oarsman was turning it now, coming back towards the steps.

  It hadn’t quite reached them when John heard voices at the top.

  ‘He’s down there! Get the satchel off him!’ he heard Mr Creech call out.

  With a flying leap, John jumped across the expanse of water into his father’s arms, almost knocking him over the side and making the boat rock violently.

  ‘Careful, lad. You’ll have us over,’ growled the officer. Then he laughed. ‘Two for the price of one, eh? Nice work tonight, Daniel. Row for the receiving ship as fast as you can, before old copperlocks up there comes after us.’

  Chapter Five

  John had been out in a small boat many times before. He’d even had a little craft of his own at home, a shallow, leaking tub. Summer and winter, it had been pulled up on the sandy shore of the tiny bay on the coast of Fife, just below the hillock on which the tower of Luckstone stood. He and his friend William had pottered about in it countless times, fishing for crabs and playing at smugglers. But he had never rowed far out of the bay into the open sea. He had never before felt the powerful swell of the dark deep water under the thin boards. He had never been out at night, either, watching the lights of the shore flicker more and more dimly as they were left behind.

  Now he could see more lights in front. Three yellow pinpricks were bobbing about some way ahead of them. He could make out the bars of lanterns, black stripes across a fiery glow, and the rigging from which they must be hanging. The moon had been hidden behind clouds again but it came out suddenly, and John saw the looming shape of a ship, quite close and coming closer, as the two recruiting officers pulled at the oars.

  No one had said a word since they’d set out from Leith harbour. Patrick seemed to be stunned, motionless, not even responding to John’s tentative tugs at his arm, while the recruiting officers only grunted occasionally with the effort of rowing. But as the little boat bobbed alongside the huge dark wall of the ship, which was now towering above them out of the sea, Patrick started, and struggled to his feet.

  ‘No, no, this is impossible. You cannot . . . I refuse to . . . I absolutely insist . . . we must be returned at once to . . . I shall pay you, of course. There is no question . . .’

  A head had already appeared over the side of the ship, and the recruiting officer was calling up to it, ‘Two more for you – a man and a boy.’

  ‘Send ’em up,’ said the head, in a London accent. ‘I don’t want no trouble, mind. This musket of mine’s loaded, and it don’t like deserters.’

  The recruiting officer had caught hold of the rope which edged the cleats, the rung-like steps hammered into the side of the ship, making a kind of ladder.

  ‘Get on with you now, get up there,’ he growled. ‘Hey! None of that! Catch hold of him!’

  Patrick had begun to peel off his coat, and John could tell that in his desperation he was about to dive into the water.

  ‘Father! No! You’ll drown!’

  The young recruiting officer lunged across and caught Patrick in a bear hug.

  ‘Knock him out,’ the older one said brutally.

  ‘Anyone trying to swim for it, I’ll shoot him!’ called out the voice from above, and, looking up, John saw white moonlight glinting on the long metal barrel of the musket.

  The boat stopped rocking as the fight went out of Patrick.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he shouted anxiously. ‘You might hurt the boy.’

  Then John’s arm was roughly grabbed, the rope was pushed into his hand and someone was shoving him from behind, up the first few steps.

  ‘Climb, can’t you? Are you going to take all night?’ the man above shouted down. ‘You want a musket ball in your head? I’m ready to oblige!’

  His feet slipping on the wet narrow cleats, his hand clutching at the rope, John climbed. A moment later, rough hands hooked under his shoulders and hauled him on to the deck, and a minute after that, Patrick followed him. There were confused shouts and bumps from below, coarse laughter, then the regular creak and splash of oars as the recruiting officers began to row back towards the shore.

  John had no time to look round. Three or four big men, their faces invisible under the brims of their high-crowned hats, had surrounded him and his father.

  ‘I must protest. There has been a terrible . . .’ Patrick was trying to say, but there was no time for more. A grating in the deck had been lifted, revealing a gaping black hole. John was pushed down into it. His feet only just managed to find the steep steps, or he would have fallen hard on to the wooden floor below. A moment later, the grating had clanged shut overhead, and he and his father were in almost total darkness.

  The first thing to hit John was a smell so foul it made him retch. He put his hand over his nose to try to block it out, but there was no escaping it. It crept in round his fingers, seeping in everywhere. He tried to breathe through his mouth, but could still sense its revolting pungency.

  And then he heard the noises. All around him, in the dark, thi
ngs were shifting, breathing, scratching, snoring. His skin crept. Were there people down here? Or animals? Or . . . ?

  A voice close by made him jump. It was sharp and complaining.

  ‘How many more are coming down here tonight? There’s no room for a baby, never mind grown men.’

  ‘No other poor souls, as far as I know,’ said Patrick. ‘Good God, what a stench! Is there no window that can be opened to let in some air?’

  The other laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘Window? Air? Where do you think this is, my bonny lad? The king’s palace?’

  ‘No, but the foulness! Surely for the sake of health . . .’

  ‘You’re new to the navy. That I can tell.’ The man sounded friendlier. ‘Never been at sea before, I’ll be bound. Taken today, were you?’

  ‘This evening! In a tavern! In a most outrageous act of . . . of piracy!’

  ‘Aye, the shock. You’ll be suffering still from the shock. I’m feeling it myself. It was yesterday they took me. I was sailing into Leith on a merchant ship out of Newcastle. We’d been at sea, me and my shipmates, two whole years. We thought we’d slipped past the navy, God rot them, but they caught us. We’ll be out of this hulk in the morning, sent on board some man-o’-war and then blown to bits, most likely, by a French cannon before the end of the year.’

  ‘Can’t you be quiet over there?’ came a voice from further away.

  ‘Yes, some folks is trying to sleep,’ someone called out from the other side.

  ‘There’s a little space here by me,’ the man said more quietly. ‘You can sit against the bulkhead. Is that a boy you have with you? What age are you, lad?’

  ‘Twelve,’ said John, and in a sudden rush of self-pity his throat tightened with tears.

  The man gave a melancholy chuckle.

  ‘Twelve! I was ten when I . . .’

  ‘If you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll come over there and cut it out of you,’ another furious voice called out.

  John felt a guiding hand lead him along. He followed it, groping through the pitch dark, and stumbled at last to a halt, then felt himself pulled down to the wooden floor. Behind him he heard a crack and a cry of pain as Patrick hit his head on a low beam, and then his father was sinking down beside him. John snuggled up to him, trying to block out the stench by pressing his nose against Patrick’s coat, which still held the faint, sweet, familiar tang of soap and heather and fresh air.

  Their new friend had fallen silent in the darkness. John could hear him moving about, stretching out on the floor, and then a few moments later came heavy snores as the man fell asleep.

  Patrick made no attempt to lie down. He had slumped forwards, his head drooping between his knees. His shoulders were moving convulsively, and John knew, with a lurch of his own stomach, that his father was crying.

  ‘We’re still together, Father,’ he whispered in Patrick’s ear.

  Patrick didn’t answer.

  ‘We still have our things. I have the bundle and the satchel. You have your chest, haven’t you?’

  It was all he could think to say.

  There was a long silence, then at last Patrick raised his head.

  ‘Yesterday I was Patrick Barr of Luckstone,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘a gentleman, if a poor one, a man who could hold his head high. Tonight I’m a pauper, a man on the run, pressed into the navy, the lowest of the low. I’ve failed you, Johnny. You deserve a better father than me.’

  ‘No!’ John spoke more loudly than he intended, provoking an irritated grunt from nearby. He lowered his voice to a whisper again. ‘We’ll tell them tomorrow. We’ll explain that it’s all a mistake, how we were tricked, and that we don’t know anything about the navy, and we were just on our way to London. We’ll make them listen to us.’

  Patrick only groaned.

  ‘We’ve got friends who’ll speak out for us,’ John went on, trying to sound more certain than he felt. ‘Our neighbours at Luckstone. You could write a letter to them. Or to Aunt Sarah. Even Mrs Armstrong would take our part, if she knew what had happened.’

  The thought of Mrs Armstrong brought to mind the ham she’d packed for them, so many long hours ago. He realized suddenly that he was hungry again. He reached for his bundle, and pulled out the greasy package.

  ‘Here, Father,’ he said, pushing a piece of ham into Patrick’s limp hand.

  Patrick shuddered.

  ‘I couldn’t eat anything at all. The foul stench here is making me so sick I fear I shall shortly lose whatever remains of the pie.’

  ‘Try some,’ John said, through a full mouth. ‘It’s awfully good. It makes the smell go away – a bit, anyway.’

  Patrick obediently put a piece into his mouth.

  ‘You’re right, Johnny. It is indeed excellent.’ He sounded momentarily stronger. ‘We may as well enjoy it. It’s the last decent food we’ll be tasting for a very long time, since we’re to be fed from now on at the expense of His Majesty.’

  Chapter Six

  John lay on the hard boards of the ship’s lower deck, tossing and turning as the long hours of night slowly passed. Confused and terrifying images chased through his mind. Once he managed, for a few blessed minutes, to imagine himself back at Luckstone, but then a rat ran over his foot, making him start up in horror. He tried without succeeding to banish the face of the dying Mr Sweeney, the murdered man, which seemed to stare up at him from the blood-stained cobbles of the Edinburgh close.

  ‘There’s one comfort,’ he whispered, in a vain attempt to cheer his father up, ‘Mr Sweeney’ll certainly haunt Mr Nasmyth forever and ever and drive him mad.’

  ‘Oh there’s no doubt of it, no doubt at all,’ Patrick answered, in a hollow voice.

  Mr Creech’s pale, malignant face kept appearing: a nightmarish vision, his eyes staring intensely, his long spidery arms reaching out to snatch his satchel. He’s a common thief, as well as a trickster, John thought bitterly, remembering the tug at his shoulder as Mr Creech had tried to pull the satchel away from him at the inn. He was a fool if he thought it was full of money. There’s only a guinea or two left, and a pile of old papers.

  He could see the lawyer’s office in his mind’s eye now. He hadn’t wanted to go in with Patrick at all. He’d wanted to stay on the High Street where a juggler had been performing.

  Once inside, he’d been too bored and irritated to notice what was going on between the men. Now he tried to remember. Something odd had happened at the very beginning. When he and Patrick had entered the stuffy little office, Mr Creech, Herriott Nasmyth and Mr Halkett the lawyer had been huddled together at the table, peering down at a small booklet lying open on the table. As soon as the Barrs had appeared in the doorway, Mr Nasmyth had reached out to pick up the booklet, but the lawyer had snatched it away before he could touch it and quickly hidden it under a pile of deeds.

  Everyone had sat down then, and the long hours of wrangling had begun. John had shifted about resentfully in his chair, staring out of the window for the most part, wanting to be outside, listening to the minutes tick past on the long-case clock which stood in the corner of the room

  How could I have been so stupid? John kept asking himself. Why wasn’t I listening?

  There’d only been one break in the endless dull afternoon. Someone had called up from the street below. Herriott Nasmyth and Mr Creech had gone downstairs to see whoever it was and Mr Halkett had thrown up the sash window and leaned out to talk to them from above. A gust of wind had set all the papers fluttering on the desk, and some had blown on to the floor. John and his father had gathered them up and put them back on the desk.

  The meeting hadn’t gone on for very long after that. Herriott Nasmyth, prompted by the enigmatic Mr Creech, had become more and more aggressive and demanding, while Patrick had seemed increasingly bewildered and defeated. At last he’d stood up.

  ‘You have ruined me, Mr Nasmyth,’ he’d said with simple dignity. ‘You have cheated me out of everything.’

  With tre
mbling fingers, he’d gathered up the papers on the table in front of him and bundled them into the satchel. Then at last John had been able to leave the horrid, stifling room and get out into the street again. He’d been sharply disappointed to discover that the juggler had gone.

  The night was over at last. For the first time, in the few gleams of daylight that penetrated the hold, it was possible to see the dozens of men huddled together in this dank, stinking hole. They had moved out of the dark corners and were crowded together under the grating, trying to breathe in the fresher air. Their hair was matted, their clothes dirty and their eyes wild with anger. Some were cursing, others shouting, and several were brawling, flailing their arms about as they tried to punch each other. They struck fresh terror into John’s heart.

  One tall young man took the bars of the grating in both hands and shook it, sending thuds echoing through the hold of the ship.

  ‘Let me out of here! You have to let me go!’ he shouted, his voice cracking. ‘My wife’s dying at home. Who’s to look after the bairns?’

  A man appeared above. John caught a glimpse of white breeches, a scarlet jacket criss-crossed with dazzling white bands and a tall black hat with a red and white cockade.

  ‘There are soldiers up there, Father,’ he whispered to Patrick.

  A snort came from the man who had befriended them the night before.

  ‘Soldiers? They’re no soldiers. They’re marines, curse their eyes. You’ll see more than enough of them before you’re through.’

  The man grasping the bars of the grating screamed as the marine stamped on his fingers.

  ‘Shut up all that noise!’ the marine barked out. ‘You ain’t going nowhere, boys. You’re in the navy now. Make your minds up to it, or we’ll have the lot of you in irons. Lift the grating, sergeant. No, easy, you dogs. Come up nice and slow, one at a time. And no monkey business. Anyone tries anything, it counts as mutiny, and that means you’ll hang from the yard arm.’

  John, clutching his bundle and with the satchel over his shoulder, clambered up the steep companionway after Patrick. He blinked in the brightness and shivered in the cold morning air. The other pressed men were crowded so close in the small space on the deck that he couldn’t see much. More scarlet-coated marines surrounded the miserable bunch of unwilling new recruits. Sharp bayonets glinted on the ends of their muskets. They stood to military attention, formidable and threatening.