Secrets of the Fearless Read online

  ‘Move along there, boy. Report to the surgeon.’

  John felt a prod in his back and stumbled forward. He found himself standing in front of a table behind which the surgeon was seated. The man wore a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose, and he was writing in a ledger.

  ‘Age?’ the surgeon said, without looking up.

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Twelve, sir,’ rapped out the marine, standing to attention behind him.

  ‘Yes, sergeant, that will do,’ the surgeon said wearily. He turned back to John. ‘Open your mouth.’

  Nervously, John obeyed.

  The surgeon looked into it quickly, then away again.

  ‘Any fevers? Fluxes? Ulcers?’

  ‘No.’ He caught the marine sergeant’s eye and added hastily, ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good. He’s seaworthy.’ The surgeon wrote something in his ledger. ‘Next one.’

  John moved aside while Patrick took his place. He was now standing by the netting that ran round the sides of the deck, and he could see through the holes to the shore beyond. The little port of Leith, lying snugly by the sea, was temptingly close. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said a gruff voice behind him.

  John turned. Another marine, an older man, stood behind him. He pointed upwards. Halfway up the ship’s mast was a platform, and John could see another scarlet coat up there, and the outline of another musket.

  ‘Anyone who tries jumping gets a bullet in the back,’ the marine said with relish.

  He saw John shudder and went on, in a kindlier voice, ‘Look over there, lad.’

  John followed his pointing finger. A magnificent threemasted man-o’-war, with all sails billowing, was racing towards Leith harbour. Its bows sliced the green water, turning a creamy foam along its sides. Pennants flew from the tops of the masts, and bright signal flags fluttered from the rigging. The ship was no more than a quarter of a mile from the shore, and the gap was closing fast.

  ‘It’ll crash into the harbour wall!’ said John.

  ‘HMS Fearless? Not she,’ scoffed the marine. ‘Watch this, if you want to see seamanship.’

  A flash followed by a puff of smoke rose from the side of the ship, and a second later a loud boom made John start back.

  ‘It’s the French! An enemy ship! They’re firing on Leith!’

  The marine laughed.

  ‘Don’t be daft, boy. That’s just a gun salute. To let everyone know she’s arrived. Now watch.’

  John could see that the ship was swarming with men. Sailors were everywhere, crowding the decks, clinging to the ladder-like rigging, balancing along the wooden yards from which the sails hung. Deftly, listing over towards the water, the great ship rounded into the wind, and John could see the splash as the anchor plunged down into the sea. At the same time the sailors aloft, working like one man, hauled up the sails, tying them neatly to the yards. A moment later, HMS Fearless was lying still and quiet on the water, her flags and pennants drooping.

  In spite of himself, John could not suppress a gasp of admiration. He might soon be on board a ship like that, working like those men. The thought terrified him, but almost excited him too.

  He looked round for his father. Patrick was still standing by the surgeon’s table and, to John’s surprise, he was smiling. A wild hope surged up in his breast. Had his father achieved the impossible? Were they to be released? Ducking under ropes and skipping over spars, he darted across to the table.

  ‘What’s happened, Father? Are they letting us go?’

  The smile faded from Patrick’s face.

  ‘No, Johnny. No chance of that. But this excellent doctor has discovered that I am not precisely cut out for a seaman’s work. There is, by an extreme stroke of good fortune, a vacancy as a clerk to the captain on board the . . . what was the name of the ship, my dear sir?’

  The surgeon had gone back to his ledger, and didn’t look up as he answered.

  ‘HMS Splendid,’ he said.

  ‘HMS Splendid!’ Patrick said admiringly. ‘How very fine. My worst nightmare, after all, is not to be fulfilled. The captain’s clerk! I shall have a cabin to myself, which you will share, Johnny, of course . . .’

  The surgeon looked up sharply.

  ‘Share your cabin? With this boy?’

  ‘He’s my son,’ Patrick beamed. ‘Perhaps you didn’t realize. The most unfortunate circumstances have driven us to take this desperate step, but . . .’

  ‘It’s out of the question.’ The surgeon, who had momentarily fallen victim to Patrick’s charm, was losing interest in him. ‘There’s a full complement of boys on board the Splendid. Your son is to join the Fearless. I heard her cannon firing just now. She’ll be sending a cutter shortly to take the new crew members off.’

  John felt the blood drain from his face, and saw that Patrick, too, had gone a ghastly white.

  ‘Separated!’ Patrick cried. ‘No, no, my dear sir! It’s impossible! My only child, just twelve years old!’

  The surgeon shook his head.

  ‘Resign yourself, Mr Barr. I’ve done my best for you. You are a fortunate man. The chances of a pressed man becoming a captain’s clerk are very slim. But I can’t perform miracles.’ He looked at John and smiled as if seeing him for the first time. ‘You’re a strong-looking boy. You’ll do well on the Fearless. She’s an excellent ship with a popular captain, good discipline, a contented crew. They’ll make a man of you, young John. You’ll have reason to thank me one day. Now step aside, please. I have a great deal of work to do today.’

  Chapter Seven

  The next hour passed in a daze of shock and confusion. Patrick seemed so stunned by the blow that was about to fall that he was barely able to say a word. He followed his son mutely as John was led away to be issued with his new sailor’s clothes, and only found his voice when John had changed into the ill-fitting white trousers, full-sleeved shirt, waistcoat and short blue jacket he had been given.

  ‘My word, Johnny,’ he said, his voice cracking as he tied the red scarf round his son’s robust neck and balanced the straw hat on his thick thatch of blond hair. ‘You’re a proper sailor now. A real Jack tar. If only your mother was alive to see . . .’

  He turned aside and blew his nose loudly into his handkerchief.

  John looked down at himself. The new clothes seemed to have turned him into a different person, someone years older. In spite of the dread of parting from his father, he couldn’t help feeling a small shiver of excitement too. He flexed his shoulders. He had grown quickly recently, and his old coat had been uncomfortably tight. There was room to spare in this new jacket.

  They moved to a quieter corner of the deck, away from the shouts and whistles, as streams of small boats arrived at the ship’s side, bringing on goods and men and taking off groups of pressed sailors. A dreadful, hollow feeling was lodging itself in the pit of John’s stomach, but he could see that Patrick was feeling even worse.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about me, Father,’ he said anxiously. ‘I’ll be fine. We’ll find a way to get back to each other somehow. They can’t keep us apart for long.’

  Patrick only groaned.

  ‘Here, boy. Take this. It’s yours.’

  A sailor who had been helping to give out the clothing was holding out John’s freshly tied bundle to him. It was much bigger now that it contained the clothes he had been wearing before as well as his new naval spares.

  ‘Thank you,’ John said absently, taking it from him and turning back to Patrick.

  A shrill blast from a whistle had heralded the arrival of another small boat alongside, and several more men were clambering up the side of the receiving ship on to the deck.

  ‘All hands for HMS Fearless!’ came the order, repeated down the ship. ‘Into the boats! Look lively, boys!’

  ‘Already! No! Not yet!’ cried Patrick, catching John in a crushing hug. But John was struggling to break free. Beyond his father he had seen a pair of deep dark eyes and a long pale face that had sent his pulses hamme
ring with fear.

  ‘Father, let me go! There’s Mr Creech!’

  Mr Creech had seen them and was forcing his way through the milling crowd of men on the deck. Behind him were a couple of marines.

  ‘That’s the man, the thief!’ Mr Creech was saying, his voice high and sharp. ‘I accept that he cannot be released to face the justice he deserves, but I insist that my property, which he has stolen, be handed back to me.’

  Patrick was staring at him, anger and bewilderment chasing each other across his face.

  ‘A thief? First I’m supposed to be a murderer, and now you say I’m a thief? How dare you, sir! How dare you!’

  ‘A leather satchel,’ Mr Creech said to the two marines who had accompanied him. ‘The papers inside it belong to me. I demand that he return them immediately!’

  Patrick’s anger had turned to contempt. He squared his shoulders, gathering his dignity.

  ‘You, sir, are a liar and a cheat. The satchel you refer to contains papers of personal significance, a few letters, some mementos of my dear wife, documents relating to my property . . . ah, my former property. Open the satchel, Johnny. Show the gentlemen the few poor things it contains.’

  John looked down at the table where he’d laid the satchel before he’d put on his new clothes. It wasn’t there. He looked under the table, on the deck beside it, behind a stack of casks nearby. The satchel was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘But it was here just now! Father, it’s gone. Someone’s stolen it! That man who made up my bundle, he must have taken it!’

  Mr Creech’s hand shot out and his fingers bit deep into John’s arm.

  ‘Don’t play off your tricks on me. Give me the satchel. Now.’

  John tried to shake himself free. Mr Creech’s painful grip only tightened.

  ‘I haven’t got it! Can’t you see? It’s not here! Tell him, Father!’

  With a lunge of surprising strength and deftness, Patrick plucked Mr Creech’s hand off John’s arm. He seemed to be taking the loss of the satchel philosophically.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, sir,’ he said witheringly, ‘to attack a mere boy in this way. Why are you trying to plunder us still further? You have already taken from me my home, my reputation and my son. The loss of my last few possessions is nothing to me. I am even relieved that fate has intervened to spirit the satchel away before you can put your wicked hands upon it.’

  ‘Search the ship!’ Mr Creech called out, a note of desperation in his voice. He turned to the marine nearest him. ‘I insist that you search the ship. I’ll pay you double.’

  The marine looked round uneasily.

  ‘Don’t speak so loud, sir, please. We can’t do no more for you. As it is we’ve taken a risk. If our captain knew what we was doing, he wouldn’t like it at all. Best come with us. There’s nothing more to be had here.’

  They each seized Mr Creech by an arm and forced him away.

  Through the gap in the crowd which they had made, John could see a group of men being herded towards the side of the ship.

  ‘I have to go, Father,’ he said, his voice trembling.

  He couldn’t bear to prolong the pain of parting any further. He flung his arms briefly round Patrick’s neck, then picked up his bundle and darted across the deck towards the huddle of men who were being hustled by impatient marines over the side of the ship, down into the small cutter bobbing on the water below.

  He was about to follow them when a man caught hold of his ear, tweaking it painfully.

  ‘You, boy, what’s your name?’

  ‘John Barr. Sir.’

  The man was consulting a list in his hand.

  ‘You’re for HMS Fearless?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The man had found his name. He looked down at John. His eyes were a cold piercing blue and were set too close together. The words HMS Fearless were blazoned across the front of his black hat.

  ‘Then you’ll be feeling the end of my rattan before you’re much older.’

  John stared back at him, surprised. What had he done? It sounded as if he’d already been caught breaking a dozen rules.

  His frank gaze seemed to infuriate the man, who flushed a dull red.

  ‘You’ve an insolent eye on you, John Barr. I’ll be watching out for you. I’ll break you if I have to. John . . . Barr.’

  He let go of John’s ear and thrust him towards the opening. John tumbled down the side of the ship so fast he nearly lost his footing on the cleats, and he jumped down clumsily into the boat, sending it rocking from side to side.

  Already sitting in the boat were a dozen of the other captive men who had been pressed into service. There were also six marines, their muskets trained on the pressed men, and eight sailors, each holding an oar. Their forearms were strongly muscled, and all of them had long hair tied in a pigtail down their back.

  ‘Watch out, landlubber!’ one of them called out cheerfully to John. ‘You’ll send us all to Davy Jones! Come and sit by me, and don’t fidget.’

  He seemed to notice the misery in John’s face. ‘Here, there’s no need to look like that. You’re joining the Fearless! The pride of Nelson himself, God rest his soul. Fought at Trafalgar, we did, alongside the Victory herself. The Fearless is the finest ship in the fleet, ain’t she, boys?’

  ‘She would be, if you weren’t on board!’ another sailor called out. The rest laughed.

  John, nursing his bundle, looked up at the great hulk of the receiving ship towering above him, hoping to see Patrick looking down. Instead he saw something that made his heart miss a beat.

  Mr Creech was still on board. He was talking to the man who had so painfully pinched his ear. Their heads were together, as if they were sharing secrets. As if they knew each other well.

  ‘Who’s that man up there?’ he asked the sailor sitting next to him, ‘the one with the staring blue eyes?’

  The sailor sent a stream of tobacco juice spewing into the water.

  ‘That’s Mr ’Iggins, that is. And if you want my advice, steer clear of ’im. ’E’s the bosun’s mate. Nasty bit of work, if ’e takes against you.’

  Mr Higgins was climbing down into the boat himself now. The sailors waited respectfully until he had settled himself in the bows, from where he could look back down the length of the boat at the sullen, unwilling new members of HMS Fearless’s crew. Then they pushed off from the ship’s great side with powerful thrusts of their oars.

  John had forgotten the men all around him. He was looking up at the deck of the ship, where Patrick’s face had at last appeared.

  Goodbye, Father, he was saying silently to himself. Goodbye. Goodbye.

  The strip of water between the boat and the ship was widening with frightening speed as the sailors pulled on the oars. John kept his eyes on his father’s face for as long as he could distinguish it from the mass of others looking out over the side, and when he could make it out no more he turned aside and looked out to sea, so that no one would notice the tears sparkling in his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  It was all John could do, as the boat neared the great warship ahead, to prevent his silent tears from turning to outright sobs. He was half crazed with panic and grief. The rocking sea beneath him and the vast bulk of the ship louring over him seemed to have surged up out of a nightmare. He knew, though, that they were real. He knew they had claimed him, in one terrifying snatch, and that everything familiar, everything he knew, had been torn away from him.

  The kindly sailor beside him gave him a nudge as the boat bumped against HMS Fearless’s great wooden side.

  ‘Brace up, young shipmate. You’d best stem the tide and swab your cheeks. Don’t want all them up there to see that long face of yours, do you? First impressions, as they do say, goes a long way. Scramble aloft sharpish, that’s my advice, before Mr Sourface Higgins gets out his rattan.’

  John took in only half this speech but the gist of it was clear enough, and the sailor’s friendly smile gave him a glimmer of co
mfort. He steadied himself, swallowed hard, dashed his sleeve across his face and fixed his mouth in a wavering smile. The man was right. To go on board crying like a baby would be disastrous.

  He took a deep breath, slung his bundle over his shoulder, grabbed at the guiding rope and shot up the cleats as fast as he could. Before he knew it, he was standing on a low-ceilinged covered deck, looking in bewilderment at the scenes of wild confusion all around.

  It was the noise that struck him first. Shouts, shrieks of laughter, the rumbling of casks rolled along the wooden boards, a hammering from somewhere below his feet, the squawking of a large, brilliantly coloured bird, even the mooing of a cow made up a deafening racket. On top of it all came the sudden clang of a bell, a blast from a whistle and shouts of ‘Away aloft! Unfurl sails to dry!’ passed down in relay from man to man.

  Only a little daylight penetrated through the opened lids of the gun ports that ran down each side of the gun deck. What meagre light came through was half blocked by the massive barrels of the great guns themselves, long black cannon, each one resting on its wheeled cradle. But it wasn’t the guns that sent John’s mouth falling open and made his eyes start out with shocked surprise. It was the sight of the women. There were dozens of them, some stout, some skinny, some pretty, some plain, but all of them dressed in bright cheap clothes, so low cut that their bosoms were almost completely exposed. It was their shrieks that he could hear, their high heels drumming on the deck, as they danced and cavorted with the sailors, many of whom were reeling about, already half drunk. In all his anxious fears of the night before, he had never imagined an orgy such as this. He watched in horror as a woman sank back against a gun, lifting her skirts. A hot blush rushed up into his cheeks and he hastily looked away.