Secrets of the Fearless Read online

  ‘What’s the matter with you, boy? Make way, or you’ll be rammed amidships,’ came a hoarse voice behind him, and he turned to see a giant of a sailor, who was bent half double under the weight of an enormous trunk strapped to his back. John stepped back smartly, crushing himself against a stout wooden bulkhead, to let the man pass.

  ‘Make way, make way!’ the man shouted as he tried to force his way through the swaying mass of women and sailors. ‘Captain’s luggage coming aboard! Make way!’

  The other pressed men and their guard of marines had come aboard now. The marines snapped to attention as their sergeant appeared. In their long-tailed scarlet coats and smart high-crowned black hats, they stood out from the mayhem surrounding them like red-hot pokers in a bramble patch.

  ‘You – John Barr,’ came the voice that John was already starting to dread. He looked round to see Mr Higgins standing uncomfortably close behind him. ‘Who gave you the order to come first aboard? Who told you to put yourself forward? Impudence! I’ll teach you.’

  He was holding in his hand a short thick rattan cane, and he cut John a vicious blow with it across the shoulders. John bit his lip, trying not to flinch.

  ‘Mr Higgins! Mr Higgins!’ A boy not much bigger than John, with crinkly fair hair and a freckled nose, had wormed his way through the crowd towards them. ‘Mr Erskine’s compliments, and will you bring the pressed men up to be rated.’ He had been eyeing the bosun’s mate nervously as he spoke, and added a hasty, ‘Sir.’ He turned to John, stared at him curiously for a moment, then gave him a broad wink. John managed to flash him an answering smile before the marines, who had come smartly to attention, began to carve a way through the mass of people, with the pressed men sullenly following.

  The boy stayed alongside John as together they scrambled over coiled ropes and racks of cannonballs, climbed up companionways and dodged past men bowed down under baskets and sacks.

  ‘I’m Tom Todd,’ he said.

  ‘I’m John. John Barr.’

  ‘You’re Scots, then, like me?’

  ‘Of course I’m Scots. What else would I be?’

  John’s answer came out more indignantly than he had intended, but Tom Todd only laughed.

  ‘Och, on this ship you could be anything, anything at all. They’re English, most of them, and Irish, some, and Portuguese and American. There are some Africans too.’

  ‘Africans? You mean Negroes? I’ve never seen one. Are they really black?’

  ‘Aye. You’ll see.’

  ‘You’ve been to Africa, then?’

  Tom adopted a slight swagger.

  ‘No, but I’ve been to America. And to Spain, and Italy. You will too mebbe.’

  They stood back to allow two other boys to pass. These were no more than two or three years older than John, but they were dressed in spotless white breeches, long-tailed blue coats with gold braid on their high collars and black glazed hats.

  ‘Officers. Midshipmen,’ Tom murmured, pulling respectfully at the tuft of hair above his forehead.

  John bit his lip. If, when he’d been master of Luckstone, Patrick had seen fit to send his son to sea, John would have been a midshipman himself, all decked out in a smart uniform, with silver buckles on his shoes.

  One of the midshipmen caught John’s eye, and a faint frown creased his forehead. Reluctantly, John copied Tom, pulling his forelock too. The midshipman nodded imperceptibly and walked on.

  They had arrived now at a less crowded section of the ship. A group of officers was sitting around a table.

  ‘Yon’s Mr Erskine, the first lieutenant,’ Tom whispered, pointing to the man on the left, whose uniform, even more magnificent than the young midshipmen’s, gleamed with brass buttons and gold braid. The man’s head was half turned as he talked to a grizzled old sailor standing behind him, and John could see only his profile. His face seemed to be handsome, strong around the mouth, with laughter lines running out from his eyes. But then Mr Erskine turned. John gasped and stepped back. A hideous scar ran up the man’s left cheek, puckering his eye, dragging at his nostril and pulling one side of his mouth up into a wolfish grin. John’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘I know, I know, he scares the babbies in their cradles,’ Tom whispered. ‘But Mr Erskine’s a great gun. He got his wound in the Battle of Trafalgar, fighting alongside Nelson himself! Killed two Frenchies with one sword thrust. Spitted a . . .’

  He broke off abruptly as Mr Higgins’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm, then darted nimbly out of reach to dodge the swinging rattan.

  ‘Get back to your quarters, boy,’ growled Mr Higgins, ‘or I’ll . . .’

  But Tom, not waiting to hear the rest of the threat, had already disappeared down the nearest hatchway.

  The disturbance attracted the attention of the men at the table, and they turned to watch as the marines marshalled the pressed men in front of them. One by one, the unhappy new crew members mumbled their names, told their trades and were assigned their duties, until only the small group standing near John was left.

  He thought for a moment, as the officers pushed back their chairs and began to stand up, that he’d been forgotten, but Mr Higgins pushed him roughly forward.

  ‘A boy, sir,’ he said, addressing the first lieutenant with an obsequious smile. ‘Volunteered yesterday. Needs some sense knocking into him. I’ve a mind to have him as my servant. The brat I had before deserted at Yarmouth.’

  John’s stomach kicked with fright.

  The lieutenant’s one undamaged eye surveyed John coolly.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘John Barr.’ John was looking desperately along the line of men behind the table, looking for a sign, a sympathetic face, for anything that might hold out the hope of a reprieve.

  ‘And can you read and write, John Barr?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, well. And you have never, so far in your young life, been employed as a servant?’

  ‘No, never, sir.’

  The man beside Mr Erskine, whose small round face was as wizened as a monkey’s, butted in.

  ‘Studied mathematics, have you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. For five years at school.’

  The man shot Mr Higgins a sharp look full of hostile triumph.

  ‘Smart lads in gunnery is hard to come by, Mr Erskine. I could do with him to apprentice. We’re likely to be short, the way things are looking.’

  ‘Then he shall be yours, Mr Tawse,’ Mr Erskine said lightly. ‘A career as a gunner awaits him. Did you hear that, John? You will join Mr Tawse, the master gunner, and obey him in all things.’

  Before he had finished speaking, shouts and the smart stamps of marines snapping to attention swept towards them along the deck, and a moment later the figure of a short, stout man appeared, amid whispers of ‘It’s the Captain. Here comes Captain Bannerman.’

  It was hard to see, at first glance, how such a comical little man could command the respect that John could read in the faces of all those around him. Although Captain Bannerman was clean shaven, springy tufts of hair sprouted from his ears and nostrils, while his black eyebrows bristled like an angry hedgehog’s prickles. But everyone present, except for the pressed men, straightened themselves smartly and touched the brims of their hats.

  The captain’s eyes swept over the miserable huddle in front of him and John saw his jaw work, as if he disapproved of what he saw. His eyes, though, didn’t show contempt. It was almost, thought John, trying to read their expression, as if he pitied them.

  Captain Bannerman stood still for a moment, gathering everyone’s attention. Then he stepped up on to the first rung of the companionway behind him and cleared his throat.

  ‘Most of you men, I know,’ he began, ‘have recently been pressed into His Majesty’s service and have not volunteered to serve of your own free will. You will be feeling sad today.’ His voice was forceful and carried powerfully. Some of the pressed men groaned and nodded their heads. ‘But you are here, lads, for a noble cause.
The French are at the door of our nation. Bonaparte has swept through Europe. If he is not checked, his soldiers will soon be rampaging through the streets of our own dear towns and villages, killing, raping and setting fire.’

  The captain’s voice was rich and strong, and as his words rang out, his eyes settled on John. In them, John saw a fierce enthusiasm, which sent an answering shiver of excitement racing through him.

  ‘Though today, boys, you may curse the fate that has brought you here, tomorrow you will bless it, for you are now, each one of you, a man-o’-war’s man, you are joining the crew of HMS Fearless, the finest ship in the finest navy in the world, veteran of Trafalgar, praised by the great Nelson himself. You will be treated honourably. You will learn to be good seamen and brave in battle, and when at last this war is over, and you are at liberty to leave this ship and return to your families, you will know that you have saved them from a cruel fate, and served your country as her true and faithful sons. Mr Erskine, proceed to rate these men.’

  Chapter Nine

  The racket on the lower deck had grown even louder by the time John followed Mr Tawse, the master gunner, down to his new berth. Mr Tawse was small and moved neatly, like a cat, turning once or twice to check that John was following, and giving him each time an encouraging grin, which wrinkled his wizened face even more.

  Stepping over drunken sailors, avoiding dancing women and ducking under low beams, Mr Tawse reached at last a canvas awning that separated the lower gun deck from the cramped space at the stern of the ship. He lifted this, and John followed him inside.

  Only a little light penetrated through the gun ports cut in the stern of the ship. Two great guns stood at these, their barrels pointing out to sea. The rest of the small space was crowded with casks and crates, boxes and chests. A lantern hung from a low beam and, in the light it cast, John saw the faces of four boys turned towards him and four pairs of eyes looking him up and down.

  ‘John!’ said Tom Todd, jumping up from the chest where he’d been sitting. ‘Are you going to mess with us?’

  ‘Mess? What mess?’ John said, bewildered.

  A short, skinny boy, whose close-set eyes were watching John with no sign of friendliness, said, with sneering wonderment, ‘A little gentleman! And a regular landlubber! Stupid too. I’m not about to give the time of day to the likes of ’im!’

  ‘Hold your adder’s tongue, Nat Claypole,’ said Mr Tawse, cuffing him sharply round the head. ‘John Barr’s to be your messmate. That means –’ he turned to John and emphasized each point with a stab of his forefinger – ‘you eats here and you sleeps here and you works here and you learns here. You’re one of my lads now, and that means you’ll do just what I say.’ He paused, and added with a ferocious frown, ‘Even if I command you to put on a lady’s dress and dance a hornpipe.’

  John’s eyes opened in alarm, but the other boys grinned.

  ‘Or climb the mainmast upside down and sing “Come loyal Britons all rejoice”?’ sang out Tom.

  ‘Most certainly,’ nodded Mr Tawse gravely.

  ‘Or jump overboard and drown hisself,’ muttered Nat sourly, too low for anyone but John to hear.

  ‘Or . . .’ began the third boy, a heavily built young giant, whose brow was creased with the effort of thinking of something clever. ‘Or . . .’ He stopped and shook his head, looking confused.

  ‘Whatever you say, Davey,’ said Mr Tawse with a pat on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Now, my young men, it’s dinner time, and if I’m not mistaken, Mr Jabez Barton is approaching with viands to delight you all.’

  As he spoke, the canvas screen lifted and the big-boned, fair-headed gunner’s mate came in. He was carrying a wooden pail in one hand and a pile of loaves in the other, but what caught John’s eye and made him stare was the brilliantly coloured parrot that was perched on the man’s shoulder, lovingly nibbling his ear. And then the smell of hot salt beef stew hit his nose, and he realized that he was hungry. Desperately, ravenously hungry.

  The boys had scrambled to take their places on the sea chests which served as benches at the table. It was already set for a meal, with plates, mugs and spoons. John moved forward shyly and saw properly, for the first time, the fourth boy. He was slight, smaller than the others, with dark hair tied back in a pigtail. His dark watchful eyes were wary, but as they met John’s blue ones the boy’s face relaxed into a friendly smile.

  ‘I’m Kit,’ he said, ‘Mr Tawse’s servant.’

  There was a space beside Nat Claypole. John made to sit down, but Nat stuck out a sharp elbow and turned ostentatiously away.

  Kit frowned at Nat and shifted up to make room for John. Gratefully, John slid into the place beside him.

  ‘One more boy, do I zee?’ the man with the parrot said, in a slow, west-country voice. ‘Bless me, there’s boys a-coming up through the floor and out the gun barrels. There’s more of ’em every time I look.’

  As he bent to set an extra plate, mug and spoon in front of John, the parrot squawked and flapped its wings, revealing a gorgeous flash of scarlet feathers, and a stream of green goo shot out from under its tail and landed on the table.

  ‘That’s not nice, ’Orace. Not nice at all,’ said the gunner’s mate reprovingly, taking off his greasy neck cloth and wiping up the mess.

  ‘Is that his name? Horace?’ John dared to ask.

  ‘Aye. ’Tweren’t me that give him such a fancy name. ’Twas Mr Erskine. “That’s a fine bird you have there, Jabez,” he sez to me. “What’s his name?” So I sez, “Parrot, sir.” “Parrot?” sez he. “What kind of a name is Parrot? Call ’im ’Orace.” “Aye aye, sir,” I sez, so ’Orace ’e be, and ’Orace ’e’ll stay.’

  He had already ladled out a generous portion of stew on to John’s platter. John picked up his spoon, desperate to begin, but before he could take his first mouthful, Nat Claypole leaned across the table and pretended to slip, giving John’s plate a hard shove. It would have shot down into his lap, spilling all its contents, if Kit hadn’t quickly caught it.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh my, what an accident,’ said Nat, looking around at the others as if hoping for their approval, but none of them looked back at him. He flushed and began to eat quickly, his left hand holding tightly on to his hunk of bread, as if he was afraid that someone might snatch it from him.

  Mr Tawse and Jabez Barton with several other members of the master gunner’s crew had settled themselves at another suspended table beside the second gun, leaving the boys to themselves. No one spoke as they ate their meal. Although the stew was too salty, the meat tough and the loaf hard, John devoured his helping, and ran the last crust of bread round his platter again and again to soak up any remaining smear of gravy.

  He looked up when he’d finished and saw that the other boys’ eyes were on him.

  ‘Have you never been before to sea?’ said Kit. There was a slight foreign lilt to his voice.

  ‘No,’ said John, ‘and I never wanted to either. But my father was taken by the press gang, yesterday, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I volunteered.’

  ‘So where’s your pa now, then?’ said Tom.

  ‘He was sent to another ship. He’s on the Splendid.’ John answered gruffly.

  ‘Oh aye, the Splendid. Not a bad sea-boat. Only sixty-four guns though. We’re a seventy-four.’ Tom smirked with pride.

  ‘They told my father he was to be the captain’s clerk.’

  ‘The captain’s clerk!’ Nat said, nastily mimicking John’s voice. ‘An officer! Mind your ps and qs boys. Mister John’s daddy’s an officer.’

  Tom turned on him.

  ‘Stow it, Ratface. You’re a spiteful toad.’

  Nat took out a piece of cord and a pocket knife, turned his back on the others and began to fiddle with them.

  ‘Is that your bundle, John?’ said Kit. ‘Do you not have a chest to put your things in?’

  ‘You can share mine,’ said Tom.

  ‘Ain’t no room in yours, Tom,’ said Davey. ‘No room to h
ide a cockle shell in there.’

  ‘Have you been in my chest again, Davey Gow?’ demanded Tom angrily. ‘You made me a promise. No more rummaging. You said, after last time . . .’

  ‘I never rummaged, Tom,’ Davey interrupted anxiously. ‘I just looked. I never took nothing. I just . . .’

  ‘What have you hidden in it, then?’ said Tom, exasperated.

  ‘Only a little dead mousey,’ said Davey. ‘It had to go somewhere nice and warm.’

  ‘You put a dead mouse in my chest? You great looby. Don’t you know it’ll rot and stink and infect all my gear?’

  ‘It smelt good yesterday,’ said Davey, hurt. ‘I found it while I was mucking out the hen cages. I thought you’d like it, Tom.’

  Tom gave an exclamation of disgust, jumped up, manhandled Davey off the chest he was sitting on, and opened it. Holding his nose with one thumb and forefinger, he pulled out a dead mouse with his other hand and hurled it out through the gun port.

  ‘Don’t you ever – ever! – go putting things in my chest again, mind now, Davey.’

  Nat looked round and snorted.

  ‘You’re wasting your breath. There’s no telling that beef-witted bonehead anything. They ought to have dropped him overboard months ago.’

  Kit leaned over to whisper in John’s ear.

  ‘Davey fell from the rigging last year. He hit his head so bad. He was training to be a topman – one that works up with the highest sails. He didn’t speak for a long time, and now his wits are all confused. He just looks after the hens and cows. Mr Tawse says he’s getting better, though.’ He shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then spoke more loudly. ‘But it’s true what Davey says, that Tom’s chest is full. Mine’s half empty. You can put your things in mine, John, if you like.’

  He got up from the table and went across to a stack of long wooden cases that were lashed to the wall. John followed him.

  ‘What’s in all of these?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Muskets, pistols, cutlasses,’ Kit said casually, ‘for when we go to battle stations.’