Thoughts of leaving the ship had to be abandoned for the moment as our luck with the weather changed as we approached the Bahamas. The squall developed into a storm. The winds were so strong we had no choice but to run before them, heading north, far off course towards Florida. I fretted with every day that passed pushing us further from a friendly port. Life on board took a turn for the worse. We lost a man during the first night watch, blown from the yardarm like washing off a line. I feared for Syd, climbing up there with the topmen as the ship leaned before the wind like a drunkard staggering home from a Drury Lane gin palace. The deck was now a slope. Ropes were stretched from stem to stern to give us something to grab as we battled against the blasts of surf breaking across the planks. Dry clothes became a distant memory.
Most of the crew were depressed by the weather, exhausted and battered as the days passed. There were two notable exceptions: the captain appeared positively to relish the battle with the elements. He could often be seen striding the quarterdeck, water streaming from his cloak, yelling defiance at the skies.
‘Come and get me then!’ he crowed, shaking his fist at the lightning. ‘If you want to punish me, God, then strike me down!’
The lieutenants pretended not to notice their captain’s behaviour but the God-fearing among the crew muttered mutinously that he was calling our deaths down upon us with his antics.
The other person who seemed to welcome the storm was Maclean. In our hours together, he spent much of the time resting in his hammock with a satisfied smile on his face. I would have sworn that he’d been waiting for the bad weather. It did not take a genius to work out that he had a plan up his sleeve.
The crisis came the third night into the storm. Barton had recklessly piled on too much sail and, under the pressure of the gale, the foremast snapped like a twig. All hands were summoned on deck to clear the debris. In the hurly-burly below, Maclean moved among the crew with a purpose that had nothing to do with the task. Suspicious that something was amiss, I followed as the men turned out of their bunks and struggled up the ladder, my eye on Maclean who waited at its foot. There was no call for him to go on deck – as purser he was spared such duties – but he was clearly planning something. Frank staggered by, still dazed with his snatched sleep. Maclean moved in behind him, tailing him up the rungs. Quick as an eel, I squirmed in line in front of Nightingale.
‘Oy, Jimmy lad, this is no place for you,’ bellowed the bosun’s mate, grabbing my shirt.
I ignored him and emerged on to the deck in time to be deluged by an incoming wave. I clung on to the rope, searching frantically for Frank. When I spotted him, he was halfway across the sloping deck, Maclean just behind him, like two climbers roped together on a mountainside. The purser turned to look out to sea: a huge roller was coming in broadside. As it struck, Maclean kicked Frank’s feet from under him. From that moment, things began to happen in slow time. Frank crashed to the deck, lost his grip on the rope and began to slide in the wave towards the port rail, nothing but a piece of wood between him and the hungry ocean. Not even thinking of the consequences, I launched myself across the deck in pursuit, half sliding, half running, catching up with him as he collided with the side. He toppled backwards, about to go head over heels overboard. I grabbed his ankle in two hands and wedged myself against the side, holding on for dear life. His wet skin slid in my palms – his weight was too much for me to bear – I was being pulled over with him.
Suddenly, a large shape appeared at my shoulder, grabbed Frank’s belt and hauled him back.
‘You two, get below!’ the man bellowed.
It was too late for that: a second wave crashed upon us. Crouching over Frank, I clung on to a belaying pin, letting the force of the water push me against the side. It was like falling under the hoofs of a stampede of horses. When the deluge passed, I looked around me with stinging eyes. The man had gone.
‘Man overboard!’ I screamed, my voice pitifully thin against the wind. ‘Man overboard!’
Two sailors heard my cry. They threw Frank and me a rope and hauled us back up the slope. We fell against the hatch.
‘He’s gone!’ I choked as Harkness pushed me down the ladder.
‘Who’s gone?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know – a big man – the one who saved us,’ I gasped.
I felt sick with terror. It had to be Syd, didn’t it? Who else but Syd would’ve risked his life like that?
Harkness pushed his way through the men who’d gathered around us and disappeared back on deck. The interval of his absence seemed to stretch for eternity. Frank was white with shock, having just stared into the jaws of death. He didn’t seem to have realized what had happened. Harkness returned with Lieutenant Lely.
‘What happened, boy?’ barked the officer.
‘We’ve lost a man over the side, sir,’ I said, my voice raw with horror. ‘He helped me pull Frank back on board and then got washed away.’
To my surprise, Lely cuffed me round the ear, his face livid. ‘What were you doing on deck in the first place, boy, putting your shipmates’ lives at risk?’
I didn’t care that he was angry with me. I only cared that my oldest friend was probably dead. I began to sob helplessly.
‘Stop that snivelling,’ Lely ordered. ‘You’re in the king’s navy, not the nursery. Go to your hammock and stay there. The deck’s no place for a boy in a storm. Harkness, find out who we’ve lost and report to me.’
I hid in my bunk, shivering with misery. The moment of the accident flashed through my mind, again and again. I couldn’t believe it: I’d saved one friend at the expense of another. It was too much to bear; the whole thing was too much.
‘Are you all right, Kitten?’
Someone stroked my shoulder. I was dreaming now, or maybe Syd had come back to haunt me? I sat up so abruptly I fell out of my hammock on top of a very wet but warm body.
‘Syd! You’re alive!’
‘Of course I am, you daft Kitten.’
I hugged him so tight, I didn’t care who saw us. Then a terrible thought struck me. Someone had gone over – if not Syd, then . . .?
‘Who was it?’ I asked.
Syd shook his head sadly. ‘Nightingale.’
‘Oh no. It’s all my fault!’ I clung on to Syd, finding comfort in his strength. I wished I could just close my eyes and let him sort everything out for me.
‘No, it’s not.’ Syd shook me by the shoulders. ‘Listen, you’re a ’ero, Cat: you saved Frank. Nightingale was a fine man; ’e did what any self-respectin’ sailor would do: ’e went to the aid of ’is shipmates. ’E took the gamble and lost it; that isn’t your fault. Curse the weather, curse fate, but don’t blame yourself.’
‘Blame Maclean,’ I muttered, pulling myself together. I quickly told him what I’d seen. ‘Syd, you’ve got to protect Frank. After this failed attempt, Maclean’ll be desperate to finish him off.’
I spun round with a sick feeling that had nothing to do with the pitch and roll of the ship. Maclean was standing in the entry to the cabin, and I was in Syd’s arms. It was too late for pretence.
‘I see you know my cabin boy’s little secret,’ Maclean said to Syd, taking a step into the canvas-sided room.
My friend flushed with anger and his grip on me tightened.
‘If so,’ Maclean continued, ‘you’ll know that I hold her life in my hands; one wrong word from you and I’ll give her up to the captain’s justice.’ He spoke confidently but his eyes were shifty, watching Syd’s every move warily. He was clearly less than pleased that I had so formidable a protector.
‘Justice?’ growled Syd. ‘If there was any justice on this ship, you’d be in irons.’
‘That’s mutinous talk, man.’
‘No, it’s the truth, but it ain’t no surprise that you don’t recognize it,’ Syd spat contemptuously.
Wow, Syd, I thought, impressed by my friend’s comeback.
‘Understand this, Maclean, if you lay another finger on Cat, or Frank for that matter, then you’ll ’ave me to answer to. You won’t ’ave a chance to run to the captain, so you can stop bleatin’ about that.’
‘Threaten all you like, but you know there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’ Maclean seized my arm and yanked me away from Syd. ‘What are you going to do now, eh? Thump me? If you do, you’ll be locked up and well out of the way for many days for hitting a superior. Just think what I can do in that time. You certainly won’t see your sweetheart again.’
Syd was quivering with rage, his fists balled. Maclean grinned and put his arm none too gently around my neck.
‘Good, I see you understand. Now get lost. I don’t want you within six feet of my little cabin boy. Got that?’
Syd swung his arm.
‘Syd!’ I shrieked, pushing against Maclean so that he stumbled back out of range. The punch missed – just. ‘Don’t, please! For my sake!’
With a great effort at self-control, Syd turned on his heel and left the cabin.
‘Glad you know your own interest, my dear,’ chuckled Maclean. He released the grip on my neck. ‘Keep your friends in order and you at least might survive this voyage.’
Blown to within fifty miles of the coast of America, well off course, the Courageous did not look very brave after the storm. When the winds finally dropped, the deck had been so battered it looked as if it had been on the receiving end of the enemy’s broadside. The foremast was an ugly stump, our remaining sails in shreds. The first job was to get her back into a condition to limp to shore and this was why I found myself doing the last thing I expected.
‘Sewing!’ I groaned, sitting cross-legged with Pedro as we repaired what appeared an acre of canvas.
‘Chance for you to shine then, Cat,’ Pedro remarked as he made beautiful neat stitches up his side of the tear. ‘All those lessons with Mrs Reid finally come into their own.’
‘You forget, my son, that I was the one chucked out of the wardrobe department for my complete lack of skill with the needle.’ I threaded the twine through the blunt instrument I’d been given and attacked my side of the problem. ‘I don’t know what it is about me and sewing; we will never be good friends, I fear.’
‘Ssh!’ Pedro nodded to where the captain was striding among the men. Barton was a sight in his patched uniform, lace dangling from his sleeves like a hound’s slobber. If anyone needed the attention of a good needlewoman, it was him, but he appeared not to notice his own slide into slovenliness. He approached our little sail party and stopped just behind Pedro.
‘Excellent, my lad!’ said Captain Barton, patting his favourite on the head, treating him rather too much like a dog for my liking. He turned to my efforts. ‘Ah, it’s you. So, you thieving rascal, show me what you’ve done.’
It appeared that he wasn’t ever going to let me forget that accusation; I was marked as a bad lot. I held up my patch of canvas for inspection. It looked all right to me, much neater than my usual.
‘Can you do nothing right, boy? You’re mending a sail, not embroidering a lady’s petticoat! If you carry on making tiny stitches like that we’ll be here until doomsday. Mr Lely!’
The first lieutenant bobbed up at the captain’s side immediately. ‘Sir?’
‘See this boy gets extra practice at sewing.’
‘Aye, captain.’
My emotions had all been in a scramble since the terrible night of the storm. I almost burst into a fit of insane giggles. All my employers had taken this view of my handiwork, but for very different reasons. Too clumsy for the wardrobe; too fine for the sea. Of course, I bit back my laughter: far too dangerous to risk any show of emotion near the captain, let alone something that could be construed as disrespect.
The captain strode off and Pedro finally dared meet my eye. He said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t say it, Pedro!’ I warned him, knowing full well what he was thinking.
He grinned. ‘I was just wondering what Mrs Reid will say when I tell her that you were accused of doing too dainty stitches.’
‘She won’t believe you,’ I said flatly, setting to with more freedom now I had been ordered to speed up. The stitches were big but tight. Was this what was wanted?
‘No, I agree. It is far more incredible than the story of how you came to be sewing sails in the first place.’
Mr Lely paced back to inspect our progress. A heavy hand patted my shoulder.
‘That’s more like it, lad,’ the first lieutenant said. ‘We’ll make an able seaman of you yet.’
I felt a warm glow in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that had long been a stranger to me: satisfaction.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Carry on, carry on. The captain said to practise.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Lely strode off, hands clasped behind his back. I paused to thread my needle again, waiting till he was out of earshot.
‘Does what?’ asked Pedro.
‘If I’m getting extra sewing as a punishment, I’m definitely jumping ship.’
Pedro began to chuckle. ‘You endure the hold, storms, false accusations, half rations and I know not what, but it’s sewing that finally breaks you?’
‘Too right. It was the needle that broke this camel’s back.’
After the battering we had taken, the Courageous had to reach landfall before we could make ourselves fit for open sea again. Most pressing was the need to replace our water: ten barrels had been damaged during the storm when the foremast came down. The captain also wanted to replace the lost mast, which meant finding a tree of sufficient size to rig up in its place. All of this meant one thing.
‘It has to be Georgia,’ declared Mr Lely to Belsize as the two walked the main deck where I was sewing yet more sail. They didn’t notice the small person practically buried under the swathes of canvas. Pedro had gone with the rest of the men to collect their grog, but as I was on half rations, I would not get mine until the evening. No loss in my opinion: I still hadn’t taken to the stuff.
‘M-must we go to America, sir? Can’t we make it back to Bermuda?’ asked the junior officer, scanning the horizon suspiciously.
Lely shook his head. ‘You know I do not always see eye to eye with a certain person,’ he said and they both looked instinctively up to the quarterdeck, ‘but I agree with him in this. We have to risk rebel shores or risk dying of thirst.’
Belsize tapped his hands on his sides nervously. ‘A-at least we’re no longer at war – th-that’s one good thing.’
Lely paused and drew Belsize into the shadow of the stairs, the older man standing protectively over his young colleague.
‘That would be true – in any other ship.’ He looked furtively around, speaking in a whisper. ‘But our illustrious captain earned himself something of a reputation during the war. The Yankees still clamour for him to be handed over to answer for his crimes. If they find out he’s replenishing the ship on their territory, they’ll descend on us in force.’
Belsize’s inexperience showed in his shocked reaction. ‘B-but he’s an officer in the king’s navy – th-they wouldn’t do that!’
Lely gave a hollow laugh. ‘Are you so sure, Belsize? You’re too young to have served in the war, but these are still the same rebellious American colonists we are talking about. You expect them to respect the envoy of the king they rejected, especially a man responsible for a massacre of American civilians?’
I shivered, burrowing down into the sail cloth: I sensed that I was about to learn more than I wished about the demons that pursued our captain.
‘S-so it’s true then, sir? He did order the savages to pillage that man N-North’s estate?’ asked Belsize.
Lely dropped his voice another notch; I bent forward to listen. ‘Yes – though the captain told us then that he saw North as a leader of the revolutionaries and a threat to British rule. He thought the man’s family and loyal slaves were fair game too.’
‘What happened?’
Lely stood up and curled his lip in distaste. ‘He managed to persuade the rest of the slaves to turn on the family by bribing them with a promise of freedom. So Barton and his crew attacked at dawn with a party of Creek Indians. With the help of the slaves he’d bribed, they killed the whites and any loyal blacks that tried to defend the family, then retreated to the ship. A miserable business and it achieved nothing but bloodshed.’
‘So the f-family were k-killed by their own servants?’ wondered Belsize aghast.
‘Slaves, lieutenant, not servants. If you keep men like beasts, you should not be surprised when they turn and savage you. You can’t blame them really – the black slaves, I mean: by all reports, North was a cruel master.’
Belsize rubbed his hands in a nervous gesture. ‘B-b-but still, they betrayed their own master!’
‘In the hope of something better. For them, Captain Barton was their only chance of freedom; the proud boast of American independence was never going to extend to slaves. Still, the Yankees have never forgotten that day: they’ve mercilessly pursued those involved in the attack and I can tell you now that they’d be very pleased to get their hands on Barton to punish him for what he did.’
Belsize coughed as if he could already feel the halter at his neck. ‘S-so is it really wise to go ashore on American soil?’
Lely smiled, his gaunt features lighting up for a rare moment. ‘There’s a little place I remember – an island. The fort’s been abandoned for some years but the mooring’s still good. It’s very out of the way so the captain has decided to risk it.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Of course, we’ll all be in trouble if the American navy get wind of our presence. I imagine the captain will order extra gun training in anticipation of an engagement with the old enemy.’
‘And the inhabitants of the island?’
‘Friendly in the main. And the fort? Only the Creek Indians go there these days.’
Belsize gave a whistle. ‘You’re a g-genius, sir. They’re probably the only people in America that would give us a w-welcome.’
‘I didn’t say they’d welcome us. Their brief cooperation with the captain was some time ago. But I think we stand a better chance there than anywhere else within five days’ sail.’