Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [80]
Jackie Rudd sat with his head back against the hull, chained wrists hanging between his knees so that with each vibration the links clattered. He could not believe his life had veered course so dramatically within the space of two or three days. This time last week he had been at home in Scarborough with nothing more to worry about than having ample bait for the next day’s fishing and enough bright copper pennies to fill his mug with ale at the King Richard. Then had come the cart journey over the moors to see his dying uncle.
Whitby would always conjure wonderful memories now, the place where his body had fully woken. The pressure of Dorry Aim’s thighs against him, and her breasts, warm and soft in his hand. Her lips pliant under his. The promise of fulfillment she had made where Rose always held him at arm’s length. The smell of Dorry. The feel of her. He had only just rattled the gates, the mysteries ready to unfold when he had been called away, the taunting of the Whitby men ringing in his ears while they fished away the night. And now this, chained like an animal in filth.
His anger had no release. Frustration drew a tight cage about his lungs, hands flexing until his wrists were sore from the chafing of iron manacles. If only he knew what was happening above. The most frightening thing about cannon fire was ignorance. He would have given anything to know. Beside him, a sailor was bowed forward, gray streaked hair hanging over hands pressed together. Jackie could hear the man’s confession as he prepared for his entry to the next world. Jackie grimaced. That was the furthest thing from his mind. He was concerned with the here and now, not tomorrow. Fire and brimstone meant nothing. He had only just begun and there was so much living to do. No, he was not going to die here, not if he could help it.
“Oh, Holy Mother of God, save us!” a man bawled halfway along the hull. Not another one, Jackie thought as a man struggled to his knees, straining to shuffle inboard. As he pulled, every man along the line had his chains jerked. Jackie leaned forward to shout at him, then his mouth hung open as he saw the jet of seawater spouting from the hull timbers where the man had been sitting. A plank had sprung!
Abruptly, everybody was shouting with fear. To drown, chained below! Men were fighting each other to get to their feet. One man staggered and fell, before the whole line collapsed like dominoes. At the far end a crowd of prisoners clamored at the door, hammering with their fists, pleading.
“Let us out, for the love of God! We’re sinking!”
CHAPTER 6
Lieutenant Dale came to his feet and moved aft, grimacing, running the gauntlet of the English sharpshooters across the debris-scattered deck. Amidships, he stumbled over a tangle of ratlines ripped from the mainmast. Hands grabbed at his uniform. Splinters of raw wood tore at his knees and elbows as he was dragged under a bulwark. A small knot of men were fighting from there, marines and sailors helping each other.
Wiping smoke-sore eyes, Dale squinted into the anxious face of Henry Gardner, the chief gunner. Before the battle started, Gardner had been the very model of a sailor; cool, confident, watching over his cannon and demanding nothing less than perfection. Now he was a wreck, as dirty and tired as any of them, but his face was contorted by nerves, watery eyes blinking rapidly. For a moment Dale could not reconcile the two images, mentally deaf to the gunner’s chattering. Then Gardner fell silent, staring at him expectantly. When Dale said nothing, Gardner began to shake him like a dummy.
“Don’t you think I’m right?”
“About what?”
“Don’t you agree we should strike? We’ve lost all our cannon. What good are muskets against that man-o’-war’s eighteen-pounders, for God’s sake? Johnson here has been below and Richard’s got no bottom left in her. He says the water’s pouring into the bilges! We’ll be at the bottom