The Way of the Warrior - Chris Bradford [3]
Jack recovered his footing as a jagged line of lightning scorched its way across the night sky and struck the main mast. For a brief moment, the entire ship was illuminated by a ghostly light. The three-masted ocean trader was in turmoil. Her crew were scattered across the decks like pieces of driftwood. High up on the yardarm, a group of sailors battled against the wind, attempting to furl the mainsail before the storm ripped it away, or worse, capsized the ship entirely.
On the quarterdeck, the Third Mate, a seven-foot giant of a man with a beard of fiery red hair, was wrestling with the wheel. Beside him was Captain Wallace, a stern figure who shouted commands at his crew, but all in vain; the wind whipped his words away before anyone could hear them.
The only other man on the quarterdeck was a tall and powerful sailor with dark brown hair tied back with a thin piece of cord. This man was Jack’s father, John Fletcher, the Pilot of the Alexandria, and his eyes were fixed on the horizon as if hoping to pierce the storm and seek out the safety of land beyond.
‘You lot!’ ordered the Bosun, pointing at Jack, Ginsel and two other crewmembers. ‘Get yourselves aloft and unfurl that topsail. Now!’
They immediately headed for the bow of the ship, but as they crossed the main deck to the foremast, a fireball plummeted out of nowhere – straight towards Jack.
‘Watch out!’ cried one of the sailors.
Jack, having already experienced several full-on attacks from enemy Portuguese warships during the voyage, instinctively ducked. He felt the rush of hot air and heard the deep howl as the fireball flew past and plunged into the deck. However, the impact was unlike the sound of a cannonball. It didn’t have the same fearsome crack of iron against wood. This was dull and lifeless as if it were a bale of broadcloth. With sickening horror, Jack’s eyes fell upon the object now at his feet.
It was no fireball.
It was the burning body of one of the crew, struck dead by the lightning.
Jack stood transfixed, sickness rising from the pit of his stomach. The dead man’s face was etched in agony and so disfigured by fire that Jack could not even recognize him.
‘Holy Mary, mother of God,’ exclaimed Ginsel, ‘even the Heavens are against us!’
But before he could utter another word, a wave crested the rail and swept the body out to sea.
‘Jack, stay with me!’ said Ginsel, seeing the shock rise in the boy’s face. He grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and tried to pull him towards the foremast.
But Jack remained rooted to the spot. He could still smell the charred flesh of the dead sailor like an overcooked pig on a spit.
This was by no means the first death he had witnessed on the voyage and he knew it would not be the last. His father had warned him that crossing both the Atlantic and the Pacific would be fraught with danger. Jack had seen men die from frostbite, scurvy, tropical fever, knife wounds and cannon shot. Still, such familiarity with death did not make Jack numb to its horror.
‘Come on, Jack…’ urged Ginsel.
‘I’m just saying a prayer for him,’ Jack finally replied. He knew he should follow Ginsel and the rest of the crew, but the need to be with his father at this very moment outweighed any duty to the ship.
‘Where’re you going?’ yelled Ginsel, as Jack ran for the quarterdeck. ‘We need you aloft!’
Jack, though, was lost to the storm, struggling towards his father in a chaotic battle against the elements as the ship pitched and rolled.
He had barely managed to reach the mizzenmast when another colossal wave ploughed into the Alexandria. This one was so powerful that Jack was whipped off his feet and washed across the deck, all the way to the larboard rail.
The ship lurched again and he was tossed over the side, swallowed whole by the dark seething ocean…
2
RIGGING MONKEY
Jack braced himself for the final impact into the sea, but his body was unexpectedly jerked upright and he found himself hanging over the edge of the ship, the ocean rushing violently beneath him.
Jack