The Way of the Warrior - Chris Bradford [4]
‘Don’t worry, boy, I’ve got you!’ grunted his saviour, as a wave rose to meet Jack and tried to drag him under again. The anchor tattooed on the man’s forearm appeared to buckle under the strain and Jack felt his own arm almost pop out of its socket as the Bosun hoisted him back on board.
Jack collapsed in a pile at the man’s feet, heaving up mouthfuls of seawater.
‘You’ll live. Natural sailor like your father you are, though a little more drowned,’ the Bosun smirked. ‘Now answer me, boy! What do you think you were doing?’
‘I was… running a message to my father, Bosun.’
‘That ain’t what I ordered. I told you to stay on deck,’ shouted the Bosun in his face. ‘You may be the Pilot’s son, but that’s not going to stop you getting a whipping for disobedience! Now get yourself up the foremast and unsnag the top gallant sail or else I’ll be giving you a taste of the cat!’
‘God bless you, Bosun,’ muttered Jack and quickly made his way back to the foredeck, aware that a lashing from the cat-o’-nine-tails was no empty threat. The Bosun had lashed other sailors for misdemeanours far less severe than disobeying an order.
Still, when he reached the bow, Jack hesitated. The foremast was taller than a church steeple, and pitching wildly in the storm. Jack’s fingers, already numb with cold, couldn’t even feel the rigging and his sodden clothes had become cumbersome and heavy. The problem was that the longer he stalled, the colder he would get and soon his limbs would be too stiff to save himself.
Come on, he willed himself. You’re braver than this.
Deep down, though, he knew he wasn’t. In fact, he was truly terrified. During the lengthy voyage from England to the Spice Islands, he had acquired a reputation for being one of the best rigging monkeys. But his ability to climb the mast, repair the sails and untangle ‘fouled’ ropes at great height hadn’t come from confidence or skill – it was born out of pure fear.
Jack looked up into the storm. The sky had been whipped into a frenzy and dark thunderous clouds streaked across a colourless moon. In the gloom, he could just make out Ginsel and the rest of the crew in the shrouds. The mast swayed so violently, the men swung like apples being shaken from a tree.
‘Don’t be afraid of storms in life,’ he recalled his father saying, on the day Jack had been tasked with climbing to the crow’s-nest for the first time. ‘We must all learn how to sail our own ship, in any weather.’
Jack remembered how he had watched all the new recruits attempt the terrifying ascent. Every one of them, bar none, had either frozen with fear, or else puked their guts out on to the sailors below. By the time it was Jack’s turn, the wind had got up so much the rigging was rattling almost as fretfully as his own legs.
Jack looked to his father, who squeezed his shoulders with loving reassurance. ‘I believe in you, son. You can do this.’
Convinced by his father’s faith in him, Jack launched himself at the rigging and didn’t look down until he had hauled himself over the lip and into the safety of the crow’s-nest. Exhausted but elated, Jack had let out a yell of delight to his father, tiny as an ant, on the distant deck below. Fear had driven Jack all the way to the top. Getting down had proved another matter…
Jack grabbed hold of the rigging and pulled himself aloft. He quickly fell into his usual rhythm, the comfort of habit providing some reassurance. Hand over hand, he rapidly gained height, until he could see the white crests of the waves as they charged at the ship. But they were no longer the threat. It was the relentless wind. Fearsome gusts did their utmost to drag Jack off into the night, but instinctively bracing himself he continued upward. Before long he was standing next to Ginsel on the yardarm.
‘Jack!’ yelled Ginsel, who looked worn out, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. ‘One of the halyards got fouled up. The sail won’t drop. You’re going to have to go out there and unsnag it.’
Jack looked up and saw a thick sail rope tangled in the rigging