Storm Tide Read online

  A murmur of disquiet went down the line. Coyningham stopped it with a look. The boy was too frightened to disobey. He undid the rope belt and let his canvas trousers drop. He was barely old enough to have grown hair on his balls.

  Coyningham studied him. One hand drifted to the crotch of his breeches.

  ‘I want to see your arse move. Up to the crosstrees.’

  The boy’s eyes widened in terror. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me,’ Coyningham repeated. He pulled out a watch. ‘If you are not at the main top in one minute, I will make that arse so sore you cannot sit down for a week.’

  The boy looked up. The crosstrees were two thin planks fastened to the top of the mast, so far up they were barely visible from the deck.

  ‘I can’t go up there, sir,’ Thomas pleaded. ‘I can’t climb a ladder. I get dizzy, I fall.’

  Coyningham snatched a starter rope from the master’s mate and lashed him across the buttocks.

  ‘Get up there now,’ he screamed in a sudden fury, ‘or I will throw you in the sea!’

  Another bite of the rope overcame the boy’s terror. He grabbed the shrouds, flailing like a kitten in a tree, and started to climb the ratlines.

  The men on deck had stopped what they were doing to watch. It was a blustery day, with a skittish breeze that made the ship twitch and roll. Every step that Thomas took seemed to make his limbs heavier. The higher he went, the slower he climbed.

  Eventually, he reached the main top, fifty feet above deck. He squeezed through the lubber’s hole onto the platform and slumped against the mast. Some of the men cheered, but Coyningham raised his hand to silence them.

  ‘You are not yet halfway!’ he shouted through a speaking trumpet. ‘On with you.’

  Thomas hugged the mast and would not move. Coyningham looked to the marine sentry standing by the main hatch.

  ‘Is that musket loaded?’

  The marine nodded. Coyningham took the gun, put it to his shoulder and fired it in the air. He was careful to aim well clear of the rigging, but Thomas was not to know that. He started moving again as quickly as if the ball had grazed his buttock.

  He had not gone more than a few yards when he stopped. He clung to the shrouds, pitching like a pendulum as the ship rolled.

  Coyningham’s face was crimson with fury. ‘On!’ he shouted through the trumpet. ‘On, or I will flog you to ribbons!’

  Thomas didn’t move. Coyningham handed the musket back to the marine.

  ‘Reload.’

  On the topmast, Rob saw Thomas glance at the sea below. The boy was too far up to see his face, but Rob could sense his desperation. He had seen it in Africa, in crippled beasts that could no longer drag themselves to the watering holes. A madness beyond reason, the moment when life became too painful to live.

  He means to jump, Rob thought. If Coyningham does not shoot him first.

  Before anyone could stop him, Rob ran to the shrouds, spun himself out on the channels and raced up the rigging, deft as an acrobat. Coyningham’s shouts followed him up, so furious Rob wondered if he might after all fire the musket into the rigging. If so, Rob would be in the line of the bullet. He kept climbing, over the side of the main top, scorning the lubber’s hole, and on up the topmast rigging. Thomas was just above him, peering down at the sea with a wild look in his eyes.

  The rigging was too narrow for Rob to climb up beside Thomas. He swung himself around on to the underside of the shrouds. If he let go, or lost his grip for a second, he would plummet to the deck.

  He came face to face with Thomas, the two of them swaying on the shrouds with nothing but the ropes between them.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rob told Thomas. Letting go with one hand, he reached around and put an arm on the boy’s shoulders. ‘I will help you.’

  ‘I cannot go down!’ cried Thomas. His face was a mask of tears, his body shaking like a feather. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Their faces were so close together Rob could speak gently, even with the wind whipping around them. ‘We still need to get you to the crosstrees.’

  Thomas’s eyes went white with terror. Rob grabbed his wrist and held it firmly against the rigging.

  ‘Do not do something you will regret,’ he said, in a calm voice. ‘If you give up now, Coyningham will have his victory and every man on this ship will suffer for it.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ The panic was returning. In a moment, Rob would lose him. And Rob could not stay where he was much longer. His right arm was beginning to ache from holding his body against gravity. The wind tugged at his body.

  He lifted the boy’s hand off the rigging and onto the next rung up. He held it there and looked him in the eye.

  ‘Keep your gaze on the horizon. I will help you to the crosstrees. You will show Coyningham he cannot break you.’ Rob nodded towards the deck below. ‘There are two hundred men who want to see you succeed. Let us give them something to cheer.’

  The wind whistled through the shrouds. The ropes creaked, canvas snapped and the waves broke around the hull. There was shouting on deck, but neither of them could make out the words. Rob held Thomas’s gaze so the boy had nowhere else to look, then slowly lifted his gaze to the horizon.

  Thomas’s eyes followed. One hand tentatively let go of the rigging and hovered in mid-air, trembling.

  He reached up and grabbed the next ratline. Then the next, and the next. Rob heard cheers from the deck. He followed Thomas up, whispering to him, the way he would to a frightened animal.

  They reached the crosstrees. Thomas hooked one leg over and hauled himself onto the narrow spar. He and Rob sat face to face, looking out over the implacable ocean.

  ‘I thought I would die,’ said Thomas.

  ‘I would not have let that happen,’ said Rob, though his stomach churned to think how close he had come. ‘We will look after you.’

  The climb down was quicker. Rob could feel the fear ebbing away from Thomas as the deck came closer and he learned to trust the ropes. A cheer went up from the men as he took the last rung and dropped onto the solid planking. Rob swung down on one of stays and landed beside him in the crowd of sailors.

  Angus handed Thomas his trousers. The boy tugged them on, stealing an anxious look at Coyningham.

  But the lieutenant had lost interest in him. He bore down on Rob as if he meant to floor him with a punch.

  ‘How dare you undermine my authority?’ he bellowed. ‘Master at Arms! Seize this miscreant and clap him in irons.’ He leaned in close to Rob’s ear. ‘When I have you chained down in the brig, you will see what I can do to you.’

  Then suddenly he straightened. The master at arms stopped midway across the deck and turned to face aft.

  Captain Tew had emerged from his cabin. He strode across the deck to where Rob and Coyningham stood. He had a stern face, with steel-grey eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He wore his hair powdered, an old-fashioned style, but on him it added to his authority.

  ‘I heard a shot,’ he said. ‘I do not care to have weapons discharged on my ship without my command.’

  The bravado had drained from the lieutenant.

  ‘I was . . . ah . . . testing the men’s suitability for working aloft. Giving them a taste of battle.’

  Tew nodded. He turned to Rob.

  ‘I saw you in the rigging. That was nimble work. What is your name?’

  ‘Robert Courtney.’

  ‘I need topmen like you who can work this ship within an inch of her life.’

  Rob touched his forehead. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Tew raised his voice so that all could hear.

  ‘But I cannot have men on board who cannot control their fear.’ He turned to Coyningham. ‘Courtney and the boy will serve as topmen in the larboard watch, under Second Lieutenant Verrier’s command. I expect to see the boy dancing on those yards like a monkey before we sight America.’

  Thomas went pale, but Rob whispered in his ear, ‘I will teach you.’

  Coyningham tried to suppress his fury. ‘And what of the punishment?’

  Tew cocked an eyebrow. ‘The man was helping his shipmate. I saw no disobedience. You may dismiss the hands.’

  Coyningham swallowed his pride. The men were smirking at his discomfort. Rob thought the lieutenant might explode with the effort.

  ‘Dismissed,’ he barked.

  He strode to the gunroom, while the men moved towards the galley.

  Rob wanted to thank Tew, but the captain had gone to the quarterdeck. He was aloof, untouchable once again.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Angus. ‘You have made an enemy of the Bloodhound, and Captain Tew will not always be able to rescue you.’

  Rob knew what he said was true. But on a ship a hundred and twenty feet long, what could he do?

  ‘It is a long way to America.’

  A

  fter that baptism of fire, the atmosphere changed aboard the Perseus.

  Rob loved his work. Whatever the hour or weather, he never grew tired of climbing into the lofty tops of the ship, far removed from the cares below. He was reliable and the other topmen trusted him. He was positive, always ready with a joke or an encouraging word, and they liked and respected him. They saw how he tutored the boy Thomas, coaxing him up the rigging every day, and they admired him for it. Day by day, Thomas grew more confident.

  Up on the yards, fixing lines or wrestling with the unruly canvas, there was an easy camaraderie unlike anything Rob had known. The topmen were his family.

  He loved the ship, too. The Dunstanburgh Castle had been a fine vessel, but she lumbered like an ox compared to the Perseus. All frigates were fast, and this one was the fastest in the British fleet. The secret, Rob learned, lay under her hull. She was the first ship to be given copper sheathing on
her bottom. The metal prevented weeds and barnacles clinging to her structure and dragging on her progress. Sometimes, when the ship heeled over in a strong wind, Rob would look over the side and see the edges of the copper skin still shiny from the shipyard. More often he was up at the masthead trimming the sails, for Tew was always trying to coax a few more knots out of his ship. Standing on a yard with the wind whipping around him, the ship plunging through the waves, Rob felt like a bird of prey swooping through the air.

  On deck, life was harder. Lieutenant Coyningham had not forgiven Rob for humiliating him in front of the men and the captain. Rob learned to dread the heavy tread of his riding boots marching across the deck. Being in the second lieutenant’s watch brought him some respite, but when Coyningham was on deck Rob always had to be on his guard. There would be some new humiliation – an order to scrub the heads, or find some rope buried in the bottom of the hold among the rats. And if Rob was not quick enough, the boatswain’s mate had a ready arm and a mean temper, which Coyningham gave free rein.

  ‘Why is he so cruel?’ Rob wondered, sitting with his messmates one evening. ‘He seems to have a kettleful of rage boiling inside him.’

  ‘He can’t bear it that he didn’t get command of the Perseus,’ answered Hargrave, the old gun captain. He had served five years aboard the ship, under her previous captain. ‘Last year, we was sailing home from Antigua when old Captain Tennant caught fever and died. Coyningham took command. He thought when we got back to London he’d be promoted captain – but he wanted to be sure. So when we ran into a Yankee privateer that had been sailing those waters, he sniffed a chance for glory.’

  Hargrave stared out of the gunport, as if he could see the enemy ship still sailing off their quarter.

  ‘We were near a pair of islands, with a reef running between them. The Yankee was a small thing, knew we’d win a fight, so she showed us her stern and put on all sail. Slipped across the reef and ran.

  ‘Coyningham ordered us to give chase. But the sailing master refused to do it. Said the water was too low and we’d tear our guts out on the reef. Coyningham swore and screamed, but the master wouldn’t bend. And the men was with him.’

  Rob could imagine the scene. The humid air, the desperate urgency, and the line of white water frothing over the reef.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Coyningham hanged the master for mutiny.’ Hargrave spat a wad of tobacco out through the gunport. ‘Would have hanged the whole crew, too, if he didn’t need us to get the ship home. Probably wished he had done, too, when we came back. Admiralty heard what had happened, blamed Coyningham for losing control of the vessel, and gave command to Captain Tew instead. So far as Coyningham sees it, it’s all the men’s fault that he lost his command.’

  ‘No wonder he is so harsh with the men,’ said Rob. Hargrave shook his head.

  ‘He always had a mean streak. Only now he don’t try to control it.’ He stared across the table at Rob. ‘Be careful. He looks at you and he sees a man that’ll stand up to him. One way or another, he’ll try and break you.’

  T

  hey had not been at sea a week when Rob witnessed his first flogging. One of the new recruits, a landsman, had sworn at Coyningham’s provocation and been charged with insubordination. Coyningham ordered a dozen lashes.

  The drummer boys beat the men to quarters. The marines lined up on the quarterdeck rail, bayonets fixed, while the victim was stripped of his shirt and lashed to a grating that had been leaned against the waist of the ship. The rest of the crew assembled on the main deck. The boatswain’s mate took the cat-of-nine-tails from its baize bag and swung it a few times to loosen his shoulder. The ropes fanned out in the air, nine thin strands each studded with tight knots. It did not look dangerous, but a dozen strokes would cut a man’s flesh to ribbons.

  Tew read the Articles of War. His lips were pursed in distaste – Rob could see he did not favour the punishment. But he was the captain, and he was obliged to support his officers. He could not allow any breach of discipline.

  The boatswain’s mate stepped forwards, cocked his arm and unleashed the whip with all his strength. The prisoner moaned and bit down on the leather patch between his teeth. Nine livid red weals blazed across his back, spotted with blood.

  A solitary drum beat a single stroke. Coyningham wiped spit from his lips on the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘One,’ he said.

  After three lashes, the man’s back was raw. After six, it was a bloody pulp. By nine, the cat was so soaked in gore that every twitch sent sprays of blood across the deck. Some landed on men’s faces.

  The drum beat for the last time.

  ‘Twelve,’ said Coyningham. His face was flushed, and there was an unsightly bulge in his trousers which he was discreetly trying to cover with his hand. ‘Cut the prisoner down.’

  The boatswain’s mate took a bucket of seawater and threw it over the sailor’s back. The sailor screamed as the salt stung his bleeding flesh, though it was the kindest thing they could do. With luck, it would clean the wounds and stop rot setting in.

  The men were dismissed. The sailor’s friends took him away. Rob was about to follow – he had saved his rum ration to give to the man to dull the pain – when he heard Coyningham’s voice behind him.

  ‘You are not dismissed, Courtney.’ Coyningham pointed to the blood that spattered the deck. ‘On your knees and clean it up. If I find one spot when you are finished, you will lick it off.’

  Rob knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Coyningham leaned in close. ‘Get used to it, Courtney. Soon enough, I will have a taste of your blood.’

  O

  ne day, Tew summoned Rob to the stern cabin. It was the most luxurious space on the ship, though even here you could not forget the ship’s purpose. Two hulking twelve-pounders sat fast on their tackles. In battle, the furniture would be stripped away and carried into the hold.

  Tew sat at a desk studying a chart. He barely looked up as Rob entered.

  ‘You see the book?’ he barked. A slim volume sat on the desk. ‘Read it.’

  Rob opened the cover. There was an inscription on the flyleaf in a childish hand: ‘To Daddy, Come back safely, love Edward.’ Rob turned hurriedly on to the first page.

  ‘“I was born in the year 1632”,’ Rob read, ‘“in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving off his trade, lived afterwards at York, whence he had married my mother, whose relations were named Robinson . . .”’

  He trailed off. ‘Shall I go on?’

  ‘That is sufficient.’ Tew pointed to the chart. ‘Can you show me our latest position?’

  Rob took a pair of dividers and plotted where he thought they were. He made a small pencil mark to show the place.

  ‘You are confident,’ Tew observed. His watch showed it was not quite noon. ‘The master has not yet taken his sighting today.’

  ‘I overheard him when he took it yesterday,’ Rob explained. ‘Knowing our course and speed, I would guess we are about here.’

  Through the open skylight, he heard the ship’s bell strike eight bells. Midday. There were shouts, and feet stamping across the deck above as the master gathered the midshipmen to shoot the sun with their sextants.

  ‘We will find out soon enough if you are right.’

  Tew sat back in his chair, studying Rob with his grey eyes. Unsure what was expected of him, Rob stood in silence.

  ‘You have the makings of a fine sailor,’ said Tew. ‘The men respect you. Even the old hands take their lead from you.’

  Rob blushed. ‘I only try to do my best, sir.’

  ‘Where did you learn to read?’

  ‘My grandmother.’

  ‘And navigation?’

  ‘Captain Cornish taught me on my last ship.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Outside the door, the marine sentry stamped his feet to announce a visitor. A freckled midshipman peered nervously in.

  ‘The master sends his respects, sir, and wishes to inform you of our latest position.’ He read a series of co-ordinates off a scrap of paper, then scurried away as Tew dismissed him.

  Tew took the dividers and plotted the position on the chart. He marked it with a small cross. It was a hair’s breadth away from the position Rob had reckoned.