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CHAPTER 8

It was not long before I had my first encounter with Mr Salter. I am grateful for the beating he gave me. Not because it filled me with hatred for my assailant, which it did, but because it filled me with determination to leave the ranks of the tavern scum at any price and attach myself to those of the gentlemen.

Following instructions, and imitating the Turk closely, I had climbed riggings, crawled along masts, hauled on ropes until my hands were raw, scrubbed the deck and done all the things that the deckmaster Mr Salter had demanded of us.

A strange sensation which had slowly been growing in my head somehow connected with my stomach. A feeling of unease, hard to describe, increased slowly as the day progressed until it filled my whole being with wretchedness. It was not long before I was wishing that I was dead.

The incident which precipitated my beating happened at the very highest point of the ship, on the main topgallant sail. The Turk was sitting astride the yard while I, in a state of terror, hauled at a rope following his instructions. From here I could see the other five ships of the expedition spread around us on the sparkling sea. They were rolling from side to side, and up and down, and corkscrewing, as the wind blew them through the waves. At this height the roll of the ship was greatly exaggerated. I seemed to remember a principle about leverage enunciated by Aristotle, but was too miserable and frightened to think it through. As the mast swayed from side to side the dreadful feeling intensified. 'Turk,' I said. 'I'm going to be sick.'

'It's the rolling of the ship, Scotch.' He seemed unaffected by it. 'Now catch this and heave. Harder, are you a girl?'

'How do I stop the ship rolling?'

'You cannot, foolish boy. But you will grow accustomed to it.'

I doubted it: far below me, several experienced mariners were hanging grey-faced over the rails. One of them began to vomit into the sea. It was too much for me. 'I must go down now.'

'You cannot, Scotch.' The Turk glared at me. 'Not until we have unfurled the sail.'

But I had to. At any cost I had to reach the side of the ship and empty the contents of my stomach as quickly as I could. Carefully, I sidled along the yard and picked my way past the Turk. To pass him I had to lean outwards, gripping him by his shoulders while feeling my way along the rope with my feet. A foot slipped, and for some seconds of horror I teetered between life and death on the swaying ship, while the Turk's nails dug deeply into my forearm. But I passed him, reached the mainmast thankfully, and began to clamber quickly down the ratline, the wind fluttering my shirt.

Mr Salter was looking up at me, his eyes a mixture of hostility and mystification. He opened his mouth to shout at me. Unfortunately, at that very moment, bile rose within my mouth and I retched out the contents of my stomach: a white frothy stream poured out, containing within it half-digested lumps of biscuits, dried fish and peas. Mr Salter tried to leap aside, but because of the rolling of the deck his jump was clumsy and my vomit went cleanly onto his head and down his jacket. There were gasps from around the rigging. Someone muttered, 'God, lad, he will kill you.'

I started to climb back up the rigging, wishing it extended to the clouds above, but Mr Salter's roar of command brought me down. He was using a handkerchief to wipe the vomit from his head and neck while I stood before him, trembling. Then he took off his jerkin and placed it on the deck, and slowly picked up the cudgel which he had dropped as he jumped. It was short, polished, narrow at its handle and broad at its base. He tapped it a few times in the palm of his three-fingered hand. He said nothing, but his brittle blue eyes were filled with fury.

The first blow was to my stomach. It was a hard, upward thrust with the cudgel, which he held with both hands. The blow doubled me up and put me to the deck, unable to breathe. Salter then hauled me up by the hair and began striking me on shins, arms, legs, ribs - anywhere he could reach. When at last he let go of my hair and I fell to the deck, the blows continued on my back and buttocks. I began to wonder if his fury would last all day and if I would be alive at the end of it. Then at last, while I lay prostrate and moaning, I heard a distant voice say: 'Now clean the deck, you Scotch bastard!'

That night, lying in my hammock, unable to find any sleeping position which did not cause agonising pain to one bruise or another, Mr Bowler, a Cornishman who had sailed with Frobisher in eighty-four, told me: 'He doesn't like you, Scotch.'

'Why not?' I could hardly speak. 'It was an accident.'

'You can read. You make him feel ignorant.'

'Aye,' came a voice out of the darkness. 'But at least it will keep Salter off
our
backs.'

'Keep up the reading, Scotch boy.' The sound of men laughing rumbled around the berth. At that moment I hated them all with a great and passionate intensity. And as I lay stiff and throbbing from a beating far worse than any my stepfather had ever given me, and thought, if only I had never left home!, I decided that somehow I would have to find a position below decks, away from Mr Salter and his needle eyes and his truncheon. For if I did not, the day would surely come when I would thrust my ballockknife into his stomach again and again and again, and that would be the end of me.

For several hours I turned every way I could, drifting in and out of nightmares, listening to the creaking of the ship and the snoring of the men around me, and smelling the stench of sweat and tar. Sometime after midnight I heard the rhythmic tap-tap of footsteps on the deck above. Someone was pacing to and fro, to and fro. The night-watch, I supposed.

Once, in the early hours, the sound of low, muttering voices came down through the hatch. Then, strangely, there was a muffled thump followed by silence. This was followed some moments later by a scraping sound, which I did not understand. It was consistent with something being dragged along the deck. And then there was silence again, apart from the thousand night noises of the ship. In other circumstances my curiosity would have been roused to the point where I would have gone up to investigate. But my exhaustion was too great and my bruises too painful for me to care.

By the next morning I was so stiff that I was unable to leave my hammock. My arms were swollen and every breath brought pain to my ribs. The Turk brought me water but I had no strength for the biscuit which he offered me, even after he'd broken it into pieces with his yellow teeth. Two mariners played a game of backgammon awhile, rattling their counters on the big table. But after that, the berth-hold was empty for much of the day and I lay alone, slipping in and out of half-sleep.

In the afternoon, the sound of feet coming down the hatch ladder wakened me from a bad dream. As my eyes focused I saw that Mr Harriot was examining me closely. He said, 'You cannot help me.'

'Sir?' My voice was a whisper.

'You have not been above deck these past few hours, am I right?'

'That is so, sir.'

'Aye. We have lost a Mr Holby. He was last seen at dinner yesterday.'

Mr Holby. One of the gentlemen. A faint recollection came back to me. Was it a dream? No, it was real. 'Sir, I heard a strange disturbance in the early hours of this morning. It may have no connection with Mr Holby.'

Mr Harriot said nothing, but his eyes encouraged me to continue.

'Two people were talking on the deck above. Then there was a faint thump, and then the sound of something being dragged. After that, silence.'

The man's expression did not change. Then: 'I hope you are not saying that Mr Holby was knocked down and dragged overboard?'

Uncertain what I was getting myself into, I said in some alarm, 'No, sir. I only report what I heard.'

'Did you hear a splash?'

'No, sir.' I struggled to a sitting position. My throat was parched. The wind was fresher and the sway of the ship was steepening. Through the hatch I saw dark, fast-moving clouds.

'What is your name, boy?'

'James Ogilvie, sir.'

'And what happened to you?'

'I vomited over Mr Salter, sir.'

For a startled moment I thought I detected a glint of humour in the man's eyes. I thought, I will never have another opportunity like this again. Boldness and desperation made me add, 'And I can read and write. And I have read the
Lives of Plutarch
and I know the propositions of Euclid.'

The man peered at me in astonishment, as if a cabbage had spoken to him. 'Indeed? What, then, is the theorem of Pythagoras?'

'That the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle equals the sum of the squares on the other two sides.'

His astonishment increased, and I could not help but add: 'And I have found a way to prove it other than by using shears and rotations of triangles in the manner of Euclid. I can prove his theorem by dissection. I take the large square on the hypotenuse and divide it into pieces which I can rearrange to fit exactly into the two smaller ones.' I remembered this well. I had played the game with sticks in our barn one afternoon while, I fear, our cow had gone unmilked.

He stood silently, his mind grappling with the notion of a speaking cabbage. Then: 'God's wonders will never cease. We will speak further of Pythagoras, Mr Ogilvie. But for now, you will tell nobody what you heard on deck last night. Keep your mouth firmly shut.'

'I will, sir. I will.'

On the stairs, Mr Harriot paused briefly and looked back at me, puzzled. As his footsteps receded, I almost forgot my bruises. I am not ashamed to say that I wept with happiness. I had told a gentleman that I was not tavern spawn, to be worked to death on the riggings. I would tell him of my new proof of the theorem of Pythagoras. Who could say, perhaps Euclid had been my salvation? Within the hour, stiff and light-headed, I was on deck again, breathing the spray-filled air and thrilled to be a part of this voyage.

But I did not have time to reflect on my good fortune, if such it would turn out to be. Mr Holby was still missing and a search of the ship was underway. The Turk spotted me and I joined him and Michael in the bowels of the ship. We carried burning tar-covered ropes for light. I was still unfamiliar with the ship and soon became lost as I followed the Turk down ladders and along dark corridors. The smell of wood-smoke was strong as we passed the galley. In the very depths of the ship, when it seemed the next stage down must be the sea, the smell was truly vile.

'Seawater in the bilge,' Michael explained to me.

'What is the bilge?' I asked.

Michael laughed. 'Scotch, it is the space between the hold and the keel. The seawater leaks into it and creates the foul stench. Is your ignorance so great that you will ask me what is the keel?'

I ignored him and followed the retreating Turk, whose flickering shadow reminded me of some genie. In the black hold we clambered around the barrels and sacks, while chattering and scurrying surrounded us and red eyes in dark corners reflected the light from our ropes. Once I accidentally trapped one of these large and dangerous creatures. It reared up on its hind legs and glared at me furiously. I stared uncertainly. Suddenly something hissed by me. There was a thump and a cry of delight from behind as the Turk's knife thudded into the body of the big rat. It lay quivering, impaled on a sack of grain. As I leaned over it I saw dozens of fleas spreading away from its body. Had I tried such a trick with my ballockknife I would have hit the rat with the hilt, or more likely have missed it altogether. The Turk didn't need to say anything; he saw the wonder in my eyes. His yellow teeth were exposed in a knowing, triumphant grin. A valuable lesson. My conceit after having defeated the four men in Southwark had led me to fancy myself as something of a fighter. But against such a one as the Turk, I was no warrior at all!

Now the effects of the beating were stiffening my muscles. Every time I moved I was in pain. 'You carry on,' I said. 'I will search for Mr Holby on my own.'

We split up. I had little doubt that Mr Holby had gone overboard the previous night, and that there was a murderer in our midst. But following Mr Harriot's instructions, I could say nothing about this.

It soon became clear that a man could stow away in the ship with ease. There must have been a hundred quiet corners where a body could have been concealed. I grew more and more confused in direction as I stumbled through storerooms and along dark passages, up and down ladders, sometimes coming across sacks of food, sometimes piles of wood, huge jars of olive oil, meat pickled in salt water, heaps of rope, bales of sailcloth, barrels of water and beer, racks of cannonballs. Rats were everywhere, in their hundreds or thousands. And when I thought I had explored every inch of the ship, I would find another room with another cargo. My tarred rope had all but burned out, and I was seeking a ladder to take me up to the fresh air, when there came a cry from the forward part of the ship.

There was already a crowd of sailors clustered around the barrels when I reached the unfortunate Mr Holby. At least I assumed it was Mr Holby. All we could actually see was a pair of bare, blotchy feet protruding from under a stack of beer barrels twice the height of a man. The dark liquid oozing out from around his feet was not, I believe, beer. It was blood from his crushed body.

CHAPTER 9

I had been spared the task of extricating Mr Holby's squashed body from under the barrels. A bell had summoned everyone on deck. Mr Salter was standing as we emerged from the hatch. There was more work to be done on the sails, and he bawled instructions at us. I did not think that the man knew how to speak in a normal voice. The wind was stronger but I no longer felt the
mal de mer,
as the French call it, of the day before, and wondered whether the beating had removed it from my body.

I could scarcely walk, let alone set about climbing. Mr Salter, seeing my predicament, approached me. 'Do you need help up the ratline, Ogilvie?'

I knew what the help would be. 'No, sir,' I said in a humble tone which by no means came naturally to me. I forced my limbs to haul my body up the ropes. At least I would be out of range of the cudgel.