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Authors: Oliver Bowden
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inexperienced and suddenly, tragically wondering if everything they said about me—Caroline’s father, the drinkers in the taverns, even Caroline herself—might be true. That, actually, I might not be cut out for life at sea.
“I’m here to join up,” I said, “sent here by Dylan Wallace.”
A snicker ran through the group of four and each of them looked at me with an even greater interest. “Dylan Wallace, the recruitment man, eh?” said the first. “He’s sent one or two to us before. What is it you can do, boy?”
“Mr. Wallace thought I would be material enough to serve,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident and able than I felt.
“How’s your eyesight?” said one.
“My eyesight is fine.”
“Do you have a head for heights?”
I finally knew what they meant, as they pointed up to the highest point of the
Emperor
’s rigging, the crow’s nest, home to the lookout.
“Mr. Wallace had me more in mind as deck-hand, I think.”
Officer material was what he’d actually said, but I wasn’t about to tell this lot. I was young and nervous. Not stupid.
“Well, can you sew, lad?” came the reply.
They were mocking me, surely. “What does sewing have to do with privateering, then?” I asked, feeling a little impudent despite the circumstances.
“The deck-hand needs to be able to sew, boy,” said one of the other men. Like all the others he had a tarred pigtail and tattoos that crept from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. “Needs to be good with knots too. Are you good with knots, boy?”
“These are things I can learn,” I replied.
I stared at the ship with its furled sails, rigging hanging in tidy loops from the masts and the hull studded with brass barrels peeking from its gun-deck. I saw myself like the men who sat on the casks before me, their faces leathery and tanned from their time at sea, eyes that gleamed with menace and adventure. Custodians of the ship.
“You have to get used to a lot else as well besides,” said one man, “scraping barnacles off the hull, caulking the boat with tar.”
“You got your sea legs, son?” asked another. They were laughing at me by then. “Can you keep your stomach when she’s lashed with waves and hurricane winds?”
“I reckon I can,” I replied, adding with a surge of impetuous anger, “Either way, that’s not why Mr. Wallace thought I might make a good crewmate.”
A look passed between them. The atmosphere changed a little.
“Oh yes?” said one of them, swinging his legs round. He wore dirty canvas trousers. “Why is it that the recruiting officer thought you might make a good crewmate, then?”
“Having seen me in action, he thought I might be useful in a battle.”
He stood. “A fighter, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you have ample opportunity to prove your abilities in that area, boy, starting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll put myself down for a bout, shall I?”
“What do you mean, ‘tomorrow’?” I asked.
He had sat down, returning his attention to the game. “Tomorrow, when we sail.”
“I was told we sailed tonight.”
“Sail tomorrow, lad. Captain isn’t even here yet. We sail first thing.”
I left them, knowing I might well have made my first enemies on ship; still, I had some time—time to put things right. I retrieved my horse and headed for home.
T HIRTEEN
I galloped towards Hatherton, towards home. Why was I going back? Perhaps to tell them I was sorry. Perhaps to explain what was going through my mind. After all, I was their son. Maybe Father would recognize in me some vestige of himself and maybe if he did, he would forgive me.
As I travelled back along the highway, what I realized more than anything was that I wanted him to forgive me. Both of them.
Is it any wonder that I was distracted and my guard was down?
I was near to home, where the trees formed a narrow avenue, when I sensed a movement in the hedgerow. I drew to a halt and listened. When you live in the countryside you
“I’m here to join up,” I said, “sent here by Dylan Wallace.”
A snicker ran through the group of four and each of them looked at me with an even greater interest. “Dylan Wallace, the recruitment man, eh?” said the first. “He’s sent one or two to us before. What is it you can do, boy?”
“Mr. Wallace thought I would be material enough to serve,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident and able than I felt.
“How’s your eyesight?” said one.
“My eyesight is fine.”
“Do you have a head for heights?”
I finally knew what they meant, as they pointed up to the highest point of the
Emperor
’s rigging, the crow’s nest, home to the lookout.
“Mr. Wallace had me more in mind as deck-hand, I think.”
Officer material was what he’d actually said, but I wasn’t about to tell this lot. I was young and nervous. Not stupid.
“Well, can you sew, lad?” came the reply.
They were mocking me, surely. “What does sewing have to do with privateering, then?” I asked, feeling a little impudent despite the circumstances.
“The deck-hand needs to be able to sew, boy,” said one of the other men. Like all the others he had a tarred pigtail and tattoos that crept from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. “Needs to be good with knots too. Are you good with knots, boy?”
“These are things I can learn,” I replied.
I stared at the ship with its furled sails, rigging hanging in tidy loops from the masts and the hull studded with brass barrels peeking from its gun-deck. I saw myself like the men who sat on the casks before me, their faces leathery and tanned from their time at sea, eyes that gleamed with menace and adventure. Custodians of the ship.
“You have to get used to a lot else as well besides,” said one man, “scraping barnacles off the hull, caulking the boat with tar.”
“You got your sea legs, son?” asked another. They were laughing at me by then. “Can you keep your stomach when she’s lashed with waves and hurricane winds?”
“I reckon I can,” I replied, adding with a surge of impetuous anger, “Either way, that’s not why Mr. Wallace thought I might make a good crewmate.”
A look passed between them. The atmosphere changed a little.
“Oh yes?” said one of them, swinging his legs round. He wore dirty canvas trousers. “Why is it that the recruiting officer thought you might make a good crewmate, then?”
“Having seen me in action, he thought I might be useful in a battle.”
He stood. “A fighter, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you have ample opportunity to prove your abilities in that area, boy, starting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll put myself down for a bout, shall I?”
“What do you mean, ‘tomorrow’?” I asked.
He had sat down, returning his attention to the game. “Tomorrow, when we sail.”
“I was told we sailed tonight.”
“Sail tomorrow, lad. Captain isn’t even here yet. We sail first thing.”
I left them, knowing I might well have made my first enemies on ship; still, I had some time—time to put things right. I retrieved my horse and headed for home.
T HIRTEEN
I galloped towards Hatherton, towards home. Why was I going back? Perhaps to tell them I was sorry. Perhaps to explain what was going through my mind. After all, I was their son. Maybe Father would recognize in me some vestige of himself and maybe if he did, he would forgive me.
As I travelled back along the highway, what I realized more than anything was that I wanted him to forgive me. Both of them.
Is it any wonder that I was distracted and my guard was down?
I was near to home, where the trees formed a narrow avenue, when I sensed a movement in the hedgerow. I drew to a halt and listened. When you live in the countryside you
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