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
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
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