‘Then why don’t you speak proper English?’
Billy-Boy laughed. ‘I am speaking it. But not to Captain Danvers.’
‘Why not?’
‘White men like to feel superior. So I speak like they expect me to.’
‘But not to me?’
‘You’re the first person to tell me we’re heading into danger.’ Billy-Boy glanced over at Captain Danvers, who was yelling something to one of the sailors leaning on a yard above the deck. ‘The captain just asked me about the winds. He didn’t tell me why he wanted to know. But why wait for a wind from the north unless the ship is heading into the stormy south, not to Calcutta?’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Yes, but only because I overheard the other sailors talking. We’re going to raid another ship. Steal its gold.’
‘Not steal,’ Ben said. ‘Win. We have permission from the Prince of Wales.’
Billy-Boy looked unimpressed. ‘I like battles,’ he said. He looked back at the land again, then at Ben. ‘And my name is Guwara.’
CHAPTER 10
Guwara had been right — the northerly rose early the next morning. For four days the Golden Girl sped south, timbers creaking, sails taut, the men yelling from yards as she did exactly what she was meant to do: ride the waves speedily and safely despite the rolling. They sailed far off the coast, in case ships heading to the colony wondered why they were heading south when the usual route away from Sydney Town was to the north. The land became a dim blue line again, against the richer blue of the sky.
Ben spent the first days at the rail, watching the distant land change: mountain ranges rose and fell; jagged islands rose from the sea, then vanished as the ship sailed past. A pod of whales passed far to starboard, leaping black and white against the rich blue of the sea.
He felt uncomfortable to be dressed like a gentleman in coat, breeches and boots, while the crew wore shabby sailcloth and worked barefoot. Back home, except for church or social occasions with other gentry, he had worn the same kind of clothes as his friends, even if his were newer. Nor was he comfortable standing idle while others worked, sanding the deck, furling and unfurling the sails as the wind strength changed, each watch busy until the ship’s bell called them off duty to gulp down a pannikin of salt-mutton stew in the galley, then sleep in the hammocks vacated only minutes before by the shift taking over from them. With more crew on board, the hammocks were in even more demand now than on the voyage to New South Wales. Ben tried to think of a job he might do on board. But the owner’s son could not scrub the deck, or pick maggots out of the mutton, nor did he know how to trim the sails or even navigate.
On the voyage from England, Captain Danvers had chosen his crew carefully: men he had sailed with several times before, who knew to show deference to the ship’s owner and his son. The new crew were surly towards Ben, most pretending they hadn’t seen him instead of greeting him politely. Even Guwara, so friendly that first day, ignored Ben now.
The sailors looked resentfully at this boy idly matching the coastline against his brown-paper map, a boy who’d go below to a proper bed in a cabin warmed by a charcoal stove, with a servant to serve his meals of colonial ham, cheese, preserved fruit, raised pies, oat biscuits and plum puddings made by Maggie on shore, all kept in oilcloth in the trunks in the cabin. Higgins brewed the Huntsmores’ tea or coffee on the small galley fire, and Mr Huntsmore drank port and claret from his private store, while the crew only had their daily ration of rum and water, with shards of the ice that rimmed the water barrels. The Huntsmores’ limited diet on the ship was more than most of these men had ever eaten, or could dream of eating — unless this voyage was successful and they shared the gold.
Slowly the sea lost its colour, greying as they passed Van Diemen’s Land, then turned west on that strange route across the bottom of the world that would eventually bring them around to the western coast of New Holland.
Ben spent most of his time in the cabin now. The winds were strong and unrelenting, and while this gave them speed, it also meant the Golden Girl rolled and lurched in the swell. A misstep on deck could lead to death. If a man slipped over the rail into the cold water, he wouldn’t survive more than a minute or two. And the ship would sail relentlessly on, unable to turn back into the wind. The waves spat icy froth, and some rogue waves rose so high they could even sweep away men up on the mast.
Weeks passed, and then months. Wind and water ruled here. Each day was a battle to survive them, a fight that Ben had no part of. But slowly, being in a small ship on a vast and dangerous sea faded into normality, and then to boredom. Even on calmer days there was little to see but sea and sky and the occasional flight of sea birds.
Ben re-read the dozen books he and his father had brought from England, including The Aeneid in Latin, added by Mama so he might not lose his proficiency. The voyage of Aeneas from Troy to Italy seemed irrelevant now, as did studying both Latin and the ancient Greek language necessary to enter university in England. Ben would almost certainly never go to Oxford as Mama had planned. If he were able to buy back Badger’s Hill — when he bought it back — he would never leave the place again. But what else was there to do except write in his journal? And there was little to note in that, beyond the distance the ship had travelled, the strength of the wind, or the storms that rolled him out of bed or crashed the china.
Mr Huntsmore spent most of his time in the cabin as well, leaving Captain Danvers to the lash of spray and bite of wind on the quarterdeck. For the first time he spoke to Ben about his life, long rambles about the deals he’d made, the wealth he’d won gambling with the Prince Regent. Ben lay quietly on his trundle bed and half-listened, preferring to remember Badger’s Hill instead, taking each detail out from his memory to treasure again. His father never mentioned Ben’s mother nor Badger’s Hill. Perhaps both had just been business speculations to him, unsuccessful ones. His father never talked of the deals or ships he’d lost.
Today’s story involved cargoes of slaves to Bermuda, and the profit to be made in cargoes of rum, port or sugar.
Ben muttered, ‘Yes, sir, indeed,’ in the pauses. At last he could stand it no more. ‘Excuse me, sir, I need to go on deck.’
‘Use the chamberpot,’ said Mr Huntsmore impatiently.
‘The wind has dropped and I could do with the fresh air,’ Ben lied.
He went up the companionway onto the deck. The sky and sea were grey again, and the world seemed leached of colour. The crew looked grey too, bundled in whatever clothes or rags of sail they could find, their feet wrapped in rags too. The wind blew harsh and strong, but at least today it was no longer a struggle to stay upright.
Ben had used the head — the lavatory seat at the bow of the ship — and was heading back when he saw it: a gleam of white like a giant tooth shining with blue shadows, perhaps two hundred yards away. He hesitated, not sure what he’d seen. But there it was again, the only colour in this world.
Iceberg.
His feet knew it before his mind did. He was already scrambling back along the deck to the quarterdeck, where the captain was pacing and talking to the helmsman.
‘Iceberg! Ahead of us, Captain.’
‘What?’ Captain Danvers wheeled around and peered ahead. ‘I can’t see. Are you sure, boy?’
‘There, sir!’ It was closer now. But still the captain didn’t seem to see the small white berg among the grey.
Then suddenly he did.
‘Iceberg full ahead!’ he yelled at the helmsman. ‘Hard to port, man, if you don’t want to face Davy Jones’s locker!’
The helmsman hauled on the ship’s wheel in an effort to pull the ship to the left of the berg.
‘Move to the rigging, ye sons of harpies!’ shouted Captain Danvers. ‘Run!’
Men ran, slipping and sliding. Hands hauled the sails to gain even more momentum so the ship could change direction. Too much and they would hit the iceberg before the ship could turn. Too little and the ship couldn’t change course.
Men clambered along to trim other sails and keep them taut.
The ship began to turn.
The iceberg loomed closer.
Ben could make out the mass of it below the water now, a small island of ice with only the tip pointing up into the air.
‘If we hit it, run to the ship’s pinnace,’ Mr Huntsmore muttered grimly as he appeared at Ben’s side. ‘It’s stocked ready for use. We take Danvers and two others, to sail for us and navigate.’ He handed Ben a pistol. ‘Shoot any other man who tries to board it.’
The pistol was cold in Ben’s hand. He shoved it under his belt, then covered it with his coat. He could shoot, as any country boy could shoot. But could he shoot a man who was desperate to save himself from ice and drowning?
He found Higgins standing close to him. ‘Just checkin’ you don’t slip, Sneezer,’ the convict muttered.
‘Or you plan to follow me to the ship’s boat if we hit the iceberg,’ said Ben.
Higgins grinned sourly. ‘That too.’
Could he shoot Higgins? He didn’t know. But he knew his father could. Higgins would be no use in the pinnace as crew or navigator.
The ship shuddered. For one flash of terror Ben thought they had hit the iceberg, but it was the wind gusting into the sails as they turned.
The iceberg loomed closer, almost at the ship’s prow. Close up it looked more blue than white. Ben stared at it, smooth, silent, deadly, almost luminescent, as if it held strange beasts locked in its heart, its tip so innocently small, with such vast danger below the water line.
And then, suddenly, it was gliding past them, or they had sailed past it. It was only yards away, but that was enough. The ship plunged onwards, further and further, till the berg was left safely behind.
Someone gave a hoarse cheer. Other voices joined in.
‘Where there’s one, there may be others. We need to change course, Mr Huntsmore, head north,’ said Captain Danvers.
Ben’s father stared at him. ‘That will lose us time. I’m not going to wait on the shores of New Holland if we miss the trading season this year.’
‘We may lose more than time if we try to sail through a sea of icebergs,’ said Danvers.
‘We saw one iceberg, Captain, and a small one at that. There is no need to panic.’
Danvers’s expression seemed to carefully not change. ‘It’s my decision, sir, as captain of this ship. I am merely informing you that I am making it.’
Mr Huntsmore frowned. ‘Wait. My son saw the iceberg before any on the ship.’
‘Indeed, sir. The boy has sharp eyes, even for a lad.’
Ben knew that scurvy and long exposure to the sunlight at sea meant sailors gradually lost their sight. Those few who managed to reach old age were mostly blind.
‘Then let him keep watch,’ his father said. ‘He’ll be able to tell if there are more icebergs.’
Captain Danvers hesitated, then shook his head. ‘In seas like this, the waves can hide a berg till we are nearly on it. We were lucky to be able to turn in time.’
‘Then send him aloft! He can see to the horizon from there.’
‘What? You don’t know what you’re suggesting, sir. I doubt the boy could even climb up the rigging to the top platform. Even experienced men fall in seas like these.’
‘Men weakened by scurvy,’ said Mr Huntsmore. ‘I’ll warrant my son is as strong as any man on this ship.’
Ben knew he wasn’t. He had been well-muscled from farmwork before they left England, but the fever and inactivity had taken their toll. He was suddenly aware of Higgins close by, silent, watchful, listening.
‘I want to go,’ said Ben.
He had watched the men clambering up the shrouds, suspended out from the mast as they headed up around the futtocks, no rope or net to protect them if they fell or a wave swept them away. The thought of climbing those ropes terrified him. Yet in a strange way, it was that very fear that made him determined to conquer it. If he was to share the Golden Girl’s fortune, then he should share the danger.
‘Well?’ demanded Mr Huntsmore. ‘If my son sees no more icebergs, will you continue on this course? There can be a stray iceberg even to the north, can there not?’
‘That’s true, sir. But sending an inexperienced lad aloft . . . With all due respect, sir, I captain this ship, not you.’
‘And with all due respect, Captain Danvers, as owner I can relieve you of your command whenever I wish. My son has volunteered for this. You can do it, can’t you, Ebenezer?’
Fear made Ben’s breath shallow. ‘I have watched how it’s done, sir.’
‘Sir, I do not think —’ began Higgins in his most servantly voice.
‘You are not paid to think, Higgins! Nor to give orders to my son or me. Ebenezer, here, take my coat.’
It was sealskin: waterproof and warm. It was also too long for Ben and would make it impossible to climb. He shook his head.
Higgins bent close to him. ‘You’re bein’ crazy brave. Don’t even try it, lad.’
Ben gazed up at the rigging again. Even the thought of letting go of the ropes for long enough to tie himself onto the top platform — if he managed to get up there — was terrifying and probably impossible.
But if he didn’t, they might miss the Dutch ships for another year — the spice trade depended on the annual monsoon winds. Another year before he could get Badger’s Hill back. A year in which his father might even be declared bankrupt. Ben suspected that if that happened, his father would not face disgrace by going back to London. He would take his gold to the Americas, or some other land where his name wasn’t known.
And what if there were icebergs already to the north of them? The Golden Girl might be wrecked even as she sought safety.
Captain Danvers gazed at him, evaluating. Ben could guess his thoughts. Ben was not crew, nor any loss if he vanished. If Mr Huntsmore wished to risk his son, then let him.
‘Very well,’ Danvers said abruptly. ‘If the lad can do it, and if he sees no more bergs to the horizon, we will keep course.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ben quietly.
‘Sneezer —’ began Higgins.
Ben shook his head at him, suddenly unable to speak. He did not even look at his father.
He slipped off his shoes and stockings. The cold air directly on his skin made him gasp as he walked across the rolling deck to the gunwales. He would have to climb up onto the gunwales and swing one leg out to reach the shrouds before he could start the long climb aloft to the top platform. For a brief period he would be outside the comparative safety of the ship and suspended, clinging onto the rigging, above the churning waves. Higgins was right. Ben had been crazy to agree to this. But if he didn’t, and if there were icebergs to the north of them, he might be doomed to death in the grey ice water anyway.
Higgins was still at his side. ‘Don’t look down, Sneezer,’ he whispered. ‘And keep breathin’. Terror makes you hold your breath.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘When you feel like your hands and legs are givin’ way, just remember it’s goin’ to be easier to get up there than tryin’ to turn round to go back.’
Ben wondered how many young thieves Higgins had coached to climb up to high windows back in London.
He wondered how many had survived.
CHAPTER 11
Two-thirds of the way up Ben knew he had agreed to the impossible. The rope under his hands and feet was wet and half-frozen, needles of ice digging into his skin. The ship seemed to roll in every possible direction, shifting with each wave or gust of wind.
He had managed to get this far only by calling on every reserve of strength. But now he had to go around the futtock shrouds, hanging on almost upside down till he could edge his way up and onto the top platform attached to the mast.
Don’t look down, Higgins had said. And yet he did.
The world lurched. White spray, grey sea, the tiny figures down on the deck. Almost all the crew seemed to be watching him, even the cook. Guwara’s dark beard was fring
ed with ice as he gazed upwards.
Ben realised he was holding his breath, just as Higgins had warned. He breathed, then breathed again. Higgins was right. He didn’t have the strength to get back down. He had two choices: to let go and die, or keep going.
He stretched out his hand again, trying to push his feet against the rope to support his body as best he could. One hand up, another, then another . . . He was nearly there.
And now the last push up onto the platform.
His hand grabbed wood, then slipped on the thin layer of ice coating the top. He felt his body fall. But one hand still gripped the rope and one foot was still wedged against a ratlin. He tried again, digging in with his fingernails now, pushing with his feet, a mighty lurch that took him up and over.
A length of rope like a rat’s tail curved across the platform. His numbed hands managed to tie it around his waist. He leaned back against the mast, crying in pain, terror and relief.
Somehow the tears gave him strength. He had not been able to cry before, not where someone could hear him. But only the wind and clouds saw his tears now, and even then they froze on his cheeks almost instantly.
At last he realised someone was yelling below. It was Captain Danvers, demanding to know what he could see. Ben suddenly remembered why he was up there. He cleared the tears from his eyes and peered at the sea ahead of them.
Captain Danvers had been correct. Down on the ship, the view was obscured by waves. Here, the grey horizon stretched all around, broken only by froth and the deeper grey of currents. And there was the first iceberg he had seen. Its gleam gave him confidence that he could recognise others.
But no matter how carefully he searched the horizon, there were no more to be seen.
‘All clear!’ he yelled, wondering if the captain could hear above the groans of the hull, the wind whistling through the rigging and the slap of waves. He made a chopping gesture, hoping Danvers would understand that. Evidently he did, for the ship did not change course.
Pirate Boy of Sydney Town Page 8
