John McPake and the Sea Beggars

by Stuart Campbell

  John grabbed his head with both hands.

  ‘You can’t squeeze us out, John.’

  He blundered his way back through the double doors, into the fresh air and the dying light where a square woman in a headscarf was scattering bread for the gulls. He concentrated hard on their demonic squawking hoping to drown out the Voices. To an extent he succeeded as his protagonists’ banter merged into white noise somewhere in the back of his brain. The woman looked at him oddly. A moment later Mick emerged from the arcade propelled by the proprietor’s boot. As he regained his balance he swung his leg at the gulls scattering them. ‘Wee scavenging bastards!’ he shouted. ‘And you, you old witch, get to … ’

  Mick waited until the muttering woman had waddled off and the gulls had flown to forage elsewhere before stooping to pick up the abandoned crusts.

  ‘Good bread, wasted on they birds,’ he ventured before stuffing his mouth with his recycled spoils like a hamster preparing to hibernate. ‘You want some?’ John shook his head.

  ‘Eat when you can, my son. An army marches on its stomach.’ The two men walked along the promenade in an ostensibly companionable silence that masked their radically different internal worlds.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Unable to sleep, Johannes disentangled his limbs for those of his companions. The ship seemed to creak even louder in the dark as his head rubbed against a beam in a rhythm dictated by the swell. The snoring from the rest of the crew brought to mind his neighbour’s pigs foraging hard against the wattle fence that enclosed his own ground. Antonia, convinced that the beasts were eating her cabbages, had insisted that he build the fence. Johannes tried in vain to explain that he had on several occasions chased Klaas the simpleton off the patch, his arms loaded with vegetables. No, it was the pigs. Michel had sided with his father but had been slapped for his

  pains.

  Johannes stretched and moved his head from side to side. ‘Soon, my son. Soon.’

  One of the waterguezen was in the grip of a nightmare. The man alternately simpered, shouted and then spoke incomprehensibly in the voice of a small child. Someone else complained and threw a drinking vessel in his direction but it missed its target, clattering against the hull. The sleeper continued to act out all parts in his internal mummers’ play, now the angel, now the ogre.

  Treading as carefully as he could over the sleeping bodies Johannes made slow progress towards the single shaft of moonlight that illuminated the ladder leading to the hatch. One of the sleepers touched his leg as if coaxing a reluctant lover back into bed.

  On the deck, Johannes gasped with the shock of cold air and the bilious sensation of the stars rising and dipping under the horizon as the ship rode the waves, the silhouette of the motionless watchman on the prow. A single cloud slit the moon for an instant, a mercenary’s knife dragged silently across a white face.

  When he was a child, his own father had taught him to recognise the stars. He told him how the hunter’s bow always pointed towards the mortally wounded swan diving head first through the firmament, and how the twins could never be separated despite the best efforts of the jealous gods. The dancers too had been thrust into perpetual exile for violating the Sabbath while the bootmaker’s last tumbled towards the earth. Despite years of trying Johannes had never been able to locate the corners of the weaver’s loom that his father swore fixed the edges of the sky and stopped it crashing to earth. The explanation was always the same, only the most favoured of Guild members were allowed to see God’s own loom.

  Eager to exorcise the sleep from his limbs, Johannes worked his way towards the fo’c’sle by holding onto the rope strung the length of the deck, his stomach lurching in time with the swell which seemed to be growing stronger.

  When the plague visited his village during his parents’ time most of the young men fled to the coast to find work on the fishing boats laden with their silver hauls of elvers and mackerel. Johannes chose to stay and face the skeletal reaper culling the hearts out of home and family. He was less disturbed by the nocturnal psalm of widows’ cries than the siren calls of the deep ocean. The notion propagated by the parish priest that Christ was a fisher of men provoked a nightmare of dripping bodies hooked through the lip being hauled ashore by a statue with a bleeding heart. He was tasting some of that fear again as the vessel plummeted ever deeper into dark troughs.

  Candlelight danced on the planks beneath the partially open fo’c’sle door. Johannes approached and peered through the gap. The three semi-naked nuns stirred uneasily on a red bed of plundered rugs. The Leader, his back to the door, ran his hands through a tumbling cascade of amber beads, kissing with the ardour of a penitent.

  Johannes backed away.

  The ship woke with the dawn. Several crew members bedraggled by sleep and discomfort emerged from the hatch and went to their allotted stations. Eventually Balthasar and Cornelius appeared and greeted their companion. ‘I hate the sea,’ mumbled Cornelius, stretching his arms above his head before bringing them down and wrapping them round his sides. ‘It’s as cold as the devil’s arse.’

  ‘You would think the devil’s arse would be roasting,’ said Balthasar, gazing across the expanse of sea visible when the ship was borne upwards on a crest.

  ‘It can’t be far to Utrecht,’ said Johannes. ‘Dry land and wages to buy bread. God willing we will find Michel.’

  Their musings were interrupted by a voice from above. Looking up they saw a geuzen shouting angrily at them from a tiny platform halfway up the main mast.

  ‘You lazy Dutch turds! Get up here now, cowardly pig shaggers!’ His gestures left them in no doubt that he expected them to join him on his elevated perch. Sighing, Cornelius took the lead and started the ascent. The hempen ladder swung violently until he was facing the opposite direction, meanwhile the twisted grip dug deep into his palms.

  Balthasar steadied the ladder and started to climb. By the time Johannes joined them they were being buffeted by a malevolent wind, determined to hurl them back onto the deck. Eventually they joined their taskmaster on his platform when his pustulated face identified him as their earlier guide to life below deck. All three stood shaking, their arms intertwined round the mast. With the dexterity of a small goat, their tormentor lowered himself onto the spar that ran from the platform and with his legs dangling, pulled himself towards the tip that rose and dipped. By violently jerking his neck and cursing he made clear that he expected his reluctant apprentices to follow.

  Johannes glanced down at the distant sea and felt a terror he had not experienced since he realised that the Spanish had abducted his son but, from somewhere, found a strength that made a mockery of his position. Emboldened by whatever power had taken control of his limbs, he led the way and moved arm over arm towards the carbuncled smirking sailor wallowing in his power. Cornelius and Balthasar followed.

  Their task was to release the sail furled beneath the spar. Cornelius kicked out, only to snag the canvas on Balthasar’s legs. The older man felt his strength draining as he thrashed like a drowning man. In an instant the sail was free and swelling, harvesting the wind. Feeling the sail bucking and billowing beneath them the men shared a frisson of pleasure.

  Back on deck and distinctly unsteady on their legs the companions rested against a cannon that alternately had the sky and the sea in its sights as the ship soared and plunged.

  ‘We should be in Rotterdam by now,’ said Cornelius, looking anxiously at the dipping horizon. His comment had been overheard by Ulriche who had been standing motionless, his beak-like nose pointing into the wind. For no apparent reason he turned and faced the opposite direction. The gesture disconcerted Cornelius, who interpreted it as confirmation of his growing suspicion that they were travelling westwards.

  Balthasar got the attention of a sailor struggling under the weight of an enormous barrel balanced on one shoulder. ‘Where are we headed?’ he asked.

  ‘England,’ replied the man without breaking his stride. Before he could reply the ship was s
eized by a wall of water and pitched towards the sky. The men were torn from the cannon and thrown like inn skittles in the direction of the fo’c’sle, where they landed on top of each other. The vessel continued to climb, prow foremost, clawing its way up the side of the wave. There was no horizon, just rushing water. They were soon joined by the barrel that travelled towards them as if catapulted by a siege engine, hurling itself against the now closed door where it disintegrated in a flurry of staves and thick black liquid. The terrified screams of the nuns echoed the screech of the gale and, for a moment, all motion ceased as the ship balanced on the crest, a tiny wren held motionless on a zephyr. Then the plummeting descent: the wooden bones, sinews and knuckles of the ship snapped and creaked and men were thrown back along the deck along with ropes, sails and the contents of a tool chest torn from its moorings.

  FORTY

  Chris Evans filled the dining room with false jollity. The jingles, catch phrases, bantering weather forecasters and surreal titbits of tabloid news provided the aural wallpaper as the residents trooped in. Out of habit John took his seat close to the fireplace. He felt distinctively queasy and had no appetite. Mick pulled his beanie even further down over his eyes, as if restricting his own field of vision would somehow make him less visible to others; a known toddlers’ trick.

  ‘The conquering hero returns,’ shouted Kevin as half of Dennis’ face appeared round the dining room door.

  ‘The spectre at the feast,’ contributed Mick.’ The half face instantly disappeared.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ said Derek. ‘It’s hard enough for Dennis without you all staring.’

  ‘Come and sit here, Dennis,’ said Jack.

  ‘That’s my seat!’ shouted Paul, barely looking up from his book as he entered. ‘My seat.’ He swept in and sat down with the pouting petulance of a teenager. Muttering to himself, he spooned sufficient sugar into his cup to displace any residual liquid and then stared intently at page 127, paragraph three, of Nostromo.

  Dennis returned to his room.

  ‘Any sign of that brother of yours?’ Kevin wheedled.’ What with that postcard and all.’

  John shook his head.

  ‘Just missed him,’ said Mick. ‘Close mind, we were on his tail but they kept him moving, yon arcade at Porti’s in the hands of the tartan mafia. Masons ken, capitalist bastards taking the pennies from poor folk. John’s brother had no chance in there. They moved him on, probably rotting in some jail with Jihadi suspects. Guantanamo Bay most like. Orange jump suits. He’s been tangoed, mark my words.’

  John stared at him blankly.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ said the Bastard, the first Voice of the day. Most days John was woken by the Voices, invariably bored by the hours wasted while he slept, eager to re-engage, chatter and bitch among themselves. He had long since abandoned the hope that one day he would wake and discover that all of his unwanted house guests had packed and gone and his thoughts were his own. Luxuriating in the silence, he would wander round the house plumping up cushions and collecting the half empty wine glasses abandoned by the virtual lodgers who had left in a hurry. There would be no one waiting to criticise, make fun or pontificate.

  ‘Bad times, eh, John?’ said the Bastard who had been listening all the while. John knew his tone of sympathetic complicity did not auger well, and he was on guard. ‘Better now, isn’t it, enjoying a breakfast surrounded by some of the least functional human beings on the planet. Cornflakes with the truly flaky, toast with the toxically mad … eggs made from scrambled brains … ’

  Before he could get into his stride an alarm sounded, Beverley’s door opened and she ran up the stairs where Derek was shouting for help. All of the residents poured out of the dining room except Paul who looked up unconcerned before sipping his tea and committing another paragraph to memory. Several cups spilled onto the tablecloth. The door to Dennis’ room was open. Dennis was hanging from the ceiling with Derek draped round his legs.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ said Derek, straining to take the weight off the light cord. Linda the cook, who had conveniently joined the rush upstairs holding a kitchen knife, pushed her way though and climbed onto the chair that Beverley had placed alongside Derek. Linda swore under her breath and hacked at the cord until the last fibres gave way. Derek fell backwards underneath Dennis’ body to the stained carpet where they lay like lovers whose exertions had exhausted them. As if horrified by what it was witnessing, Dennis’ budgie squawked hysterically from its cage on the mantelpiece. Kevin flicked his middle finger in its general direction.

  The residents were silent apart from Mick who muttered something about enemies of the people hiding in the room. Surprisingly, Kevin was lost for anything cruel to say. Paul, who had finally abandoned Nostromo, was visibly distressed.

  John moved into the room, knelt down and touched Dennis’ legs with a gesture of inexpressible tenderness.

  ‘As if you care!’ said the Bastard.’ There but for fortune … Dennis was a useless cretin anyway … ’

  Shut up! Shut up! I’m telling the story and do not need your poisoned observations.

  John untied Dennis’ shoes, pulled them gently from his feet and laid them side-by-side.

  Derek moved Dennis into the recovery position, talking to him all the while, ‘Come on Dennis, come on Dennis.’

  ‘Why is it that the recovery and the foetal position are similar?’ mused the Academic.

  The noise emanating from Dennis’ throat proved not to be a death rattle despite Kevin’s enthusiastic interpretation of the sound. He gradually recovered and tried to sit up. John helped him into a more upright position and left his hand on his shoulder while Beverley fled downstairs to phone for an ambulance.

  John walked back to his room, climbed fully clothed into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Any residual interest in the day had been dissipated. Despite only just having risen he wanted to sleep again. As he reinhaled his own warm breath he kept seeing Dennis’ bulging, terrified eyes. It was only a matter of days since he too had literally stood on the edge, on the bridge at the foot of Great Junction Street, only to fall into the arms of a large Dutchman.

  FORTY-ONE

  Several of the crew had been hit by flying cargo and lay injured on the deck. Part of the foremast had snapped and lay like a felled tree in a tangle of sail and rope. The Leader eventually emerged from his lair and moved among the men, administering strong drink and words of encouragement. Eventually, most recovered sufficiently to stagger back to their posts. The swell had abated but was still sufficiently strong to make the three weavers retch over the side.

  ‘This may be God’s will,’ said Balthasar, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, ‘but I think the devil got the upper hand there. I saw him sitting, black and naked, on the top of that wave, grinning at us.’

  ‘Why are we going to England?’ asked Johannes, ignoring the possibility that his companion had actually seen the Prince of Darkness. ‘Michel is still in the land of his birth. He has not been taken over the sea.’

  Cornelius patted Johannes’ arm. ‘Soon we will find him. The geuzen take their plunder to England, when merchants flock to the coast and haggle over riches stolen from monasteries. They need food and water as well.’ He glanced back along the deck where the water barrels had been tethered; only one seemed intact. He drew his companion’s attention to something happening on the opposite gunnel.

  The Leader was giving orders to four crewmen who were lifting a weight onto the side of the ship; two trailing arms identified it as a body. The extent of their struggle suggested the body was that of the fat sailor who spent most of his time skulking near the cannons. Curious and concerned, they crossed the deck and leaned over the edge in time to see the huge corpse hit the boiling sea. For a moment his outstretched arm was visible in what might have been a final salute, a gesture of defiance or a terrified signal for help before he sank beneath the waves. The Leader shrugged and directed the men to remove the broken spar that had felled him.


  The companions too were deployed clearing the decks and carrying out simple repairs. Soon bored with hurling splintered staves and shutters overboard Balthasar moved to the foot of the main mast where the deck was piled high with rigging and seaweed. He beckoned the others to join him. Because of their life’s work they instinctively understood the nature of the challenge and set to disentangle the mesh of rope swamping the ship. The Leader, noticing that they had given up on their allotted tasks, moved towards them angrily.

  ‘Do what you were told!’ he shouted, grabbing Johannes. He paused. ‘Weavers … ’ he said, looking with a dawning admiration at the dexterity of the men whose fingers moved to a pattern that was collectively understood. Without another word he left them, strode along the deck and ducked into the fo’c’sle, presumably to console the naked nuns and find a way to distract them from their prayers to Our Lady of the Sea.

  The men smiled as they once more enjoyed the pleasure of working together on a shared task. Cornelius started singing under his breath, the tune that one of them would always start in the past when the work was going well and the looms had settled into their own rhythm.

  Johannes disentangled a small fish from the ropes. ‘Here you are, Antonia,’ he said under his breath, ‘supper, and give some to the boy.’

  Cornelius took the fish and turned it over in the palm of his hand, running a finger along its scales. ‘One moment in the depths of the sea, the next flying through the sky like a bird.’

  ‘Lucky not to have been eaten by the devil,’ said Johannes, glancing slyly at Balthasar.

  ‘Devils don’t eat fish on Fridays,’ said Balthasar, enjoying the jest at his own expense.

  Feeling the need to stretch his legs and relieve himself Cornelius moved away from the others and along to the small gate that opened onto the sea. He undid his breeches and altered his stance as he realised that he was pissing into the wind. Not for the first time, he thought. On his way back he looked into the only barrel that had survived the storm, and saw several apples lying on the bottom. Intending to take one for himself, and one for each of his companions, he leaned into the barrel but couldn’t quite reach the fruit. He readjusted his weight on the edge, pivoted briefly and then lowered himself head first into the musky interior.