The Way of the Warrior

by Chris Bradford

  The ship lurched again and he was tossed over the side, swallowed whole by the dark seething ocean…

  2

  RIGGING MONKEY

  Jack braced himself for the final impact into the sea, but his body was unexpectedly jerked upright and he found himself hanging over the edge of the ship, the ocean rushing violently beneath him.

  Jack looked up to see a tattooed arm clamped firmly round his wrist.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy, I’ve got you!’ grunted his saviour, as a wave rose to meet Jack and tried to drag him under again. The anchor tattooed on the man’s forearm appeared to buckle under the strain and Jack felt his own arm almost pop out of its socket as the Bosun hoisted him back on board.

  Jack collapsed in a pile at the man’s feet, heaving up mouthfuls of seawater.

  ‘You’ll live. Natural sailor like your father you are, though a little more drowned,’ the Bosun smirked. ‘Now answer me, boy! What do you think you were doing?’

  ‘I was… running a message to my father, Bosun.’

  ‘That ain’t what I ordered. I told you to stay on deck,’ shouted the Bosun in his face. ‘You may be the Pilot’s son, but that’s not going to stop you getting a whipping for disobedience! Now get yourself up the foremast and unsnag the top gallant sail or else I’ll be giving you a taste of the cat!’

  ‘God bless you, Bosun,’ muttered Jack and quickly made his way back to the foredeck, aware that a lashing from the cat-o’-nine-tails was no empty threat. The Bosun had lashed other sailors for misdemeanours far less severe than disobeying an order.

  Still, when he reached the bow, Jack hesitated. The foremast was taller than a church steeple, and pitching wildly in the storm. Jack’s fingers, already numb with cold, couldn’t even feel the rigging and his sodden clothes had become cumbersome and heavy. The problem was that the longer he stalled, the colder he would get and soon his limbs would be too stiff to save himself.

  Come on, he willed himself. You’re braver than this.

  Deep down, though, he knew he wasn’t. In fact, he was truly terrified. During the lengthy voyage from England to the Spice Islands, he had acquired a reputation for being one of the best rigging monkeys. But his ability to climb the mast, repair the sails and untangle ‘fouled’ ropes at great height hadn’t come from confidence or skill – it was born out of pure fear.

  Jack looked up into the storm. The sky had been whipped into a frenzy and dark thunderous clouds streaked across a colourless moon. In the gloom, he could just make out Ginsel and the rest of the crew in the shrouds. The mast swayed so violently, the men swung like apples being shaken from a tree.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of storms in life,’ he recalled his father saying, on the day Jack had been tasked with climbing to the crow’s-nest for the first time. ‘We must all learn how to sail our own ship, in any weather.’

  Jack remembered how he had watched all the new recruits attempt the terrifying ascent. Every one of them, bar none, had either frozen with fear, or else puked their guts out on to the sailors below. By the time it was Jack’s turn, the wind had got up so much the rigging was rattling almost as fretfully as his own legs.

  Jack looked to his father, who squeezed his shoulders with loving reassurance. ‘I believe in you, son. You can do this.’

  Convinced by his father’s faith in him, Jack launched himself at the rigging and didn’t look down until he had hauled himself over the lip and into the safety of the crow’s-nest. Exhausted but elated, Jack had let out a yell of delight to his father, tiny as an ant, on the distant deck below. Fear had driven Jack all the way to the top. Getting down had proved another matter…

  Jack grabbed hold of the rigging and pulled himself aloft. He quickly fell into his usual rhythm, the comfort of habit providing some reassurance. Hand over hand, he rapidly gained height, until he could see the white crests of the waves as they charged at the ship. But they were no longer the threat. It was the relentless wind. Fearsome gusts did their utmost to drag Jack off into the night, but instinctively bracing himself he continued upward. Before long he was standing next to Ginsel on the yardarm.

  ‘Jack!’ yelled Ginsel, who looked worn out, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. ‘One of the halyards got fouled up. The sail won’t drop. You’re going to have to go out there and unsnag it.’

  Jack looked up and saw a thick sail rope tangled in the rigging of the gallant, its block and tackle flailing dangerously.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding! Why me? What about the others?’ exclaimed Jack, nodding towards the two petrified sailors hanging on for grim life on the other side of the yardarm.

  ‘I would’ve asked your friend Christiaan,’ replied Ginsel, glancing over at a small Dutch lad, the same age as Jack, with mouse-like eyes that were full of fear, ‘but he’s no Jack Fletcher. You’re the best rigging monkey we’ve got.’

  ‘But that’s suicidal…’ protested Jack.

  ‘So’s sailing round the world, yet we’ve gone and done it!’ replied Ginsel, attempting a reassuring smile, but his shark-like teeth only made him appear maniacal. ‘Without that topsail, there’s no way the Captain can save this ship. It’s got to be done and you’re the monkey for it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jack, realizing he had little choice. ‘But you’d better be ready to catch me!’

  ‘Trust me, little brother, I wouldn’t want to lose you now. Tie this rope round your waist. I’ll keep hold of the other end. Best take my knife too. You’ll need to cut the halyard free.’

  Jack secured the tie-rope and clamped the roughly honed blade between his teeth. He then clambered up the mast to the topgallant. Using the little rigging available, Jack edged along the spar towards the tangled halyard.

  The going was treacherously slow, the wind pulling at him with a thousand unseen hands. Glancing down, Jack could barely make out his father far below on the quarterdeck. For a moment he swore he saw his father wave at him.

  ‘Look ouuuutttt!’ warned Ginsel.

  Jack turned to see the loose block and tackle come flying out of the storm straight towards his head. He threw himself to one side, dodging it, but in the process lost his grip and slipped from the spar.

  Jack snatched for the rigging, grabbing hold of a loose halyard as he fell. His hands ripped down the rope, the rough hemp cutting deep into his palms. Despite the searing pain, he somehow kept his grip.

  He hung there, flying in the wind.

  The sea. The ship. The sail. The sky. All of them swirled around him.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you!’ shouted Ginsel above the storm.

  He pulled on the tie-rope strung over the topgallant and hauled Jack towards it. Jack reached up and flipped his legs over the spar, swinging himself upright. It took several moments for Jack to regain his breath, sucking in air between teeth still clamped round Ginsel’s knife.

  Once the burning pain in his hands had subsided, Jack resumed his painstaking crawl along the spar. Eventually the tangled halyard was only inches from his face. Jack took the knife from his mouth and began to hack away at the sodden rope. But the knife proved too blunt and it took him several attempts before the threads started to cleave apart. Jack’s fingers were icy to the core and his bloodied palms made his grip slippery and awkward. A blast of wind shunted him sideways and in attempting to steady himself, the blade spun away with the storm.

  ‘Noooo!’ cried Jack, futilely reaching after it.

  Shattered from his efforts, he turned towards Ginsel. ‘I’ve only cut half the rope! What now?’

  Ginsel, lifeline in hand, gestured for him to come back, but another gust slammed into Jack so hard he could have sworn the ship had run aground. The entire mast shuddered in its bed and the topsail yanked hard at the halyard. Weakened by Jack’s cutting, the rope snapped as if it were a breaking bone, the canvas unfurled and, with an almighty crack, caught the wind.

  The ship surged forward.

  Ginsel and the other sailors gave a cheer as the Alexandria turned in the wind
and the breaking waves stopped battering her decks. Jack’s spirits were lifted by their unexpected turn of fortune.

  But his joy was short-lived.

  The sail, in dropping, had jerked the block and tackle tight against the mast, where it had promptly snapped away and now plummeted like a stone towards Jack, but this time he had nowhere to go.

  ‘JUMP!’ shouted Ginsel.

  3

  DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA

  Jack let go of the spar and dived out of the block-and-tackle’s path.

  He arced across the sky, Ginsel straining to hold him on the other end of the tie-rope. Jack crashed into the rigging on the far side of the foremast and looped his arm through the ropes, holding on for all his life was worth.

  The block and tackle now dropped straight towards Ginsel. Barely missing him, it struck Sam who was standing right behind him. The unfortunate sailor was sent spinning into the sea.

  ‘Sam…!’ Jack cried out, hurriedly clambering down the rigging after him.

  Back on deck, he ran to the rail but could only watch helplessly as Sam struggled against the mountainous waves, disappearing and reappearing until, with a pitiful scream, he was dragged under for a final time.

  Jack turned despondently to the Bosun, who had joined him at the rail.

  ‘There ain’t nothing you can do, boy. Grieve for him in the morning, if we make it,’ said the Bosun.

  Noting the look of despair in Jack’s face, the Bosun softened slightly.

  ‘You did well up there, boy. Now go and see your father – he’s in his cabin with the Captain.’

  Jack bolted for the companionway, thankful to escape the raging tempest. Within the belly of the ship, the storm felt less of a threat, its unrestrained fury above becoming a muffled howl below. Jack weaved his way through the bunks to his father’s berth in the stern and quietly entered the small, low-beamed room.

  His father was bent over a desk, studying a set of sea charts with the Captain.

  ‘Pilot, it’s in your hands to get us out of this!’ barked the Captain, pounding the desk with his fist. ‘You said you knew these waters! You said we’d make landfall two weeks ago! Two weeks ago! By the hand of God, I can sail this ship in any storm but I’ve got to know where to damn well go! Perhaps there are no Japans, eh? It could all be legend. A cursed Portuguese deception designed to ruin us.’

  Jack, like every other sailor on board, knew about the fabled islands of Japan. Full of unfathomable riches and exotic spices, a trading mission to the Japans would make wealthy men of them all, but so far only the Portuguese had ever set foot on the islands and they were determined to keep the route secret.

  ‘The Japans exist, Captain,’ said John Fletcher, calmly opening a large leatherbound notebook. ‘My rutter says they exist between latitudes thirty and forty north. By my calculations, we’re only a few leagues off the coast. Look here.’

  John pointed to a crudely drawn map on a page within the rutter.

  ‘We’re in striking distance of the Japanese port of Toba – here. That’s several hundred leagues off our trading destination, Nagasaki. So you can see, Captain, the storm has blown us way off course. But that’s not our only problem – I’m told this whole coastline’s rife with pirates. Toba’s not a friendly port so they’ll probably think we’re pirates too. And worse, another pilot in Bantam informed me that Portuguese Jesuits have set up a Catholic church there. They’ll have poisoned the minds of the locals. Even if we made it ashore, we’d be slaughtered as Protestant heretics!’

  There was a deep boom from within the bowels of the ship, followed by the groaning of timbers as a vast wave peeled along the side of the Alexandria.

  ‘In a storm such as this, Pilot, we’ve little choice but to make for land, whatever the cost. It may be a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea, John, but I’d prefer to take our chances with a Jesuit devil!’

  ‘Captain, I’ve another suggestion. According to my rutter, there are some sheltered bays two miles south of Toba. They’ll be safer, more secluded, though their access is made treacherous by these reefs.’

  Jack watched as his father pointed to a small series of jagged lines etched on to the map.

  The Captain’s fierce eyes bored into John’s. ‘You think you can get us through?’

  John put his hand on the rutter. ‘If God be on our side, yes.’

  As the Captain turned to leave, he caught sight of Jack. ‘You’d better hope your father’s right, boy, the life of this ship and its crew are in his hands.’

  He swept past, leaving Jack and his father alone.

  John carefully wrapped a protective oilskin round his rutter and walked over to a small bunk in the corner of the cabin. He lifted the thin mattress and slid back a hidden compartment into which he placed the rutter and clicked it shut.

  ‘Remember, Jack, it’s our little secret.’ He gave Jack a conspiratorial wink as he patted the mattress back flat. ‘This rutter’s far too valuable to leave lying around. As soon as anyone hears we’ve reached the Japans, they will know there’s one on-board.’

  When Jack didn’t reply, he studied his son with concern. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘We’re not going to make it, are we?’ said Jack bluntly.

  ‘Of course, we are, son,’ he replied, drawing Jack to him. ‘You got the foresail down. With sailors like you, we cannot fail.’

  Jack tried to return his father’s smile, but he was genuinely scared. The Alexandria had met storm after storm, and even though his father claimed they were close to their destination, it seemed like they’d never feel land under their feet again. This was a darker fear than that which he had felt in the rigging, and at any other point on the gruelling journey so far. His father bent down to look him in the eye.

  ‘Don’t despair, Jack. The sea is a tempestuous mistress, but I’ve been through storms far worse than this and survived. And we will survive this one.’

  Making their way back on to the quarterdeck, Jack kept close to his father. Somehow he felt protected from the worst of the storm by his presence, his father’s unwavering confidence giving him hope where there appeared to be none.

  ‘Nothing like a good storm to swab the decks, eh?’ jested his father to the Third Mate, who was still valiantly wrestling with the wheel, the exertion sending his face as red as his beard. ‘Set a course for north by north-west. But let it be known there are reefs ahead. Warn the lookouts to stay sharp.’

  Despite his father’s faith in the direction they were heading, the ocean stretched on and on, wave after wave pounding the Alexandria. Jack’s own confidence began to ebb away with the sand in the binnacle hourglass.

  It was not until the sand had run dry a second time that the cry of ‘Land, ho!’ come forth. A wave of elation and relief ran through the entire crew. They had been battling the tempest for close on half the night. Now there was a glimmer of hope, a slim chance they could ride out the storm, tucked behind a headland or within the shelter of some bay.

  But almost as quickly as their hopes had been raised, they were dashed by a second cry from the lookout.

  ‘Reefs to starboard bow!’

  Then shortly after…

  ‘Reefs to larboard bow!’

  Jack’s father began to shout bearings at the Third Mate.

  ‘Hard to starboard!… Now hold your course. Hold… Hold… Hold…’

  The Alexandria rose and fell over the churning waves, skirting reefs as it ran headlong for the dark mass of land in the distance.

  ‘HARD-O’-LARBOARD!’ screamed his father, throwing his own weight behind the wheel.

  The rudder bit into the churning sea. The deck heeled sickeningly. The ship swung the other way… but too late. The Alexandria collided with the reef. A halyard snapped and the weakened foremast cracked, crumpled and fell away.

  ‘CUT THE RIGGING!’ ordered the Captain, the ship lurching dangerously under the drag of the foremast.

  The men on deck fell upon the ropes with
axes. They hacked away, freeing the mast, but the ship still failed to respond. It was apparent her hull had been breached.

  The Alexandria was sinking!

  4

  LAND OF THE RISING SUN

  The whole crew had battled all night to keep the ship afloat, though it had seemed a futile attempt. Seawater had flooded the bilge and Jack had worked alongside the men frantically attempting to pump it out, but the waters rapidly rose past the level of his chest. He had desperately fought to control his panic. Drowning was a sailor’s worst nightmare, a watery grave where crabs crawled over your bloated body and picked at your cold, lifeless eyes.

  Jack retched over the Alexandria’s side for the fourth time that morning, remembering the way the dark brackish water had lapped at his chin. Holding his breath, he had still kept pumping. But what other choice had there been? Save the ship or drown trying?

  Then fortune was on their side. They reached the safety of a cove. The ocean had suddenly calmed, the Alexandria eased down and the water level quickly fell away. Jack recalled sucking in the rancid air of the bilge like it was the sweetest mountain breeze as his head cleared the surface and he heard the heavy whomp of the anchor being dropped.

  Recovering now on the quarterdeck, the pure sea air cleared his head and his stomach began to settle.

  Jack stared out to sea, her waves now gently lapping around the hull, the roar of the tempest replaced by the early morning call of seabirds and the occasional creak of the rigging.

  He let his mind drift with the peace of it all. Within minutes a glorious crimson sun peaked above the ocean to reveal a spectacular sight.

  The Alexandria lay in the centre of a picturesque cove with a towering headland that jutted out into the ocean. The bluff was swathed in lush green cedar trees and red pines, and a glorious golden beach rimmed its inner bay. The cove’s emerald-green waters were alive with an ever-shifting rainbow of coloured fish.