The Dead Men Stood Together

by Chris Priestley

  ‘Why?’ I asked, calming a little.

  ‘We were different animals,’ said my uncle. ‘He thought I was reckless and a dreamer. And he was right. We can’t help how we’re made. I always wanted to know what was over the horizon. He was a fine sailor, your father, but I could never understand why he never wanted to sail on and explore. But then he had you and your mother to come home to.’

  My uncle’s smile faded and he looked away.

  ‘Were you never married, Uncle?’ I asked.

  ‘Me?’ he said. ‘No. Well, almost – once. A long time ago. But I’d have made a poor husband and an even poorer father.’

  He turned to me and peered at me intently.

  ‘And what about you? Do you dream of distant shores?’

  ‘I used to,’ I said, lowering my voice a little in case my mother walked by. ‘But I don’t sail any more. I help my mother now. Ever since my father died . . .’

  My uncle nodded.

  ‘She’s lucky to have a good son.’

  ‘She wants me safe,’ I said.

  ‘Safe?’ said my uncle, as though he had never used the word in his entire life. ‘And is that what you want? To be safe?’

  ‘I have porridge ready on the stove,’ said a voice behind him. It was my mother, standing in the doorway. I jumped to my feet. I saw the look in her eyes and knew she had been listening. She grabbed hold of my uncle’s arm as I walked out of the barn and headed towards the house.

  ‘I told you – leave him be,’ she said.

  ‘What sort of life is this for a boy with the sea in his veins?’ said my uncle.

  ‘It’s none of your concern,’ said my mother quietly, but with more anger than I think I’d ever heard in her voice.

  We ate our porridge in silence and my mother ate very little at all. When he’d finished his bowl, my uncle said that he would sleep aboard the ship that night.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said my mother with a sigh.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to stay where I’m not wanted,’ he said, winking at me.

  My mother saw him and slapped his arm with the back of her hand.

  ‘I’ll not be here long,’ said my uncle. ‘Once you have a crew it’s best to get them to sea before they start to wander. Leave them ashore for a couple of days and half of them will be married or in the town jail.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ asked my mother.

  My uncle shrugged and stood up.

  ‘Who can say?’ he said with a grin. ‘Maybe some far-off tribe will make me a king.’

  Mother smiled and shook her head.

  ‘You’ll never change, will you?’

  ‘No,’ said my uncle. ‘Probably not.’

  He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table.

  ‘I promise you,’ he went on with great seriousness, ‘when I make my fortune, I’ll come back here and you shall want for nothing. You shall never do another day’s work and you shall be the finest lady in this town.’

  My mother laughed.

  ‘You promised me that when you were ten and I was eight,’ she said. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I remember. I meant it then and I mean it now. But you chose my brother.’

  My mother blushed and opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘You made the right choice,’ said my uncle. ‘He was a better man than me. We both knew it.’

  They stood looking at each other for a moment in silence, seeming to have forgotten all about me until my uncle turned and smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you back there,’ he said.

  My mother cast me a worried glance.

  ‘No,’ I said, trying my best to sound as though I had a dagger put to my throat every week. ‘I wasn’t frightened.’

  My uncle laughed, seeing my bravado for what it was. But it wasn’t an unkind laugh.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said, playfully punching me in the chest.

  VI

  I spent the day with my mother and I’m sorry to say I was not good company, making it very plain that I would rather have been elsewhere. But she either did not notice or did not rise to the bait. My mother was so good-hearted she could easily ride such a timid storm.

  The shadows were long by the time my uncle returned. He walked up the lane singing a song to himself. It was in a foreign tongue and had a mournful sound to it.

  ‘Hello!’ he said, hailing me with a broad grin. ‘And how are you, my friend?’

  ‘I’m well, Uncle,’ I said.

  He put his arm round my shoulder and we walked together towards the cottage.

  ‘You look like a man with something on his mind,’ said my uncle. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

  It was true.

  ‘You promised that you would teach me how to shoot your crossbow.’

  He rested his hand on my shoulder and smiled.

  ‘I did not promise,’ he said. ‘I’d be happy to, but we must ask your mother what she thinks about it.’

  I twisted my face and groaned.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But that’s how it must be. I have given your mother enough cause to be angry with me over the years and I’d like us to part on good terms when I sail.’

  I saw that there was no point in resisting. I saw too that my mother would never allow such a thing. My uncle read all this in my face and smiled a cock-eyed grin.

  ‘I’ll have a word with your mother,’ he said. ‘She’s not as obstinate as she seems.’

  I nodded and let him go ahead of me into the cottage. After a few moments, I could hear the sound of voices from within, and soon after that the angry tone of my mother.

  My uncle’s voice was calm and even throughout and, after a short while, my mother’s voice calmed too, and to my great surprise my uncle emerged with a triumphant smile on his face.

  ‘But know that if he gets hurt,’ shouted my mother from inside, ‘I will take that crossbow and –’

  I never did get to hear what my mother was going to do with the crossbow, because my uncle hustled me away towards the barn, where we fetched the actual weapon and set off towards the orchard.

  ‘Do you really think my father was a good man?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said my uncle. ‘Why would I say it if it wasn’t true?’

  ‘To keep my mother sweet?’ I ventured.

  He stopped and smiled at me.

  ‘That is possible,’ he said. ‘But in this case it was my true opinion. Besides, do you not know it to be true yourself?’

  I took a deep breath, wary of being too forthcoming with a man I barely knew.

  ‘I can remember little about him,’ I said. ‘He was always leaving to go to sea.’

  ‘But he loved you dearly,’ said my uncle.

  ‘He didn’t show it,’ I returned.

  ‘Some men don’t. Some men can’t.’

  ‘Then maybe some men shouldn’t be fathers,’ I said, my voice cracking, my face reddening. ‘Nor husbands neither.’

  My uncle turned away and looked into the woods.

  ‘If you want to learn to fire a crossbow,’ he said, ‘then I’m your man. If you want someone to wipe your nose and hold your hand, then you must look elsewhere.’

  I was struck by the coldness of his words and they shocked me out of my impending tears.

  ‘I’m no wet nurse, boy,’ he said, as though there had ever been a doubt. ‘It’s not in my nature.’

  After a moment, he handed the crossbow to me.

  ‘Shall we fire some bolts?’

  I nodded and took the weapon from him. I was surprised by its weight. It was made of wood and metal and it had patterns carved into both.

  ‘Hold it so it’s pointing to the ground.’

  I did as he said, and put my foot through a hoop he called the stirrup – and it did look just like the stirrup on a horse’s saddle – and turned a handle until the string was pulled back taut and held in place by a catch, the bow bending and creaking as I did so.


  This was the great thing about the crossbow, explained my uncle – that a mere boy like me could operate it. No strength was required, as with a longbow, although skill was still required in the shooting.

  ‘One day,’ he said, ‘all battles will be between men armed with machines like this.’

  I tried to imagine such a thing as I leaned the crossbow on a fence rail and lifted the stock to my shoulder. I reached under it to grasp the firing mechanism – a long twisted metal lever. My uncle placed a bolt in front of the string.

  ‘Don’t jerk it,’ he said. ‘Choose your target. Squeeze when you’re ready to fire.’

  Just as I focused on the sapling I was to shoot at, a bird landed on a branch and cheeped, distracting me, and I turned the crossbow towards it and then the bird leapt up in a burst of feathers and fell to the ground.

  I had shot it. I hadn’t meant to. I can’t say how or why my finger pulled the lever, but pull it it did. Carrying the crossbow with me, I walked over to where the bird was lying, impaled on the bolt which ran through its neck.

  It was a nightingale. It still twitched pitifully and without a moment’s thought my uncle stood on its throat and finished it off.

  ‘If that was meant, that was quite a shot!’ he said, patting me on the back.

  I pulled away angrily.

  ‘Meant?’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.’

  My uncle smiled.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘No harm done. ’Tis only a bird, after all.’

  But I stared down at that bird with a heavy heart. I had done a terrible thing and I knew it, even if my uncle did not.

  ‘I feel bad about it. I wish I hadn’t done it.’

  My uncle put his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Guilt?’ he said. ‘It’s a waste of energy, my friend.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling guilty,’ I replied.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said my uncle. ‘I have done many things I should feel guilty about but do not. I stopped feeling guilty a long time ago. There is no point to it.’

  I frowned and shrugged. I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Will the bird come back to life?’ he asked. ‘Will it change anything?’

  ‘Well, no –’

  ‘And you say it was an accident anyway?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, clapping his hands and grinning. ‘There is nothing to feel guilty about.’

  He shepherded me towards the house.

  ‘Is all well?’ said my mother as we approached.

  ‘Aye,’ said my uncle. ‘He’s only upset because he couldn’t hit the target. But I told him it was only his first time and he shouldn’t be hard on himself.

  ‘Your uncle’s right,’ said my mother. ‘You can’t expect to master something in the first few moments.’

  I was grateful to my uncle at the time for saying nothing of the bird. My mother would have been as upset as I was by its wanton killing. But I later suspected that the lie was for his own benefit, not mine, for he knew my mother would have blamed him and not me.

  That night, when I looked from my window out towards where my uncle had left the bird, having taken the bolt from its body, I saw the pilot’s son.

  He lifted up the bird in his hands and looked at the house, mouthing words I could not hear. I ducked down, fearing he would see me. When I eventually felt it safe to look, he was gone.

  I closed the shutter and lay back on my bed. I slept and dreamt: dreamt of battles and the fizz of crossbow bolts.

  I dreamt too of that sad and lifeless nightingale.

  VII

  The following day my uncle, as he took his leave of us, told us the ship was ready and he would return later in the day for one last farewell.

  My mother cried. I stood beside her and watched as he walked away down the lane heading towards the harbour. It felt like my last chance of escape was sailing away.

  My mother sensed this, I think, though she said nothing. I could feel it somehow through the skin of the hand she placed gently against my face before she turned and walked back to the house.

  I stayed where I was, looking down the now deserted lane, catching the faint whiff of seaweed and the cry of seagulls on the breeze.

  But as soon as he was gone, thoughts of the nightingale faded and were replaced by dreams of sailing, of exploring, of adventuring. All that day, I could think of nothing else but my uncle and his intended voyage. My mind quivered with images of Japan and the islands of the East. Where these images came from, I couldn’t say, for I had no idea of what those places looked like.

  Every chore I did seemed more dull, every pail of water heavier than it had ever been before. The minutes seemed to last for hours, the hours for an eternity.

  When my uncle did at last return to the cottage, he told us that his ship was set to leave before the dawn, sailing on the next tide.

  We ate our last meal together and, though my uncle once again entertained us with tales of his adventures and treasure-hunting, it was a melancholy affair. We embraced and tears were shed.

  And though I was exhausted when night fell, I couldn’t sleep. I turned this way and that, and every time I closed my eyes I imagined I was in the hold of some ship bound for foreign lands.

  The wind blew round the eaves of the house and it sounded like sailcloth filling, and every other noise recalled the creak of timbers or the lapping of the waves against the hull.

  I had put the sea out of my head – or thought I had. In the year since my father died, I had learned to live without it. It had been hard at first but in the last few months I had given sailing no thought at all.

  But it had come back in on a high tide and I knew now that any idea that I could spend my life ashore was a pretence. I was born to be a mariner. It was who I was.

  I walked downstairs in darkness and was startled to realise my mother was sitting at the table.

  ‘You had better hurry,’ she said in a low voice with no trace of emotion. ‘Dawn will be breaking soon. Your uncle has already gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I know you will leave one day,’ she said. ‘I always have. It might as well be today as any other. My heart will break whenever it is.’

  ‘Mother,’ I said, tears filling my eyes. ‘Please. I won’t go. I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay for ever.’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘No, you won’t. Go.’

  Her words stabbed my heart, but they were true. I said nothing and did not move. My eyes were getting used to the dark and I saw her looking at me, her eyes shimmering darkly.

  ‘Go,’ she said again. ‘Your uncle will watch out for you. And maybe you can watch out for him.’

  She stood up and walked towards me and we hugged in the darkness. I felt a tear drip on to my neck and I wasn’t sure whether it was hers or mine.

  ‘Travel,’ she said. ‘Have your adventures. And then come home to me and meet a girl and settle down and give me grandchildren to play with.’

  I got dressed. I packed my father’s old kitbag, which he had gifted me the first day I sailed with him. I had no idea what we might face and so I packed everything I could.

  ‘Be prepared for everything and you will stand some chance,’ my father had told me once. ‘And that’s the best you can hope for as a seafaring man.’

  My mother had been crying before we embraced in the doorway and she cried again as I held her, and I’m not ashamed to say I shed tears as well. Had the pull of the sea not been so strong, I’d have thrown down my kitbag there and then.

  Several times on the way to the harbour, I almost went back. I never turned round once, because I knew that if I caught sight of my mother that would be it, and I would lose all my courage and run home.

  I felt as though I shrank as I walked, becoming smaller and smaller as I got nearer and nearer to the ships moored in the bay.

  My uncle was standing on the harbour wall with a group of men.
He saw me walking towards him and took his leave of them.

  ‘You’ve come to see me off?’ he said.

  Then he saw my bag.

  ‘I’ve come to join you,’ I said. ‘If I can?’

  ‘Aye!’ he said with a grin. ‘The captain was saying he was a little short-handed. He’ll be glad to have you.’

  He looked past me in the direction of my home.

  ‘Does your mother know?’ he asked. ‘Only –’

  ‘She knows,’ I said.

  My uncle looked at me steadily, searching my face for signs of a lie. When he saw none, he patted me on the shoulder and ushered me towards the group of men he had been talking to.

  ‘This is my young nephew,’ he said. ‘He wants to serve with you, Captain.’

  A short, thick-set man with a leathery face and wild beard stepped forward.

  ‘Have you sailed before?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ I answered. ‘Many times. My father had his own –’

  ‘Do as I say and we’ll get along,’ he said.

  With that he turned and walked away and my interview was over. My uncle laughed and clapped me on the back.

  ‘It’s just his way,’ he said. ‘He’s the best, they say.’

  ‘You haven’t sailed with him before?’

  ‘No,’ said my uncle. ‘But I rarely sail with the same captain twice. It’s just the way of things. You get to be a good judge of a man, though – and I think we’re in safe hands. I have . . .’

  He was looking distractedly over my shoulder and, following his gaze, I saw that he was staring at the pilot’s son, who was standing on the tideline some way off, his eyes fixed on my uncle.

  ‘Who is that boy?’ asked my uncle.

  I told him.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ I said. ‘He is . . .’

  I struggled to find the right words.

  ‘He is different.’

  ‘Different?’ said my uncle with a snort. ‘Well different or not, I’ll not be stared at.’

  With that, he set off towards the pilot’s son.

  ‘Uncle . . .’ I pleaded, chasing after him, fearful of what he might do. I thought the boy would run away, but instead he stood fast and frowned at my uncle as he approached.