There were no sheets on board—at least not for sailors like him—or pillows or marmalade. And the fresh eggs were only for the gentlemen and officers. Breakfast on board ship was the standard sailor’s ration of oatmeal, with the sauerkraut that the captain insisted they eat to keep away scurvy. But there’d be no breakfast till he’d done a few hours work.
Isaac stretched as the sailors on the late night watch came yawning down from the deck to take their places in the now empty hammocks. At least he was small enough to be able to stand up straight. The ceilings on this part of the ship were so low that most men had to stoop.
It was time to begin scrubbing the decks again, even if a storm was going to wash them clean.
Isaac grabbed his bucket from under the companionway and headed up onto the main deck. He’d thought the sky would be cloudy, but it was still clear. The air smelled fresh up here, after the smells below, despite the stink of manure and wet sheep. It was beautiful, too. Isaac still hadn’t got used to the glory of dawn at sea, the way the sky stretched all around you, grey at first, then pink and gold, the blue finally growing stronger till suddenly the sun was there, and the day was blue and gold.
The cattle lowed at him from their pens, hoping for hay. Down below he could hear swearing as Cookie Thompson lit the fires in the galley—the one-handed cook’s rheumatism grabbed him in the early mornings. Isaac had never heard language like the cook’s before. He wasn’t sure yet what most if it meant.
The carpenter and boatswain and their assistants were already hammering—even newly refitted, there were always repairs needed on a ship. Up on the quarterdeck Jonathan Monkhouse was already sweeping up the Goat’s old hay.
Most of the other animals only got fresh hay once a week. But the Goat lived so close to the captain and the officers—it wasn’t fitting that they should stand their watch among dunged hay. And what if Mr Banks stepped in goat droppings?
Isaac threw the bucket overboard, keeping hold of the rope tied to its handle, then hauled the rope up till he could grab the bucket, brimming with salt water, again. He bent down to start scrubbing just as Jonathan Monkhouse carried the Goat’s old hay across the deck. A slop of goat dung dripped down onto the decking in front of Isaac. The Goat’s digestive system was still getting used to her sea diet of hay, pease and oats.
Jonathan looked back at the mess he’d made on the deck. ‘Sorry!’
‘That’s all right,’ said Isaac. At least Jonathan had apologised. He wished Jonathan would stop and talk to him for longer. Jonathan was only a few years older than he was, and like Isaac he’d come from a comfortable home, with servants and a good education; the sort of person who had a good chance of fast promotion. Most of the other sailors didn’t know how to read, or even sign their own names.
Jonathan would know the answers to all the things that Isaac found strange, things he didn’t like to ask the older sailors, Isaac thought. He watched the other boy stop to joke with another midshipman. So far none of the midshipmen had bothered with the master’s servant, and already he knew better than to be the first to speak.
Isaac scrambled to his feet and dropped the hay and mess over the side. He envied Jonathan—not the job of fetching the Goat’s hay every day, and delivering her water, though even that was better than this endless scrubbing—but even so simple a job meant Jonathan was seen regularly by the captain. And having the captain see you being hardworking was the way to get promoted. No one makes it to admiral by scrubbing the decks, thought Isaac.
He had other jobs as well, of course, but none of them very interesting—polishing the rails and sweeping down below; bringing clothes and bedding up on deck every few days, to dry them after the constant damp below; checking the ropes and seeing to the sails. But Isaac was supervised even while doing these routine jobs. He was the new boy, and everybody knew it.
Jonathan Monkhouse passed again, this time with a pannikin of water for the Goat. Fresh water was precious on board ship. Ordinary sailors were rationed to a gallon a day, but a quarter of that was given to the cook to soak the salt from the meat and cook the stews and gruel. All the animals on the Endeavour had their water ration too. The sheep got a pint of water a day. Only the Goat was given all that she wished to drink. If you wanted milk from a goat, you had to give her water first.
But for now all the Goat’s milk went to her kids.
The ship’s bell rang again. It was finally breakfast time!
Down below, the last of the sleepers would be rising and packing the hammocks back into the nets along the ceiling.
Isaac picked up his bucket, threw the dirty water over the rail. The ocean had changed colour in the last hour, from a soft green to an almost oily grey. The sky on the horizon was grey as well, but it was a duller grey, like Smoky the barn cat at home.
But he wouldn’t think of home, Isaac decided. Or rich yellow butter soaking into the toast, kidneys with bacon or scrambled eggs with cream…Oatmeal and cabbage were a far cry from his breakfast at Manley Manor, and back home he wouldn’t have scrubbed for two hours before eating. Somehow, he was hungry all the time at sea.
He glanced up at the Goat on the quarterdeck, calmly chewing her hay while her kids nuzzled for her milk. Did she know about the storm? The Goat has the best life of anyone aboard, he thought. Even an admiral doesn’t get to just watch the scenery all day.
But you couldn’t milk an admiral…Isaac grinned, and ran to get his breakfast, as the storm clouds gathered about the ship.
CHAPTER 5
The Goat
30th August, 1768
The wind came swiftly, the grey clouds on the horizon covering the world. The storm battered the small ship. Sailors ran, lowering sails and taking the smaller animals below.
But not the Goat.
The Goat had seen storms before—far worse than this little blow. She knew how to brace herself against the heaving deck, how to shelter under the sailcloth when things got bad, but now she had her kids to worry about.
The babies still slithered on the damp deck even when the sea was slightly choppy. Now they shivered against her, their small bodies wet and cold. They hadn’t thought to come under the sailcloth till they were wet. The Goat nuzzled them, then herded them against the back of the pen where the rope coil gave some protection from the wind, and tried to shelter them with her body. It was all that she could do.
The pigs and sheep had been taken down below decks now. The Goat could hear the bleats of distress up through the wooden decking. The cows mooed in their pens. None of them had been to sea before—the only role for sheep and cattle on a ship was dinner.
One of the chicken hutches came loose from its ropes. The chickens shrieked their fear. Within seconds the hutch had slid across the foamy deck and vanished in the waves.
‘Sir!’ The Goat knew the voice. It belonged to the boy who scrubbed the decks.
‘What is it Mr Manley?’
‘Should I take the Goat below too, sir?’
The master laughed. ‘A storm has to be worse than this for Her Highness to allow herself to be taken below. Don’t you worry about the Goat, lad.’
‘But her kids, sir—’
Suddenly the ship lurched again, as though it were climbing a hill. Up, up, as the wave swelled below it.
And when the Goat looked round, the pen gate had swung open, and one of her kids was gone.
The Goat bleated frantically, torn between protecting the kid that was left and trying to reach the other, slipping, sliding down the slippery deck. Nearer the rail, and nearer…
The Boy dashed for the stairs. Within seconds he was up on the quarterdeck, had thrown his body onto the terrified baby goat to stop her falling into the heaving sea. The Boy stood up, cradling the kid as though he’d held young animals before.
‘Mister!’ It was the captain, Lieutenant James Cook.
‘Sir!’ The boy clutched the rail with one hand, the struggling kid with the other.
‘Your name, boy?’ Cook yelled ab
ove the wind and waves and flapping sails.
‘Manley, sir.’
‘I presume you are aware of Her Majesty’s regulations aboard this ship, Mr Manley?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Perhaps you thought you had been suddenly promoted, Mr Manley?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Or that I had given you permission to come onto this deck?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You know what the punishment is for trespassing on the upper deck, Mr Manley? You’ve seen a flogging I presume?’
‘Yes, sir, I mean no, sir.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Manley?’
‘I know what the punishment is, sir. But I’ve never seen it, sir. This is my first voyage, sir.’
‘Eeegh,’ said the Goat impatiently. She wanted her kid back! She glared at the boy and the captain.
‘You may put the goat down now, Mr Manley,’ said the captain.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Isaac crossed over to the pen, trying not to slip on the wet deck, and put it down next to its mother, then shut the pen gate.
The Goat sniffed her kid. It seemed quite unhurt. She hurriedly ushered it back to the shelter, just as Cook said, ‘For once then, Manley, your conduct is excused.’ Cook glanced over at the Goat, still nuzzling her babies. ‘She’s quite an animal, that one. A better sailor in a storm than many men I’ve met. But don’t let it happen again.’
‘No, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘By the way,’ said Cook, as the boy turned to go—and this time there was laughter in his voice—’that was a grand catch you made. Dismissed.’
CHAPTER 6
Isaac
31st August, 1768
The sea was calm again next morning. You’d never have known the sea could lash and rage, thought Isaac, as he undid his trousers and climbed out on the ‘seat of ease’.
The other sailors had laughed at him when he’d used the smelly bucket below a day after they’d left port. Finally one of them had taken him up onto the deck and pointed out the seat, perched way above the waves, and the frayed rope that dangled in the water.
‘When you’ve finished y’business, like, you pull up the rope to wipe y’bum,’ the sailor explained. ‘Then drop it down for the sea to clean it.’
It still seemed strange to Isaac to expose his bare white bum to the waves, and to use a frayed knot that had touched hundreds of other bums before his. But it’s all part of living with a hundred other men, Isaac thought as he buttoned his pants again, in a small space like the ship.
His job this morning was to help bring the sheep and pigs back on deck, then clean out the mess they’d left in the hold, carrying bucket after bucket of filthy water up on deck to throw over the rails.
He glanced up at the quarterdeck as he threw yet another bucket of muck over the side. The Goat was standing in her pen, watching the waves as though it were she who was navigating the ship, not the captain. The kids were feeding, their heads under their mother, their furry bums high in the air, little tails wriggling as they sucked.
Isaac grinned at the peaceful sight. He felt quite attached to the kids now, after rescuing one of them, though they were so alike it was hard to tell one from the other. It was the one with an orange splodge on one ear that he’d rescued, he decided. Or maybe…
‘Taking a little break are we, Mr Manley?’ It was Mr Molineaux, coming back from the seat of ease himself.
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Isaac hurried to empty his smelly bucket while Mr Molineaux made his way up to the quarterdeck. He’d be going to see the captain, Isaac realised—this morning watch was the time when Cook reviewed the accounts, examined the midshipmen’s logs and conferred with his lieutenants.
According to ship’s gossip there was no part of the ship’s activities too small for Cook to stick his nose into. Unlike ‘gentleman’ commanders, Cook took his men’s health and well-being as his personal concern.
‘Mr Manley!’
‘Yes, sir?’ Isaac turned.
‘I heard you made friends with the goats yesterday.’ Isaac flushed. Had the whole ship heard about his trespass onto the quarterdeck? ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You can lend a hand today then. The captain and the gentlemen will be having roast kid for dinner tomorrow. It’s time the captain had the milk, not the kids. You’re from farming country?’
‘Yes, sir. Exeter, sir.
‘Then you’ll know how these things are done. Report to Mr Jeffs the butcher as soon as you’ve finished your dinner, mister, and you can lend a hand to string them up.’
Isaac stood rooted to the spot as Mr Molineaux disappeared below. Help kill the kids!
He stared up at the goats on the upper deck. The Goat was munching hay now, oblivious of the threat to her babies. The kids were playing their favourite butting game, heads down as they mock-fought each other in their pen. They looked so tiny, so innocent.
But what else could be done with them? The ship was too small to keep animals who didn’t work their passage, like the Goat with her milk, the hens for eggs, the cats and dogs chasing the rats. The other animals were just there to be meat.
Maybe…maybe they could be taken ashore at Madeira? Or…
Stop being stupid, Isaac told himself. Even if you could think of a way to save them, no one would listen to you. They’d only laugh, and the kids would still be killed and eaten.
Isaac picked up his bucket again just as the ship’s bell was struck eight times.
Noon. Noon was when the ship’s official day began, when the ‘afternoon watch’, the next shift of sailors, took over running the ship, and entered the day, date and any observations on the log board.
Noon was dinnertime as well. Isaac stowed his bucket as the boatswain began his piping. The high, shrill tune of the pipes could be heard above most of the activity on board. The pipes were used to signal things like knock-off time and the boarding of officials, as well as to pipe the crew to dinner.
Isaac washed the worst of the muck off his hands and face in a bucket of seawater, then ran in to join the other sailors. The midday meal was the main one of the day on board, and he’d been looking forward to it for hours. Most of the sailors were already spooning up their meal. Isaac peered into the big black pot. There’d been fresh beef yesterday, as one of the steers had been killed. On this ship even the common sailors shared in the fresh meat.
It looked like the usual salt meat stew today though: meat so old and tough it was nearly black, boiled into shreds with dried pease and flavoured with James Cook’s own ‘portable broth’, that you could smell as you passed the galley.
‘Know what the meat is, lad?’ asked one of the older sailors, showing the gaps in his teeth as he grinned.
Isaac shook his head.
The older man leaned forward. ‘’Tis dead men’s toes,’ he whispered, with a gust of breath as foul as a privy. ‘Dead sailors pickled in salt water, and…’
‘Leave the lad alone,’ said someone else. ‘It’s pork.’
‘Horse, more like,’ muttered the cook.
Isaac watched as the cook scooped a dollop of stew into his bowl, then he perched up on one of the cannons, out of the way of the other men, and began to eat.
So far the food had been better than Isaac had expected. He’d heard stories of ships where common sailors were half-starved, where only the weevils made the biscuits soft enough to eat and the salt pork was so tough and black that a knife couldn’t cut it. Other times there was so much salt in the food that the sailors’ mouths got blisters, and eating or drinking was agony.
Most sailors, though, had known nothing but poverty. Oatmeal and salt pork and pease were better than gruel twice a day, which was all they’d be able to afford on shore—if they were lucky. At least sailors got meat four times a week.
Officers ate better, of course, but they also paid for most of their food themselves, bringing plum puddings and dried fruit on board and buying animals at the various ports to
be slaughtered throughout the voyage to give them fresh meat. And of course they had the Goat for milk.
But Cook had once been an ordinary sailor, and too poor to have fixed himself up with extra supplies of food. He’d made sure that his men would get the very best food possible, and that it was well cooked too. He’d even sacked the first cook, because the cook had had no interest in feeding the men well.
Old Cookie Thompson might have only one arm, but he soaked the meat properly, to soften it and get rid of some of the salt, and he didn’t stint on cooking time either, unlike many ship’s cooks, who tried to spend as little time as possible in the hot and humid cupboard that was all the room the ship had to spare for cooking.
The captain insisted that the big pots of sauerkraut be put out at every meal. At first Cook had to threaten the crew with flogging to get them to eat the strange smelly stuff. But within a few days everyone was used to its sour taste, and suddenly the hated foodstuff had to be rationed.
Isaac spooned his food up quickly. If you hurried you might get a second dollop, and tomorrow was a meatless day—dinner would only be a gruel of biscuit and vegetables, and a bit of cheese with ship’s biscuit, hard and thick and tasteless.
That is probably why the captain and gentlemen are going to have roast kid instead, thought Isaac. He tried not to think of the animals as he spooned up his stew. Mr Molineaux was right—he’d seen animals killed before. Why did holding that wet and shivering body yesterday make such a difference?
He only knew it did.
CHAPTER 7
The Goat
31st August, 1768
The Goat stood in her pen as her kids suckled, one on each side of her, their tiny tails wagging, and watched as the men straggled up onto the main deck after their meal. The Goat knew the ship’s routine as well as any of the sailors. This was the time when the crew were given their grog or beer ration, and had time to sit and yarn or whittle or even sing and dance. Then at two bells, the officers dined.
The Animal Stars Collection Page 17
