Ocean Without End

1.
The wraith ship

2.
Flight to the Lion Cave

3.
The cabin boy

4.
Cygnet

5.
The Blackbeard of Barbary

6.
Cut and thrust

7.
The flying
Mermaid

8.
The way of the sea

9.
An unexpected guest

10.
A game of bluff and chance

11.
The Old City

12.
The silver sword

13.
The deep blue sea

Seafaring words of the Mediterranean

Copyright

The attack began just after
dawn.

It was dark when I woke up. I always loved
this time of the day, before the noise began, before the fishmongers'
cries went up and the cart wheels started grinding against the cobblestones.
Lucas stirred and groaned in his bed by the fireplace, his pale red curls damp
with sweat. I could hear our mother's deep, steady breathing across the
other side of the room.

As the half-light crept in, shapes began to
form, and our house came to life before my eyes, like some magical show put on
especially for me. The mantelpiece emerged first from the darkness, its chipped
limestone picking up the dawn and casting shadows onto the wall behind. The
chairs became squarer and grew legs. On the table, last night's candle-wax
had pooled itself into a pale crescent, and the buttons from Lucas's red
jacket sat in a heap waiting to be sewn back on in the heat of the
afternoon.

Mama rose silently and went outside with
the water bucket and a spare flagon. She liked to beat the other women to the
well in the
piazza
. ‘Gossips,'
she'd say, ‘they're all such terrible gossips.' She
hated
how they talked about her behind her back. But then
again, they talked about everyone. It was just their way of passing the
time.

‘No point pretending, Mama,'
I'd said one day. ‘Father's gone, and everyone knows
it.' I knew from her expression that I shouldn't talk of it again. I
never did, until — but I'm jumping ahead of my story. We must go
back to the beginning, to that morning.

Sleepyhead Lucas finally stirred himself,
laughing as he climbed up onto my bunk.

‘You should see your hair,
Lil,' he said. ‘It's sticking straight up.'

‘At least it's clean —
not like yours, you smelly thing.'

‘Let's go for a swim before
breakfast,' he said. ‘Sun's out. It's getting hot
already.'

I pushed open the shutter, and we leaned
out our window, gazing across the old harbour studded with the usual fishing
boats and coastal traders.

There, riding high on the current, was the
most glorious ship we'd ever seen.

She was tall, the quarterdeck fifty feet
above the waterline and her masts higher than any tree. Gold and red paintwork
gleamed against the dull grey water. Her figurehead was a woman with golden
hair, floating in the early morning mist.

Lucas and I ran down to the quay to watch
her boats unload. Such a ship, we cried as we ran, must be laden with rubies and
spices. Such a ship must have flown here from heaven, or even from Holland. Such
a ship must be filled with fine brave men in bright blue uniforms with buttons
as shiny as their cannon.

It wasn't.

We watched as the harbour-master's
barge picked its way through the fishing boats to greet the mighty newcomer.

‘Come on,' shouted Lucas.
‘Let's row out there too!'

But something wasn't right.

There was no line of uniformed men on deck
to greet the harbour master, no bosun to pipe him aboard with a squealing silver
whistle. No flag. No bustle aboard.

I grabbed Lucas's hand and held him
back as he tried to scramble down the worn stone causeway to our boat,
Swallow
.

‘Let me go!' he cried.
‘What's wrong with you?'

‘Wait a minute,' I cautioned.
‘We can't go out there.'

‘I can. You're not the boss of
me.'

I held him tighter, and he wriggled like an
eel. ‘Let go. Just because you're older doesn't mean
—'

‘Shut up, Lucas, and wait a moment.
Have you ever seen such a ship?'

‘Of course not. That's why I
want to row over and see it.'

‘Be quiet and look carefully.
They've cleared the decks for action. But it's not a warship, at
least not from the British Navy.'

He sighed and stood still at last. I
watched the ship. The gun ports were open, and the cannon muzzles had been run
out ready to fire. But there was still no sign of anyone on board, as if it were
a ghost ship that had floated in during the night, deserted and still.

‘Weird,' muttered Lucas.

Weird and silent. Until the fat little
harbour master in his brass buttons and red hat drew alongside and shouted up,
angry at being ignored.

There was a puff of smoke from the
scuppers, and a single shot that echoed around the port long after the harbour
master fell face first into the water and floated there. His boat crew sat still
in terror. The harbour held its breath.

Then hell broke loose upon us all.

Cannon in the ship's starboard bow
exploded in a burst of flame and smoke and noise, while others took aim at the
guardhouse on the quay and blew the red tiles off the roof. All the ship's
big guns were firing now, as fast as they could reload, and men swarmed up the
ropes into the tops to take aim with muskets. The air was filled with shot.

In the streets along the waterfront, people
ran everywhere, like ants in a rainstorm. The postmaster's horse reared up
and raced through the streets, its carriage careering crazily behind. The walls
of the old fort, made of stone many feet thick, burst at each cannonade and
crumbled like dry bread. Market stalls flew through the air, scattering baskets,
lemons and plums onto the cobblestones.

I pulled Lucas down behind the huge bronze
lion that guards the Customs House. We watched between its jaws as the town
burst into flames around us. Lucas was quiet now, panting as if he'd run
up the mountain. We saw one and then another of the garrison guards race out of
the gatehouse and crumple to the ground.

‘Why are they shooting at us?'
Lucas shouted
over the crashing guns. ‘Who are
they?'

‘I don't know.' I was
trembling a little. ‘We'd best run home, quickly. Mama will be
beside herself.'

We sprinted up the steps and ducked behind
the low wall that ran along the top of the quay. Lucas peeped over one last
time.

‘There are dead people
everywhere!'

There was a clamour of footsteps behind us,
and we squeezed ourselves against the wall to let the guards rush by. Some of
them were still buckling on their swords, and more than one seemed very
scared.

‘There goes Flynn,' Lucas
shouted. ‘Hey, Flynn!'

One of the younger soldiers waved and
shouted at us. ‘You two get home. What on earth are you doing
here?'

I nodded and took Lucas's hand. It
was sweaty, and he gripped tight.

‘We're going,' I told
Flynn. ‘Don't you do anything brave yourself.'

Flynn smiled nervously. ‘Not
likely.' I'd never seen him like this. He'd grown up, almost
overnight, since he'd joined the army.

‘Who are they, Flynn?
Frenchies?' asked Lucas.

‘Mark the flag. You'll
see.'

We turned back towards the ship. A huge
black pennant now flew from the topmast; sewn onto it was a grinning yellow
skeleton brandishing a cutlass.

‘Pirates!' cried Lucas.
‘But why would they attack Santa Lucia?'

I shook my head. Nothing made much sense
today.

‘Maybe it's old Blackbeard,
come to kidnap you.'
Flynn slapped me on the shoulder
and winked (rather bravely, I thought).

‘Don't worry, Lucas. One old
ship can't take on a whole town garrison. It'll be over in an hour,
you'll see.' He straightened his sword-belt, waved, and ran to catch
up with his squadron.

We waited until the guards had clattered
down the stairs and made our way back up through the twisting lanes. Behind us,
the incredible roar of the ship's cannon was answered by the guns from the
fort on the hill.

Our mother was standing in the lane outside
our cottage, waiting. As soon as we turned the corner, she started running
towards us, calling out. ‘There you are! I feared you were dead.'
She grabbed us both in her arms and held us tightly to her.

‘We're safe, Mama.'

‘My sweets, can't you hear the
noise? The port is under attack.'

‘We know,' Lucas piped up.
‘We saw everything. There were dead people. And pirates.'

‘Saints in heaven …' she
began, but her temper got the better of her. ‘Damn them!'

‘It's all right, Mama, really.
The guards are out on the ramparts, and the fort is firing all its guns.'
I tried to reassure her, but she still gripped my arm and stared out towards the
water.

‘We must flee. Come, pack your
things.'

‘But Mama, Flynn said
—'

‘Pay no mind to Flynn. He's
young — you're all too young to remember the last such time.'
She started pulling us, running, towards our house. ‘We'll go up
into the hills. I know a cave where we can hide.'

‘Cave? What cave?'

‘Never mind. Quickly now. Lucas, see
if you can coax the chickens into a basket. Lily, you help me gather some food.
Roll some warm clothes up in your blankets. And hurry!'

There was no arguing. Lucas ran out into
the back yard to deal with the chickens, stubborn brutes that they were. Mama
and I grabbed a cheese, grapes, onions, salted fish, some bread, our bowls and
knives, and wrapped it all up in one of her shawls. Outside, in the lane, people
rushed back and forth seeking news and reassurance. We were the only ones who
seemed to be packing.

Mrs Brisket from next door passed our
window and peered in. ‘Frances,' she said, ‘where are you
going?'

Mama stopped only for a moment.
‘I'm taking the children up into the hills.'

‘Don't be silly, dearie.
You'll freeze. The wolves will get you.'

‘I'd rather wolves and wild
cats than being burned in my bed, or worse.'

Mama brushed a strand of hair from her
forehead. She looked so fine, standing there, her black eyes defiant. I'd
never seen her like this.

‘Now, now, Frances, please,'
Mrs Brisket pleaded. ‘If you're worried about the little ones, come
and stay with us. You're safer behind the town walls than in the
mountains.'

‘Thank you, but really, I
must,' said Mama. ‘We must. I've lost a husband to pirates,
Mrs Brisket. I will not lose my children as well.'

I must have gasped aloud. Both women turned
to me, and Mama moved close to put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Lily,
I'm sorry, but it's time you knew the truth,' she said.
‘Now come along, or we'll all be pirate slaves.'

‘You told us he died,' I said,
accusingly.

‘So he did, in a way.' Her
voice was quiet and steady. ‘We'll talk more of this later, my love.
Come now. Grab your cloak and let's be off.'

‘He was a fine man, your
father,' Mrs Brisket called from the window. ‘Don't ever let
anyone tell you otherwise. If you need shelter, any of you, our home is yours.
Remember that.'

Mama smiled. ‘Thank you, Nancy.
You're very kind.'

Lucas appeared with some very grumpy hens
in a basket too big for him to carry. He dragged it up the steps and into the
centre of the room.

‘Attila pecked me, so I left him
behind.'

‘Let's leave him for the
pirates, then, shall we?' said Mama. ‘All that squawking and
bluster. They deserve each other.'

‘Aye,' Lucas said, laughing.
‘That rooster's a black-hearted devil. He'd be a match for any
pirate king.'

Mama hoisted the hen basket onto her back.
‘You'll have to manage the food parcel, Lily. Can you do
that?'

I nodded, still stunned by what she'd
said, but picked up the bundled shawl.

‘Lucas, take the cider flagon,'
said Mama. ‘You can lead the way. Off we go.'

She was trying to make it seem like an
adventure,
and it was in a way, so Lucas skipped ahead
happily, telling Mama every detail of what we'd seen that morning. She
listened carefully.

But as we made our way up through the back
streets and out into the fields behind the town, I felt burdened by more than
just the load on my back.

My father, taken by pirates? They must have
murdered him. But why? He was a fisherman, did no harm to anyone. Perhaps that
was it. He was poor, and it wasn't worth trying to get ransom money from a
family with no gold or rich relations — no relations at all, as far as I
knew.

I could hardly remember his face now. But I
remembered his hands, so rough from the ropes and the fishing lines. I
remembered his terrible smelly green cap that Mama tried to throw out in the
hope he wouldn't notice. I remembered him flinging me up into the air
— make me fly, Papa, make me fly!

I remembered those awful months after he
vanished. Mama would watch the quay every afternoon, waiting for his boat to
pull in. I was so small then, and Lucas was hardly even walking. We'd all
curl up at night in the same bed, and in the dark hours Mama would sob and
I'd wrap myself around her, clinging like a barnacle, trying to make it
better.

It was so many years ago now — maybe
six or more. I don't remember when I gave up on him, but Mama didn't
give up for years. While Lucas and I grew and clamoured and forgot his face, our
splendid, spirited mother slowly shrank into a worn-out washerwoman who stood in
line at the water pump and ignored the chattering of the women around her. But
she still read
to us every evening, her face alight with
adventures, and drew with chalk on our flagstone floors. She taught us our
lessons at the kitchen table, something different every day — how to write
music, or which mushrooms were good to eat, or gruesome stories about the
emperors of Rome.

Sometimes she told us about all the places
she'd seen when she was young, sailing with her father all over the ocean
— about the whales and the flying fish, about golden cities and great
palaces, about volcanos and mountains covered in snow, about battles and huge
storms and battered ships. She still sang Lucas to sleep every night, their
faces close together, until his eyelids finally drooped and his smile softened
into dreaming.