Ocean Without End (3 page)

‘What the hell are you shooting at?' a voice called down from the deck.

‘Nothing, sir,' Jem shouted. ‘Just old Brasher getting carried away in all the excitement.'

‘Get them aboard, and let's get out of this hole,' came the order.

Ropes were flung down and fastened bow and stern. As the crew hauled us up in the creaking, jolting boat, the ship came about. She was setting out to sea.

Jem put his face close to mine.

‘Listen to me,' he whispered. ‘Keep your head down, don't answer back and don't be jumping into the water every time my back is turned. I'm telling you this for your own good.'

I just stared at him.

I was a captive. A pirate slave.

He shook me.

‘Did you hear me?'

I nodded.

‘What's your name, boy?'

My name?

‘Lucas,' I said. ‘Lucas Swann.'

‘Right, then, Lucas Swann. You're plucky enough, but maybe not as smart as you think, so do what you're told and everything will work out.'

I gazed back towards the dark shape of the island. My home, my mother, even my name — everything had been taken from me in one moonlit moment.

‘I'm Jem McGuire, first mate.'

I said nothing. We were nearly level with the rails. I could hear the clamour on board, the heaving and shouting.

‘You're no relation of Rafe Swann, are you?' Jem whispered.

‘He was my father.'

Jem scowled. ‘Tell no one. Make up a new name. That's no name to be using on the
Gisella
.'

Gisella
. Such a pretty name for such a dastardly ship.

The boat banged to a halt, and the crew clambered out. Jem pushed me so I fell over the gunwales and onto the deck of
Gisella
.

‘That's the way he likes to get out of boats,' he joked. ‘Head first.'

‘A captive, eh, Jem?' said someone who looked fearsome even in the dark, with bright red hair, long and plaited, and a moustache as wide as a hearth broom. ‘Don't seem like he'd be worth much.'

‘Cabin boy, I figured, since young Tommy got himself killed.'

‘Oh, aye, fair enough.'

Dozens of figures ran about the deck in the dark, or shuffled in long lines to haul on heavy ropes. Others lifted the boat and lashed it tightly against the massive
mast. Suddenly the murmur of voices fell, and Jem straightened up to face the quarterdeck.

‘Did you get them?' It was the same rough voice that had hailed us before.

‘Aye, sir. We got 'em, no trouble. There was only a few guards left around the back of town, just as you planned.'

‘Good.'

‘Only we couldn't find the cave, sir, so we couldn't hide them — we've brought it all on board.'

There was a moment of silence. The voice grew nearer.

‘Blasted fools. Can't do a damned thing right, any of you. Well, have them locked in my cabin.'

Jem nodded. ‘I will, Captain.'

A huge man with a vast beard and bushy black eyebrows glared down from the quarterdeck. ‘What's that you have there?'

‘New cabin boy, sir.'

The captain stared intently at me. Even in the moonlight, I could see his glassy eyes gleam.

‘Ha!' He laughed. ‘Cabin girl, don't you mean?'

‘Hey?' said Jem. He grabbed my arm and spun me around to face him.

‘Jesus! It is a girl.'

There was more laughter from the deck.

‘Well, well, Jem, trying to sneak her on board, eh?' teased the old fellow from the landing party.

‘No such thing,' said Jem, flustered. ‘He told me his name was Lucas. I mean, she did. Anyway, it's dark — how was I to know?'

‘Either way, it's no use to us,' said the captain. ‘Look
at it — too poor for a ransom, too damn skinny to sell for a slave, and too young for anything else. Throw it overboard. We're far enough out to sea now for her to be telling no tales.'

A couple of the men from the boat crew muttered to each other.

‘I'll do it,' said one. ‘She's been a right pain already. Tipped me overboard.'

‘Aye,' murmured the old fellow, ‘she's feisty enough. Led us down to the beach all right though, I'll give 'er that. We was lost coming over that hill.'

My hands were clenched now around a rope behind me, my arms still tied fast. I would not give up without a fight. The big man with red hair strode towards me.

‘Give her to me, I'll do the job proper. You lot go get dry.'

‘Listen, Miller,' Jem said to the redhead, ‘she could still be a cabin boy till we get ourselves a real one.'

‘You heard the captain.'

They both stared at me.

‘No such thing as a cabin girl, anyhow. It wouldn't be proper,' said Miller.

I gulped some air and spoke out. ‘I can sail. And fish.'

Miller laughed. ‘We can all do that, lass. That's what we do when we're not burning and pillaging. We don't need any little girls to show us how to sail.'

‘Then I can cook. And sew a little. Although I don't like to, much. But I bet you can't all cook.'

They simply stood and looked at me. I stared back, trying to remember every detail in case I needed to
find them later amongst all these strange men. Jem was pale, with long stringy hair pulled back in a knot, and a stubbly beard. His loose white blouse was filthy, I could see that even in the dark, and it hung in tatters over green breeches. Miller was just as shabby, a bear of a man in a dark shirt open almost to his waistband, but in spite of his gruffness his laughter had been warm and lively.

Suddenly Miller bellowed, ‘Carlo!'

A boy appeared at his elbow.

‘Take her down to the galley and see if Cook can use a hand,' Miller growled. ‘But mind, if he don't want her, bring her right back up here and she'll feed the sharks instead of us.'

There was a tugging at my arms as Jem loosened the ropes around my wrists.

‘You behave yourself, now,' he whispered. ‘Remember what I said.'

I nodded, and the boy grabbed my sleeve and dragged me towards the ladder. Everything was happening at great speed — one minute I was a boy, then a girl, then shark bait, and now a cook. I had no idea what would happen next, but at least I had a reprieve for a while, until I could figure out how to escape.

It was filthy inside the bowels of the ship, and the stench was enough to make me gag. The boy Carlo chattered nervously as we ran through the crew's quarters and clambered over drying sails.

‘Watch your step here. I don't know what Cook will say. Goodness. I don't know what the captain will say when he finds you still here.'

‘What's his name?' I asked.

‘Why, El Capitán de Diablo, of course, the most bloodthirsty pirate in the Mediterranean.'

‘Never heard of him.'

Carlo was aghast. ‘Don't be ridiculous. Everyone's heard of him. He's famous.'

‘Not in these parts.'

‘Not so loud,' he warned. ‘I don't think he'd like to hear you say that.'

‘But it's true.'

‘Pirates don't care for the truth. We're lying scoundrels.'

‘Are you quite mad?' I asked. ‘You sound as if you were proud of it.'

‘A pirate's life is the best life there is,' said Carlo, puffing out his chest like a blowfish.

‘Really? So you're an experienced pirate, are you?' He was just a few years older than me, soft black curls hanging down over his eyes. He looked nothing like a pirate — more like one of those silly young nobles who hang about the
piazza
and pretend to have swordfights. He even wore shoes, probably the only pair on board.

‘Oh yes, I've been in two battles now.'

‘Have you ever seen what happens to people when a cannonball hits them?'

He didn't even blink. ‘Um, not really, no.'

‘I have, just this morning. It was horrible.' I held onto his arm to stop him from running ahead of me. ‘How long have you been a pirate, anyway?'

‘About three weeks.'

I couldn't help smiling.

‘How come you're here with all these maniacs?' I asked. ‘Did you just march on board and sign up as crew?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘Well?'

‘Actually, I'm a prisoner, same as you. They lock me up in the cabin when there's proper fighting. But I've been here longer, so you have to do what I say. They're ransoming me, I think. My father will have to pay ten thousand
scudi
to have me released.'

‘Ten thousand! My God, who are you? Some kind of prince?'

‘It's quite a lot, isn't it?' Carlo said proudly. ‘Although I don't think my father has anything like that much money, so I have no idea what will happen. I expect they'll let me stay on as a crew member. I was a bit seasick at first, but it's a fine life once you get used to just floating around shooting at things. Now, here's the galley, so allow me to introduce you to —'

The door to the galley was completely filled by the fattest person I had ever seen in my life. Cook's enormous face was red and streaming with sweat, his thin hair plastered against his skull.

‘What do we have here?' he asked.

I smiled at him. I never felt less like smiling, what with the ache in my head, and the bruises on my wrists, and being dragged away from my home and, well, everything. But I smiled as sweetly as I could.

‘I'm Lily,' I said. ‘Jem and Miller thought perhaps I could give you a hand with the cooking.'

‘You don't look like no lily to me,' bellowed Cook.

‘I am. Honest. I'm Lily Swann.'

Damn. It just came out.

‘You don't look like no swan neither. Maybe one of them funny baby swans, just born like, all bedraggled and fluffy. What do they call 'em?'

‘Cygnets,' said Carlo, helpfully.

‘Eh?'

‘That's a baby swan — a cygnet.'

‘Bless my soul,' said Cook. ‘There's a thing I never heard. Why aren't they called swanlings? Or swanlets? That's what comes of having a young lord aboard ship, you see. Something new to learn all the time.'

Carlo was beaming.

Cook waved me into the light. ‘Let's have a look-see at you, then, all dripping wet and covered in blood as you are. That's your blood, I suppose?'

‘I got hit on the head.'

‘Who hit you?' said Carlo.

‘Not sure. Jem, I think.'

‘Never mind that now,' said Cook. ‘We'll get it cleaned up soon enough. How old are you?'

‘Twelve or thereabouts.'

‘A little swan, eh? You're no relation to Rafe Swann, are you?'

Funny how you never hear a word of a person for years and then all at once people won't shut up about him.

‘Rafe?' I pulled a face as if I was thinking hard. ‘No, never heard of him. Never heard of any Swann but me.'

‘Just as well for you, girly,' said Cook. ‘Captain
didn't get on with Rafe Swann. Not at all. So don't go mentioning that name. I wouldn't anyway, if I was you.'

‘I won't,' I assured him. Not until I figured out what on earth was going on and why everyone kept asking about my father.

‘Well, then, Miss Cygnet, I suppose you won't eat much, so you may as well stay on. You can sleep there under the bench. Now, you say goodnight to your beau, and get out of my way while I gets the captain's oats on. They'll all be hungry as horses and yelling for their gruel any moment now.'

Carlo flushed bright red and ran off down the passage. Cook somehow squeezed himself back into the steaming galley and motioned for me to follow.

‘First rule of ship cooking — never let the fire go out unless there's a fight on,' he warned. ‘Second rule — never be late with the food when the watch changes, or there'll be hell to pay.'

‘What's the third rule?' I asked.

‘Third rule is, when nobody's watching, the cook gets to help himself. So you sit down here and try this soup while I get the water to boil. You'll be no use to me if you fall over dead from starvation, eh?'

He winked as he slopped a huge ladle of broth into a bowl and slid it along the bench towards me.

‘Fourth rule is, never get caught!'

I'm ashamed to say I slept like a dog for the rest of that dreadful night. Cook threw a square of tarpaulin under the galley bench to make a bed, and I curled up on it in a tight knot. The next thing I knew was a huge crashing of tin plates above my head as Cook dished out another meal at dawn. He'd left me to sleep through all the noise of a change in the watch, and when I crawled out from under the bench, he winked and waved me back to my bed.

Once the night watch had finished its food, there was a lull in the clamour of bare feet on boards and muttering tired men. Cook hummed to himself as he went about his work, and after the last sailor had gone to his hammock, he called out to me.

‘Up you get, my little cygnet. Let's be seeing to that head of yours.'

I was a little unsteady on my feet as I stood up. The ship was well under way now, and there was a movement like the earth shifting back and forth below us. It didn't feel anything like the fine streaming motion of a little yacht on a steady swell or even in a bit of a chop. For all its size, this ship
bucked, heaved and swayed against each wave.

‘Steady on, girl,' said Cook. ‘We've got a bit of weather up top and the captain's piling on the canvas. He loves a bit of a blow-up.'

He sat me down on a trunk and brought a bowl of steaming water. One glance at the gash on my head had him clucking and clicking his tongue.

‘Dearie me, it's a nasty hole in your noggin you've got there.'

I touched my hair, all matted with dried blood and salt. It didn't hurt any more. Nothing did. I felt numb all through, except for my belly, which I don't mind admitting was feeling a little queasy.

But as he dabbed away at the blood and muck, every touch brought back the pain of the night before.

‘Now then, now then,' Cook muttered, half to himself. ‘What's the point of bashing my galley help? No brains, sometimes, those boys. You wait till I see that Jemmy. He'll be hearing from me, I don't care who knows of it.'

Every lurch of the ship took me further from home. I tried hard not to cry. I remembered all those long summer afternoons when I'd wished myself leagues away from that hot rock of an island, when I'd dreamed of a fast boat and a compass so I could sail towards the horizon and find adventure. Well, one night's adventure was about enough for any girl, if it was like this. Now I just wanted to be home. I imagined Mama waking beside the cold remains of the fire, calling my name. She'd wander the island all day looking for me, run down to town to call out
the guards — she'd never give up on me, like she'd never given up hope for my father. But the thought of her sorrow was more than I could bear.

Cook patted my shoulder.

‘There you go, lass. You'd best get to work now. Carlo will show you the water barrels and the salt pork. There's flour in the store, and I keeps all the potatoes down below out of the rain. There'll be no fish caught in this weather, so we'll make do with stew again. Captain won't be happy, but that's what he gets when he won't go into port except to blow things up. When I think of the raisins I could have bought in Santa Lucia. And fresh bread. Not even allowed to set foot on shore. Waste, that's what it is. What will become of us all? I don't know, really I don't.'

Santa Lucia. I cleared my throat.

‘Pardon me, Cook, but why were you blowing up the town?'

‘Don't ask me, lass. Captain don't tell me his plans, and I don't want to know 'em. But we lost four men sitting like ducks in a pond under those cannons up in the fort, and we got nothing to show for it but you.'

‘It doesn't make any sense.'

‘Not to you and me, girlie, but as long as it makes sense to Diablo, that's what matters.'

‘Don't you care what he does? How many people he blows up?'

‘It's nothing to a cook what captain we sail under. When I was younger I cared. Pride of the fleet, me. Gunner number two I was, sailed with admirals and
all sorts. But nowadays I stay down below and keeps out of trouble. I don't have to do his devil's work, I just have to feed those that do. If they can sleep at night, well, so can I. Now stop worrying about things that aren't any of your business and go find Carlo.'

Funny thing is, as I left the galley, I felt scared. The cook, grumbling in the glow of his fires and steaming pots, was like a safe haven in this strange world.

‘Stay out of the captain's wake!' Cook shouted after me.

No need to tell me that. I'd happily never lay eyes on Diablo again.

It was dark below deck, even in the light of morning. The hatches were slammed shut against the sea spray. From up above came the whine of the ropes in the wind and the cracking of canvas under strain, merging with the roar of white water along the hull. From the bow came the noise of hammering, as the carpenters repaired the damage done by the garrison guns.

Four pirates dead, and for what? To cover the raiding party that had found me alone on a moonlit track, I guessed. But what were they after? What was in that mysterious heavy package that had been dumped on the deck alongside one half-drowned girl in the middle of the night?

Who knew? Not me, and certainly not Cook.

I staggered along the narrow passage towards the stern. The boards seemed to be moving under my feet, and the walls swayed from side to side with the swell. I ducked down a trapdoor to find the water barrels lashed tightly together in the hold. Stinking green sea
water sloshed below them. There was a damp smell of rotting wood and old beer. As I peered about me, with no idea what to do next, I heard feet clatter lightly on the steps above my head.

‘
Mer
ba
,' said Carlo. ‘Hello. How's your head?'

I shrugged. ‘It's all right. Cook said you would show me where to find everything.'

‘Of course. Follow me.'

‘Where are you from?' I asked, as we squeezed past the water barrels, our backs pressed against the slimy ribs of the ship. ‘What language was that?'

‘I was speaking English.'

‘No, there was another word — I didn't know what it was.'

‘It's possible,' he said lightly. ‘I speak so many languages — who can tell? My father is Portuguese, and my mother is Maltese. I speak four languages, you know, all without a trace of an accent.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘It is clear.'

‘But you have an accent now, speaking English.' I couldn't quite place it. In Santa Lucia, our little harbour on the cross-currents of the world, I had heard so many different tongues that they all seemed to mingle together.

‘Impossible. I am Carlo St Angelo de Santiago.' Somehow he managed to stand upright as he said it, in spite of the cramped hold.

‘Sorry?'

‘De Santiago is one of the great names of Malta. Surely you have heard of it.'

‘Afraid not. I've never been as far as Malta. Is
that why your ransom is so high? Are you a duke or something?'

He looked a little crestfallen.

‘No, I am not a duke. I will never be a duke. My half-brother inherits the title, but I … nothing. I am the younger son.'

He shoved his shoulder against a door to open it. Inside were more barrels, smaller and with tiny taps, a few stoneware flagons, and up higher a rack of dried meat.

‘This is Cook's store. The men think it's locked, of course, but there's no key. Don't tell anyone.'

I shook my head. ‘Aren't you afraid of these men at all, Carlo?'

‘I am never frightened.'

‘You'll make a good pirate, then.'

Carlo smiled, his teeth gleaming white in the gloom. ‘Do you think so? I wish to be very fearsome.'

I smiled too, but I hoped he couldn't see me in the dark. ‘Let's get this pork up to the galley, eh?'

‘Cygno,' he said as we hauled a joint of meat up the narrow ladder, ‘I don't really have an accent, do I?'

It was days before I saw Jem again, dark days of bad weather and endless battering by the waves. My stomach heaved many a time, until finally I got used to the movement and the wind died down and the ship slowed its hectic course. I got used to Cookie, too, with all his mutterings, and he became accustomed to finding me in his galley each morning.

‘What did I do to deserve a girl under my feet day and night?' he'd bellow. ‘Hell's teeth! Now, fetch me that vinegar and quick about it.'

One gloomy day we sat with our heads close together, sewing in the dim light that straggled down through the skylight above us. Cook clucked over my ragged clothes, and had managed to find, from a dead man's locker, a few bits and pieces that could be made to fit. He cut up an old jacket of his own that he would never be able to wear again — it probably hadn't fit around him for many years, but it hung all the way down to my knees.

‘It'll last you for years, that coat, through storm and gale,' Cook said proudly, ‘and we'll make a cap to match.'

The thick blue tarpaulin was as tough as sails to sew, and he showed me how to use the sail-maker's leather palm to protect my hand from the needle. I shortened the sleeves of a faded blue-and-white checked shirt. The canvas breeches were twice as long as I needed, and we turned the offcuts into a satchel I could sling over my shoulder.

‘Don't go growing too tall, though, or your breeches will turn into pantaloons,' said Cook.

‘They're not very clean,' complained Carlo, who was leaning against the wall, looking bored and hoping for something to eat. He was fussy about his own clothing, although it was starting to get a little tattered around the edges.

‘They'll scrub up all right,' I said.

‘More than I can say for some,' grumbled Cook. ‘You, boy, look at the lace on your shirt.'

Carlo grimaced. ‘I cannot help it. The lace tears so easily.'

‘Beautiful shirt like that, no wonder. See how fine the linen is, Cyg? That shirt's not made for life on board a ship. Come here, lad, and I'll teach you how to mend it.'

Carlo's face betrayed his horror. ‘Sewing is for womenfolk.'

‘Like me, you mean?' I asked.

‘Like me, he means, I guess.' Cook nudged me and chortled. ‘Or any of the boys. We all sew, lad. Sailors have to know how to mend stuff. No womenfolk around. If you want to be a pirate, then you have to learn to darn and turn a seam.'

‘Really?'

Cook patted the seat beside him. ‘Come along, it won't kill you. Besides, it's nice and warm in here and there's pudding on the stove.'

Carlo reluctantly plonked himself down on the bench, looking for all the world like he was in dreadful peril.

The crew came in, one by one, cold and miserable. I knew them all now — Moggia, with his curly black hair, fat gold earring, and the devil in his grin; old Brasher, the toothless sail-maker, and his mate, Max; Ricardo, with four teeth and a red scar across one ear; his brother, Francesco, with the bright green eyes; and Harry, who rarely spoke. There were dozens more, from many parts, speaking many different languages. They all nodded hello to Cook, stared at me for a while, joked around, unless they were too tired, and went away to wolf down their meals in the crew's
quarters. Big Miller, the bosun's mate, teased Cook about me every day.

‘Behavin' herself, is she, Cookie?'

‘As can be expected,' Cook would grumble.

‘Yell if you need me to throw 'er overboard,' Miller would say, and laugh every time. After a while, I knew he didn't mean it. Mostly.

Jem had been taking his meals on deck, I guessed, riding out the storm with a few of the men who were hand-picked to sail
Gisella
in heavy weather. Late one night he appeared in the galley, rain streaming from his long hair.

‘Got any coffee?'

The water was boiling on the fire, so I ground up some of the precious coffee beans and poured him a mug. He wrapped his bony hands around it and moved closer to the fire, nodding to Cook, who was crouched over a mound of half-rotten cabbages.