When, at dawn the next morning, on the ninth of April 1585, the ships slipped quietly out of Plymouth harbour, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension.
But it was a full thirteen days before I summoned up the courage to ask the Turk about the auto-da-fe.
CHAPTER 8
It was not long before I had my first encounter with Mr Salter. I am grateful for the beating he gave me. Not because it filled me with hatred for my assailant, which it did, but because it filled me with determination to leave the ranks of the tavern scum at any price and attach myself to those of the gentlemen.
Following instructions, and imitating the Turk closely, I had climbed riggings, crawled along masts, hauled on ropes until my hands were raw, scrubbed the deck and done all the things that the deckmaster Mr Salter had demanded of us.
A strange sensation which had slowly been growing in my head somehow connected with my stomach. A feeling of unease, hard to describe, increased slowly as the day progressed until it filled my whole being with wretchedness. It was not long before I was wishing that I was dead.
The incident which precipitated my beating happened at the very highest point of the ship, on the main topgallant sail. The Turk was sitting astride the yard while I, in a state of terror, hauled at a rope following his instructions. From here I could see the other five ships of the expedition spread around us on the sparkling sea. They were rolling from side to side, and up and down, and corkscrewing, as the wind blew them through the waves. At this height the roll of the ship was greatly exaggerated. I seemed to remember a principle about leverage enunciated by Aristotle, but was too miserable and frightened to think it through. As the mast swayed from side to side the dreadful feeling intensified. 'Turk,' I said. 'I'm going to be sick.'
'It's the rolling of the ship, Scotch.' He seemed unaffected by it. 'Now catch this and heave. Harder, are you a girl?'
'How do I stop the ship rolling?'
'You cannot, foolish boy. But you will grow accustomed to it.'
I doubted it: far below me, several experienced mariners were hanging grey-faced over the rails. One of them began to vomit into the sea. It was too much for me. 'I must go down now.'
'You cannot, Scotch.' The Turk glared at me. 'Not until we have unfurled the sail.'
But I had to. At any cost I had to reach the side of the ship and empty the contents of my stomach as quickly as I could. Carefully, I sidled along the yard and picked my way past the Turk. To pass him I had to lean outwards, gripping him by his shoulders while feeling my way along the rope with my feet. A foot slipped, and for some seconds of horror I teetered between life and death on the swaying ship, while the Turk's nails dug deeply into my forearm. But I passed him, reached the mainmast thankfully, and began to clamber quickly down the ratline, the wind fluttering my shirt.
Mr Salter was looking up at me, his eyes a mixture of hostility and mystification. He opened his mouth to shout at me. Unfortunately, at that very moment, bile rose within my mouth and I retched out the contents of my stomach: a white frothy stream poured out, containing within it half-digested lumps of biscuits, dried fish and peas. Mr Salter tried to leap aside, but because of the rolling of the deck his jump was clumsy and my vomit went cleanly onto his head and down his jacket. There were gasps from around the rigging. Someone muttered, 'God, lad, he will kill you.'
I started to climb back up the rigging, wishing it extended to the clouds above, but Mr Salter's roar of command brought me down. He was using a handkerchief to wipe the vomit from his head and neck while I stood before him, trembling. Then he took off his jerkin and placed it on the deck, and slowly picked up the cudgel which he had dropped as he jumped. It was short, polished, narrow at its handle and broad at its base. He tapped it a few times in the palm of his
But it was a full thirteen days before I summoned up the courage to ask the Turk about the auto-da-fe.
CHAPTER 8
It was not long before I had my first encounter with Mr Salter. I am grateful for the beating he gave me. Not because it filled me with hatred for my assailant, which it did, but because it filled me with determination to leave the ranks of the tavern scum at any price and attach myself to those of the gentlemen.
Following instructions, and imitating the Turk closely, I had climbed riggings, crawled along masts, hauled on ropes until my hands were raw, scrubbed the deck and done all the things that the deckmaster Mr Salter had demanded of us.
A strange sensation which had slowly been growing in my head somehow connected with my stomach. A feeling of unease, hard to describe, increased slowly as the day progressed until it filled my whole being with wretchedness. It was not long before I was wishing that I was dead.
The incident which precipitated my beating happened at the very highest point of the ship, on the main topgallant sail. The Turk was sitting astride the yard while I, in a state of terror, hauled at a rope following his instructions. From here I could see the other five ships of the expedition spread around us on the sparkling sea. They were rolling from side to side, and up and down, and corkscrewing, as the wind blew them through the waves. At this height the roll of the ship was greatly exaggerated. I seemed to remember a principle about leverage enunciated by Aristotle, but was too miserable and frightened to think it through. As the mast swayed from side to side the dreadful feeling intensified. 'Turk,' I said. 'I'm going to be sick.'
'It's the rolling of the ship, Scotch.' He seemed unaffected by it. 'Now catch this and heave. Harder, are you a girl?'
'How do I stop the ship rolling?'
'You cannot, foolish boy. But you will grow accustomed to it.'
I doubted it: far below me, several experienced mariners were hanging grey-faced over the rails. One of them began to vomit into the sea. It was too much for me. 'I must go down now.'
'You cannot, Scotch.' The Turk glared at me. 'Not until we have unfurled the sail.'
But I had to. At any cost I had to reach the side of the ship and empty the contents of my stomach as quickly as I could. Carefully, I sidled along the yard and picked my way past the Turk. To pass him I had to lean outwards, gripping him by his shoulders while feeling my way along the rope with my feet. A foot slipped, and for some seconds of horror I teetered between life and death on the swaying ship, while the Turk's nails dug deeply into my forearm. But I passed him, reached the mainmast thankfully, and began to clamber quickly down the ratline, the wind fluttering my shirt.
Mr Salter was looking up at me, his eyes a mixture of hostility and mystification. He opened his mouth to shout at me. Unfortunately, at that very moment, bile rose within my mouth and I retched out the contents of my stomach: a white frothy stream poured out, containing within it half-digested lumps of biscuits, dried fish and peas. Mr Salter tried to leap aside, but because of the rolling of the deck his jump was clumsy and my vomit went cleanly onto his head and down his jacket. There were gasps from around the rigging. Someone muttered, 'God, lad, he will kill you.'
I started to climb back up the rigging, wishing it extended to the clouds above, but Mr Salter's roar of command brought me down. He was using a handkerchief to wipe the vomit from his head and neck while I stood before him, trembling. Then he took off his jerkin and placed it on the deck, and slowly picked up the cudgel which he had dropped as he jumped. It was short, polished, narrow at its handle and broad at its base. He tapped it a few times in the palm of his
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