The Dead Men Stood Together (5 page)

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.

‘So, the Devil walks among us,’ the boy said.

I laughed, but my uncle was clearly not amused.

‘There are demons all around him,’ he continued. ‘They fly about his head and swim in his wake.’

‘You dare call me the Devil?’ said my uncle, lunging towards him.

I stood in front of him, blocking his way.

‘He means no harm,’ I said.

‘Should I give him leave to call me the Devil, then?’ he asked angrily.

‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

My uncle gave me a great shove and pushed me out of the way. I stumbled and fell heavily on to the pebbles.

‘Perhaps a thrashing will clear his head.’

‘You’d better thrash me first,’ said the pilot, trudging towards us along the beach.

Years of rowing a heavy boat in the bay had made the pilot into a man that few would argue with.

‘Is this your boy?’ asked my uncle, weighing up the opposition.

‘It is,’ said the pilot.

‘Then teach him some manners,’ snapped my uncle.

The pilot took a step closer and I thought he was about to strike my uncle down.

‘It seems like you are the one who could do with some education in that regard,’ said the pilot, putting his arm round his son. ‘He’s just a harmless boy. Shame on you.’

My uncle was struck by the truth of these words, I could see, though he tried to pretend that he paid no heed. He waved the pilot away and set off towards the harbour. The pilot and his son both watched him go and I, with a nod to them, set off after him.

My uncle’s mood did not improve as the crew gathered together in the harbour to be taken to the ship by the pilot and by the time we got into the boat he had become sullen and withdrawn. I feared a repeat of his earlier outburst when the pilot’s son climbed into the boat with us and spent the whole time staring at my uncle. But my uncle ignored him.

Perhaps he accepted that the pilot was more important than he was at that moment. And the pilot was important. The bay was wide but dangerously shallow in parts. The pilot knew the channels and would take the helm as we cast off. Without him, few ships would enter or leave the harbour in safety.

I looked back towards the harbour mouth and saw my mother standing at the head of the small crowd gathered on the jetty. I was filled with a terrible mix of feelings as I waved to her. I don’t know if she saw me at all, because she did not wave back.

We climbed aboard and hauled anchor. The pilot took the helm and steered our course on the outgoing tide. I turned to look back once more and already we were so far away I could no longer distinguish one figure from the next standing on the jetty and soon I could not see any figures at all. My uncle walked up and put his arm around my shoulder.

‘Be of good heart,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The sea is your mother now, boy.’

We dropped the pilot and his son in the bay and they bade us farewell. As soon as their boat was loose and they were rowing back to shore, we made sail and headed out to sea.

Looking towards the flat horizon, the sea lit by the rosy glow of morning, I thought of the future and of the great adventures before me. My heart fluttered. I had waited for this all my life.

VIII

I wondered why I saw no sign of the rich adventurers my uncle had told us about, but he explained that they were going to follow in another ship.

He had been sent by them to pay the captain to bring this ship. We would join them on the coast of Africa and then cross the rest of the ocean together.

‘Their ship will be full of fighting men,’ said my uncle. ‘I’ve served with some of them. Good men.’

‘Why aren’t you on that ship?’ I asked.

‘They thought it best that they had a presence on this one,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure we’re all rowing in the same direction, so to speak.’

A sailor walked past, and spat on the deck near our feet. My uncle frowned and watched him walk away and disappear out of sight before turning back to me as though nothing had happened.

‘They thought it best to have at least one fighting man aboard,’ he said, patting his crossbow. ‘We may have need of this on the way. The seas are full of pirates.’

‘Pirates?’ I murmured.

My uncle chuckled.

‘Don’t you worry about them, lad,’ he said. ‘I can shoot the eye out of a wasp with this.’

The spitting sailor snorted as he passed once again. My uncle tapped him on the shoulder and he turned round.

‘What’s your problem?’ said my uncle.

The sailor smiled.

‘No problem here, friend,’ he said. ‘Not unless you’re thinking of being the cause of one.’

My uncle stepped forward and the sailor’s smile disappeared.

‘That’ll be enough of that,’ said the captain, striding towards them. ‘And that goes for the rest of you. There’ll be no fighting on this ship. Anyone who does will be flogged. No exceptions.’

My uncle and the sailor stared at each other in silence.

‘Understood?’ said the captain.

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the sailor.

‘Aye,’ said my uncle, eventually.

My uncle walked away and I saw the captain’s eyes narrow as he watched him go. He had the look of a man who saw a storm approaching.

IX

In time we did indeed hit some rough seas off Biscay. I had been out in bad weather before, but nothing like this. I should have been afraid had I not been so excited. What a fool I was then.

As my uncle had promised, the captain was a good one and so was the crew. We were more than a match for the storm we travelled through and we bonded as sailors will in such circumstances.

More to the point, I was not that bad myself. My father had taught me well and I found that busy hands made for a calm mind. I saw my uncle watch me go about my work as though I was an old sea dog, and nod appreciatively. I was proud.

By the time the seas calmed, I felt a kinship with all the men of that ship, as we each of us knew we could trust the man next to us entirely. Trust him with our lives if necessary.

When we didn’t work, we talked, and I came to learn the stories of each man and the many different routes that lead a man down to the sea.

I came to know their characters: who was quick to anger and who was quick to laugh, who liked to tell a tale and who to listen. This was true of all the crew save one: my uncle.

I grew no closer to my uncle than I already had. It wasn’t long before I felt more at ease with the cook or the captain than I did with him. They in their turn felt comfortable enough in my presence to tell me in no uncertain terms that they sympathised with me for being related to such a cold and unfriendly man as my uncle.

I could see their point. He stood apart. No one worked harder aboard that ship, or with more skill or knowledge. You could not fault his seamanship. But he made it clear he had no interest in the other men of the crew.

He carried his crossbow with him whenever it was practical to do so, even though it must have weighed him down. He seemed to wear it like a badge, a badge that, in his mind at any rate, set him above all the others. He carried that crossbow all over the ship and would sit, when at rest, cradling it like an infant, or examining it and checking it constantly.

He did talk to the men, but not by way of normal conversation. When his watch was done and the men gathered to talk and play dice, my uncle would always have a story to tell of his adventures.

The fact that he had largely ignored the others most of the day did not appear to dampen their interest though. He was a good storyteller and the men were glad of the entertainment.

But I could see that, as the nights went on, they grew tired of stories in which my uncle was always the hero – though rarely a valiant one. They grew more sceptical too. If not of the tales, then of my uncle’s part in them. So, in time, did I.

Seemingly my uncle had sailed in every major battle of the last twenty years and played a major part in every one. He had travelled everywhere in search of gold and spent what he had managed to find on drink and beautiful women.

The sailors had seen his tattoos as I had and, when asked their meaning, he told them that treasure was often the property of religious houses and these marks were to ward off the bad luck that went with stealing from such places. I thought of the pilot’s boy seeing demons around my uncle as he walked to our house.

And then one night something changed. When he was telling a story about raiding a remote island monastery, one of the listeners interrupted angrily.

‘You’d steal from the Church?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ said my uncle without pause, fingering his cross. ‘What business does the Church have in treasure? They should thank me. Greed is a sin. I am saving their souls from damnation.’

My uncle clearly thought this very amusing and laughed heartily. But he was the only one who did. His own laughter dried up and an uncomfortable silence took over, broken only by the angry breathing of those around him.

He seemed to realise he had overstepped some unseen mark, though he had realised too late. The crew had never liked him, and now the first signs of actual
dis
like moved in like a dark cloud.

X

We arrived at the Cape Verde Islands and dropped anchor, loading up with supplies on the quayside at Mindelo. It was the first time I had set foot on foreign soil. I was excited.

Strange trees towered above us and sheltered brightly coloured birds that flitted here and there and pecked at scraps behind the market traders, whose wares were wonderful and strange to my unworldly eyes.