Pyrate's Boy, page 13
‘I used to live in Jamaica,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a compass. Follow me.’
Billy the Fiddle, carrying a large sack, and Black Johnnie follow me up a jungle path.
Of course, we get lost in a matter of hours. Soon I have no idea which way is up and which is down or if, indeed, we have been walking in circles. Eventually I find a clearing and come to a halt.
‘Are we almost there?’ the captain asks. ‘How much further?’
‘We must have walked for miles already,’ adds Billy. ‘I’m exhausted. Shall we stop and eat something or shall we wait until we arrive?’
How can I admit that I have no idea where we are?
‘I’ll check our bearings from over there,’ I say, playing for time.
‘I’ll just take forty winks, then,’ says Billy.
‘I’ll join you,’ says the captain.
I walk to the top of a small hillock and try to look out. The jungle is even thicker here than it was on the coast. And then suddenly, a figure rises up right in front of me. I nearly jump out of my skin.
‘Catherine!’ I gasp. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Following you,’ she says. ‘Your trail is quite erratic. You were at the exact same spot an hour ago.’
‘I’m lost,’ I tell her.
‘Everyone gets lost the first time.’ I stare at her as she sweeps her hair behind her ears. ‘Is it really you, Silas Orr?’ she asks. ‘I heard you’d drowned.’
‘Nearly did,’ I say. ‘But then I was saved. What about you?’
‘I ran away,’ she replies.
Quickly, we swap stories and she tells me how she escaped to the jungle rather than spend another six years held captive by her mean employer, how she met a bunch of other children and formed a camp in the jungle. In turn, I tell her of my ordeal at sea and how I met Black Johnnie and how he offered me a position.
‘A pyrate’s boy!’ she gasps, her eyes wide. ‘Is it wonderful?’
‘It has its moments,’ I shrug.
The sun above is beginning to drop. Without realising it, we have talked for a couple of hours.
From not far away, there is a low hoot followed by a series of three shorter ones. Catherine leaps to her feet.
‘Soldiers,’ she says. ‘It’s the sign, from the others.’
Her skin, so tanned by the sun, turns pale. She cocks her head and listens, and sure enough even I can hear the tramp of broken branches underfoot, the slash of a machete and the low murmur of men’s voices.
‘Wake your friends,’ she says. ‘Then follow me.’
Black Johnnie and Billy the Fiddle don’t need much rousing. In a whisper, I explain the situation.
‘Can we trust her?’ asks the captain. ‘After what she did?’
‘I can vouch for her,’ I say. ‘Besides, what choice do we have?’
33. THE ENCAMPMENT
Catherine knows the paths of the jungle, she knows where to cross the river and how to climb up a gully, she knows the short cuts and the long ways round that avoid the thickest tangles of undergrowth. At first she moves so fast that we can barely keep up with her, padding softly over the fallen leaves and carpet of moss at something between a run and a canter. Occasionally we lose her and she has to run back the way she has come to urge us to move faster. We seem at last to have left the soldiers behind.
‘Not much further,’ she promises. ‘And then you can rest.’
At last, she lets us pause.
The path starts to lead back down the mountain into a thicket of small shrubs and trees. A cliff rears up behind us. It looks impossibly high but there are creepers that you could use like rigging to scale the mast.
‘I think there’s a plantation a mile north of here,’ she says.
‘Why don’t I go up there and take a look?’ I ask. ‘I’ll be able to see everything.’
‘If you’re confident climbing that high,’ she says. ‘And if you’re quick.’
The creepers twist down from stunted trees that grow in the cracks of the cliff. When one runs out there is usually another to grab on to but sometimes I have to edge a few feet along a small ledge or up a sheer rock face to reach it. Several times I get stuck and, with sweat dripping into my eyes and sheer panic in my chest, I make myself reach up, up as far as can until my fingers curl around the smallest indent. And then I flatten my whole body to the surface of rock and edge slow, slowly until my foot finds a niche in the cliff and I can hoist myself up and grab hold of another creeper.
Near the top, the creeper I am climbing thins to a few strands, not strong enough by any means to support me should I slip. And so my heart is beating wildly as I throw first one leg and then the next over the edge of the cliff-top, roll over, close my eyes and vow never to volunteer to do such a stupid thing again.
A shadow falls. I open my eyes. Three faces, blackened with mud, stare down at me. Three sharp wooden spears are aimed at my neck. Very slowly I sit up.
‘What have you done with her?’ one of them says.
‘If you’re looking for Catherine,’ I say, ‘she’s a friend. She’s just down there, actually.’
At that moment, however, I hear her scream. We all peer over the cliff edge. Down below, the captain, Bill and Catherine are surrounded by soldiers. One of them is pointing a musket at the captain’s head.
‘How did they find us?’ I say.
‘They have trackers,’ the boy replies.
We lie low and watch as they are led along the path until they disappear into the jungle.
‘Where are they going?’ I ask.
The children shrug.
‘We should follow them!’ I insist.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he tells me. ‘There will be more soldiers following behind. You should come with us.’
And so, with the tip of a spear prodding into my back the entire way, I am pushed along a steep winding path that leads down the back of the cliff, through one stream then another, until we finally reach a clump of banyan trees and stop.
‘We’re here,’ the boy says.
I suspect that they have deliberately led me round and round and up and down just to confuse me, so I am in a foul temper when I finally slump down in the shade of their so-called camp. It looks, in truth, like nothing much, just the clump of trees with a clearing in the middle. I wonder where they sleep? I wonder what they eat? A few smaller children stand a few feet away from me and stare. One of the ones who caught me sits down nearby and starts to fashion a new spear from a length of bamboo. He looks at me sidelong. His skin is white but his hair is jet black. He must be only a year or two younger than I am.
‘You might need this,’ he says. ‘It gets cold at night.’ And then he throws me an old ship’s blanket. ‘Where did you learn to scale a cliff?’
‘I can climb a ship’s rig,’ I shrug. ‘It’s almost the same.’
‘You been at sea for long?’
I think of the many voyages I have made, of storms and fair weather, of passing icebergs and lying stretched out on the bowsprit in the sun, and nod my head.
‘A while,’ I reply.
‘I was sick all the way,’ he tells me, ‘when I came from Liverpool.’
‘It is common,’ I tell him. ‘On my first voyage I was ill. But not as ill as Catherine was.’
The boy starts when I say her name.
‘You know Catherine?’ he asks.
‘Didn’t she explain? We both sailed from Greenock together bound for the plantations. It seems neither of us lasted long as an indentured servant.’
‘So you weren’t keeping her captive?’ he asks.
‘No!’
‘Are you sure?’
I shake my head. He squints at me, as if wondering whether to believe it.
‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘a friend of Catherine’s is a friend of mine. Follow me.’ And then he slots his foot into a crease in the trunk of the nearest banyan tree and hoists himself up.
From the bottom I can’t see anything, just leaves and branches. But once I am about twenty feet off the ground, I push myself through a tiny hole and another world unfolds.
Although there is no floor, there are a series of wide branches that criss-cross back and forth to create a level. Two-dozen hammocks of varying sizes, woven from hemp, swing from branches, while bananas, mangoes and breadfruit hang in nets. There is even a small fire, with a pot suspended above it, constructed in the fork of a trunk. Its chimney is made from a tube of banana leaves and rises up above the tree canopy to take away the smell of smoke.
About twenty children sit clustered on a wide branch and wait for their supper to be cooked. They stand up in alarm when they see me.
‘It’s all right,’ says the boy who led me up. ‘He’s a friend of Catherine’s.’
‘Where is Catherine?’ one of them asks.
‘The soldiers got her,’ the boy says.
The children gasp. One starts to cry, which sets off another few.
‘Where have they taken her?’ another asks.
The boy shrugs.
‘You know what we all agreed,’ he says. ‘No rescue attempts. If they find out where we are, then we’re all goners.’
‘But it’s Catherine,’ another sobs.
‘It was her rule,’ the boy replies.
Suddenly there is a hoot. Ash is thrown over the fire and the children all fall silent. I listen as hard as I can. At first I can’t hear anything, just the wind in the branches above. And then I make out the soft fall of feet on the jungle floor. I look down. Right below us are three black tricorn hats: soldiers. One of them picks up the ship’s blanket that I have left. He throws it over his shoulder. Just as well I’m up here and not down there any more.
I look over at the boy. He is staring at me, willing me not to make a sound. The soldiers are looking around, searching, I suppose, for the owner of the blanket. I tell myself that they can’t see me. But I still can’t stop trembling.
They stand there for what seems like ages and then slowly move off. They seem to know that they have missed something, they just don’t know that it is twenty feet above their heads.
A few minutes later there is another hoot. The men have gone. Everyone relaxes. Using a flint, one of the children relights the fire. Once more they turn their attention to me.
‘Isn’t he too big?’ a little child asks. ‘How old are you?’
The question takes me by surprise. I don’t know exactly. I haven’t had a birthday since I left Scotland. Twelve, I tell them, or maybe thirteen.
‘He came through the hole,’ says the boy who brought me. ‘He is not too big.’
And then he rubs his hand on his threadbare trousers and offers it.
‘I’m Jonathan Lamont,’ he offers.
‘Silas Orr,’ I reply.
‘Oscar,’ says another small boy and rises up to shake my hand. One by one, the children introduce themselves, some with second names like Jonathan, and some without – forgotten, I suppose, or simply discarded along the way.
Some of the children, they tell me, absconded from the British Navy where they had been almost worked to death on ships as powder monkeys or cabin boys. Others, like Catherine, broke their bonds and escaped from cruel plantation owners. Those with black skins are the children of slaves, sent out into the jungle by their mothers rather than spend the rest of their life subjected to overwork and random cruel punishment.
‘The soldiers won’t keep your captain for long,’ says Jonathan. ‘Or the others.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘If they know there’s a price on his head they’ll take them all to Kingston.’
‘Why Kingston?’
Oscar shrugs.
‘That’s where they take all the pyrates. And those associated with them. To Port Royal. They hang them at Gallows Point.’
My eyes well up, my ears start to roar and I struggle to keep my face straight. Never to see Black Johnnie again, or Billy the Fiddle, or Catherine is unbearable. I must help them. But how?
I decide I must go to Kingston and then to Port Royal. Immediately. Maybe in the future I will find Isabella and James, but right now I must rescue my dearest friends.
‘How do you get there from here?’ I ask.
‘We’ll show you, but we’re not allowed to go to Kingston,’ says Oscar. ‘Too dangerous.’
‘It’s all right,’ I tell him. ‘I shall go alone.’
‘You need to head north until you reach the waterfall,’ Oscar says. ‘Then take the path that leads down the hill. It’s about three hours’ walk to the bay. When you reach a paved road you’ll know you’re close. Take care.’
I thank them, take the supplies they offer, then slip through the hole, climb down the trunk and drop silently on to the forest floor. Even though I know they are watching me go, I can’t see the children up above. I wave anyway and then, as they have told me to, I head north and walk for some time.
At the waterfall, I hear a giggle from a bush.
‘I know you’re in there,’ I yell.
Around twenty children step out, each carrying a small pack of supplies.
‘We know we’re not supposed to,’ one of them admits. ‘But we want to come and rescue Catherine with you. Besides, you’d get lost without us. You’ve already taken the wrong turning twice.’
Oscar and Jonathan take the lead. It is just as well as the jungle is thick and I doubt whether I would have been able to find my way. It is dark by the time we reach the coast. The lights of the town spill out over the black water of the bay until they almost touch the collapsing towers and flooded alleyways of Port Royal. A flickering fire burns on Gallows Point. We build a makeshift camp just outside the town in a small clearing.
‘So what’s your plan?’ one of the children asks me.
‘I’m going to see what I can find out,’ I tell them. ‘If I’m not back by dawn, come and look for me. And if you can’t find me, do something drastic!’
34. THE CAPTIVE
The taverns on Harbour Street are all full tonight. Drunk men stagger out carrying bottles of rum. I slip into the nearest one. The air reeks of tobacco and sweat. The light is low and only a couple of candles flicker on the bar. I try to hold my breath and keep my head down. Nobody notices me, so I crouch in a corner and listen. There is, I soon gather, a ship with a cargo of slaves due to dock the next day. Many owners and managers have ridden down from the plantations to go to the sale. A hot summer, one tells another, has spread disease.
‘Mine are dying like flies,’ he says. ‘And so one must keep topping up the stock.’
‘I am in the same position,’ says the other. ‘The expense is eating into my profits.’
But most of the talk is of the hanging.
‘A Jacobite!’ says one woman with a large red nose. ‘And a pyrate! Handsome too, I’ve heard.’
‘Deserves to swing,’ shouts a man with a sweaty face.
‘Where is he being held?’ another lady asks.
‘It’s a secret!’
‘Go on?’ the lady coaxes. ‘You can tell me.’
He leans over to whisper in her ear. But he is so drunk and he has such a bellowing voice that the whole tavern can hear him without even trying.
‘In Port Royal.’
I slip out of the tavern and head down to the harbour. The last time I was here, I was on my way back to Scotland. It scared me then. But that was before I met Black Johnnie, before I became a pyrate’s boy. I pull myself up to my full height. I have survived storms at sea, I tell myself, I have almost drowned more than once. Now all I have to do is carry out a daring rescue. But I am still scared, in truth, this time even more so.
The bay is full of tall ships, their masts and ropes and rolled-up sails clanking gently in the breeze. There is no sign of the rowboat or the pyrates from the Curby Dodger.
A ship is docked near the slave market. It sits low in the water and flies a Union Jack. While all the lights on deck are burning, the portholes are black. It’s the slave ship. The sale is next morning at nine, according to a notice pinned up on the quay.
As I am reading, I feel a presence behind me. I spin round, ready to strike out or defend myself. But the figure is familiar.
‘Toombi, thank goodness,’ I gasp.
His face is serious; his eyes blink rapidly as he stares at the ship.
‘We’ll help them if we can,’ I tell him. ‘But first we have to save the captain and Billy and Catherine.’ He listens intently as I tell him what happened, how they were captured in the Blue Mountains and taken to Fort George in Port Royal. ‘They are to be hung in the morning,’ I whisper. ‘Where are the crew?’
The men are in a tavern, Toombi signs, spending their gold coins, drunk as skunks. From somewhere behind me comes the roaring of laughter and a short burst of the kind of seafaring song rarely sung by respectable seamen.
‘And the rowboat?’
He points to the furthermost quay and indicates it is hidden.
‘What shall we do?’ I ask. Toombi glances across the water towards Gallows Point. He shrugs. How can a cabin boy, an escaped black slave and a dozen drunken pyrates take on every soldier in Port Royal and Kingston?
The rowboat will be somewhere to sleep at least. But as we walk along the jetty, I hear the sound of a child softly sobbing. I’ve heard that sob before.
‘James,’ I whisper. ‘Is that you?’
The crying stops.
‘Silas?’
I scan the jetty. A couple of other rowboats bob in the water, but it is too dark to see anything clearly
‘I can’t see you,’ I whisper. ‘Are you alone?’
‘No,’ he whispers back. ‘But he’s asleep.’
Toombi, who has heard everything, beckons me to follow him. There are two figures in the third boat along, one large and clearly out for the count, the other small and very much awake.
With one heave, Toombi shoves the sleeping man up and over the side of the boat. Just before he rolls, however, the man reaches out and grabs something. A chain uncoils at our feet. Before we can grab him, James is pulled over the side, yanked by the shackles that encircle his wrists.
