Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: E.Van Johnson
ISBN-10: 978149435000
Type: Fiction
Pages: 334
Copyright: 22-10-2013
ISBN-13: B00G35EY40
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
A sea story set in the 1750's folows the life of an orphan as he struggles to cope with life 'Before the mast on a Collier brig and later after being taken by the press gang, 'below decks' on a sloop of war.
Excerpt
Chapter 1.
The boy was in his element, he could hardly contain his excitement as the small coble danced over the waves like a lively young colt kicking her heels. The heavy canvas lug sail stood hard as iron in the stiff breeze. The old man felt the tiller kick like a living thing as the sea rose up astern. Gently he eased the head of the boat to leeward skilfully counteracting the press of canvas trying to force the boat’s head up into the wind.
“Here Jamie lad,” he called. “Take the tiller.” His voice was deep and strong and carried easily against the rush of the wind and the crash of the sea against the stout wooden hull.
The boy was standing in the prow, his dark hair tousled by the wind. The old man noted the gleam in the lad’s eye as he worked his way aft, his slight body swaying nimbly to the roll and lurch of the coble as she charged over the wildly tossing waves.
Taking the boy’s hand the old man placed it on the tiller. The hand was small, yet hard and rough like a man’s, the arms were thin, almost puny but sinewy and strong. His skin was darkly tanned and ruddy from exposure to the elements.
“Feel the sea kicking the rudder?” The old man asked. “Don't try to fight it now, just ease her gently so she rolls with the sea.”
Jamie’s hand trembled on the gnarled wood, it was not with fear.
He had a feeling of tremendous exhilaration as he felt the boat kick her stern against a rising swell. He watched her head as it started to pay off, then leaned his weight against the tiller bar. Imperceptibly, he felt, rather than saw the boat sheer off.
The sail took the wind and the boat healed back onto her heading. He looked at his Grandfather for approval.
“That's it.” The old man said gruffly, his voice showing nothing of the pride or love he felt for the boy. “Be aware now, you must watch her at all times.” He cautioned. “The sea can be a cruel mistress if you don't give her your full attention she'll have you in her maw.”
There was intensity in the boy’s gaze that belied his years. He looked perfectly at home with legs braced wide apart against the swell, his eyes strained forward, constantly swivelling to take in the boats heading, the roll of the sea and the set of the sail, with the occasional glance astern watching for big rollers that might catch them unawares. If they broached, the boat would be forced beam on to the sea, a dangerous position for any vessel, but for an open fishing boat it could spell the end for her and her crew.
“Do you feel confident enough to take her all the way into the beach?” The old man said quietly not taking his eyes off the sea ahead.
Jamie nodded, not daring to speak. He was trying hard not to show the excitement he felt at being in command. It was a thing he had dreamed of as long as he could remember. The only thing he had ever wanted in his young life was to be allowed out in the boat, but to be in full command of her was a dream come true.
Jamie Johnson would be fourteen at midsummer. He had helped his grandfather in the boat since he was five. He could mend a net; rig and bait a lobster pot. Set and take in sail; paint; caulk and varnish the boat. He handled the horse and the heavy carriage for pulling the boat out of the water when bad weather threatened with a skill that belied his years. He could gut and clean fish, crab and lobster, splice rope and wire. In fact he was a fully-fledged fisherman, apart from two things. He had never steered the boat in rough weather and he had never landed her in heavy surf.
Jamie came from a long line of fishermen. In fact the whole village thrived on fishing and made their entire living from the sea. Even in the depths of winter when the boat could not be launched because of gales or heavy seas, Jamie would take the cart along the low tide mark gathering seaweed and carrying it to the outlying farms to be spread on the fields as manure. The farmers paid in kind with potatoes or vegetables, sometimes even a chicken or a rabbit for the pot. It was a hard life, but James was content, he knew no other.
“Now Jamie,” his Grandfather said. “You see the tall tree on the Beacons Field.” He said pointing with his pipe.
The boy nodded. “Yes Grandfather.”
“Good, well line her head up on that.”
Carefully, Jamie eased the helm and sail. The boat stood on a more even keel and seemed to accelerate, racing over the water like a stallion at the chase.
“Good lad, now when the wind is in the North East like today you need to feel the sea and understand it. Today is fine, you see the rocks yonder.”
The old man pointed ahead at a line of black weed covered rocks half awash.
“That’s the Bears Back. You've seen it at low tide, now bring it to mind.”
The boy tried hard to picture the rocks at low water. They were rows of Skerries; long jagged black fingers of rock that ran out far into the sea for almost half a mile offshore.
“They run due east from the shore. Between the Bears Back and the North Skerrie is the fairway of the deep channel. At night, or in fog, you can't always see it, but if you learn to feel the sea, you will never be lost and come home safe.”
Jamie looked at the old man, not understanding.
“How do you mean Grandfather,” he asked his desire to learn far outweighing his anxiety.
“The North Skerries run offshore to the South East. When the sea hits them it bounces back out. If you take heed you can feel the backwash pushing against the side of the boat, you feel it through soles of your boots and through the rudder to your hands in the tiller.”
It suddenly dawned on Jamie; the pressure from the swell was from the shore, not aft where the sea came or the quarter where the wind blew as you would expect.
“I feel it,” he said excitedly, “it presses on the starboard side all the while.”
“That’s it.” The old man’s eyes gleamed at the boy’s excitement recalling the day when his own grandfather had taught him the same lesson and he first made the same discovery for himself. “Now you can learn how far offshore you are by how much back wash you feel. Take her in a bit more and you will see what I mean.”
Jamie eased his weight on the tiller letting the boats head fall off towards the shore. He eased the sheet and the boat leaned to the sea bounding shoreward towards the jagged black rocks that seethed like gnashing teeth in the white foam.
At about 400 yards he brought her back on course. The kick on the side of the boat was stronger now and the boy was fighting to keep her head up to the wind.
“I feel it Grandfather, the force is much stronger now.”
“Take her in a bit more.” The old man said again.
Dutifully, the boy tightened his grip on the tiller and headed back in towards the wave lashed rocks. He could feel the dampness of sweat on his hands. Even in the chill of a north east wind there was sweat on his upper lip. He licked it off, tasting the bitter tang of dried salt. All the while, the boat flew directly towards the wave covered rocks.
At 200 yards he eased the helm again.
“Further in.” The old man ordered, and balancing easily against the wildly tossing deck, the old man calmly lit his pipe.
Jamie’s eyes were growing ever wider as the boat raced towards certain destruction.
100 yards, 75 yards, the roaring of the waves crashing on the rocks was clearly audible above the rush of wind and the roar of the sea.
50 yards, still the old man puffed his pipe. At the thirty yards, Jamie could wait no longer and heaved the helm over until the boat pointed seaward across the bay, but still perilously close to the crashing waves and deadly rocks that would smash the boat to splinters in an instant and drown her crew.
“Hold her steady.” The old man ordered. “Now do you feel the water?” He asked.
“Aye Grandfather,” the boy replied, still wishing to take the boat further away from danger.
“And what else?” The old man shouted above the crash of the sea.
The boy looked puzzled. “I don't know what you mean.”
“A sailor must use all his senses; listen lad, what do you hear?”
Jamie listened; he could hear the roar of the sea and rush of the wind. The crashing of the waves was much louder now, but beneath it there was another sound, a sort of low rumbling that he could not quite place. He had heard it before, but could not remember where.
“I heard the roar of the waves on the rocks as we came in, but now there is another sound, a low rumbling I can't place.”
“Good lad,” The old man smiled. “That’s the shingle, the small rocks and pebbles are being moved along the bottom by the sea and waves. Remember it, for when you can hear that you are in extreme danger of running ashore.”
“But if it is dark, how will I know which way to go?”
“Always steer away from the sound. That is the way of deep water; a good sailor can survive most seas in a good boat if he has plenty of sea room.”
The boy smiled at his Grandfather. Leaning on the tiller, Jamie eased the boat away from the rocks. At 100 yards, the roar faded. Jamie knew he had learned a very good lesson.
|
