Jack braced himself for the final impact into the sea, but his body was
unexpectedly jerked upright and he found himself hanging over the edge of
the ship, the ocean rushing violently beneath him.
Jack looked up to see a tattooed arm clamped firmly round his wrist.
'Don't worry, boy, I've got you!' grunted his saviour, as a wave rose to
meet Jack and tried to drag him under again.
The anchor tattooed on theman's forearm appeared to buckle under the strain and Jack felt his own arm almost pop out of its socket as the Bosun hoisted him back on board.
Jack collapsed in a pile at the man's feet, heaving up mouthfuls of
seawater.
'You'll live. Natural sailor like your father you are, though a little more
drowned,' the Bosun smirked. 'Now answer me, boy! What do you think
you were doing?'
'I was… running a message to my father, Bosun.'
'That ain't what I ordered. I told you to stay on deck,' shouted the Bosun
in his face. 'You may be the Pilot's son, but that's not going to stop you
getting a whipping for disobedience! Now get yourself up the foremast and
unsnag the top gallant sail or else I'll be giving you a taste of the cat!'
'God bless you, Bosun,' muttered Jack and quickly made his way back to
the foredeck, aware that a lashing from the cat-o'-nine-tails was no empty
threat. The Bosun had lashed other sailors for misdemeanours far less
severe than disobeying an order.
Still, when he reached the bow, Jack hesitated. The foremast was taller
than a church steeple, and pitching wildly in the storm. Jack's fingers,
already numb with cold, couldn't even feel the rigging and his sodden
clothes had become cumbersome and heavy. The problem was that the
longer he stalled, the colder he would get and soon his limbs would be too
stiff to save himself.
Come on, he willed himself. You're braver than this.
Deep down, though, he knew he wasn't. In fact, he was truly terrified.
During the lengthy voyage from England to the Spice Islands, he had
acquired a reputation for being one of the best rigging monkeys. But his
ability to climb the mast, repair the sails and untangle 'fouled' ropes at
great height hadn't come from confidence or skill – it was born out of pure
fear.
Jack looked up into the storm. The sky had been whipped into a frenzy
and dark thunderous clouds streaked across a colourless moon. In the
gloom, he could just make out Ginsel and the rest of the crew in the
shrouds. The mast swayed so violently, the men swung like apples being
shaken from a tree.
'Don't be afraid of storms in life,' he recalled his father saying, on the
day Jack had been tasked with climbing to the crow's-nest for the first time.
'We must all learn how to sail our own ship, in any weather.'
Jack remembered how he had watched all the new recruits attempt the
terrifying ascent. Every one of them, bar none, had either frozen with fear,
or else puked their guts out on to the sailors below. By the time it was
Jack's turn, the wind had got up so much the rigging was rattling almost as
fretfully as his own legs.
Jack looked to his father, who squeezed his shoulders with loving
reassurance. 'I believe in you, son. You can do this.'
Convinced by his father's faith in him, Jack launched himself at the
rigging and didn't look down until he had hauled himself over the lip and
into the safety of the crow's-nest. Exhausted but elated, Jack had let out a
yell of delight to his father, tiny as an ant, on the distant deck below. Fear
had driven Jack all the way to the top. Getting down had proved another
matter…
Jack grabbed hold of the rigging and pulled himself aloft. He quickly fell
into his usual rhythm, the comfort of habit providing some reassurance.
Hand over hand, he rapidly gained height, until he could see the white
crests of the waves as they charged at the ship. But they were no longer the
threat. It was the relentless wind. Fearsome gusts did their utmost to drag
Jack off into the night, but instinctively bracing himself he continued
upward. Before long he was standing next to Ginsel on the yardarm.
'Jack!' yelled Ginsel, who looked worn out, his eyes bloodshot and
sunken. 'One of the halyards got fouled up. The sail won't drop. You're
going to have to go out there and unsnag it.'
Jack looked up and saw a thick sail rope tangled in the rigging of the
gallant, its block and tackle flailing dangerously.
'You've got to be kidding! Why me? What about the others?' exclaimed
Jack, nodding towards the two petrified sailors hanging on for grim life on
the other side of the yardarm.
'I would've asked your friend Christiaan,' replied Ginsel, glancing over
at a small Dutch lad, the same age as Jack, with mouse-like eyes that were
full of fear, 'but he's no Jack Fletcher. You're the best rigging monkey
we've got.'
'But that's suicidal…' protested Jack.
'So's sailing round the world, yet we've gone and done it!' replied
Ginsel, attempting a reassuring smile, but his shark-like teeth only made
him appear maniacal. 'Without that topsail, there's no way the Captain can
save this ship. It's got to be done and you're the monkey for it.'
'All right,' said Jack, realizing he had little choice. 'But you'd better be
ready to catch me!'
'Trust me, little brother, I wouldn't want to lose you now. Tie this rope
round your waist. I'll keep hold of the other end. Best take my knife too.
You'll need to cut the halyard free.'
Jack secured the tie-rope and clamped the roughly honed blade between
his teeth. He then clambered up the mast to the topgallant. Using the little
rigging available, Jack edged along the spar towards the tangled halyard.
The going was treacherously slow, the wind pulling at him with a
thousand unseen hands. Glancing down, Jack could barely make out his
father far below on the quarterdeck. For a moment he swore he saw his
father wave at him.
'Look ouuuutttt!' warned Ginsel.
Jack turned to see the loose block and tackle come flying out of the storm
straight towards his head. He threw himself to one side, dodging it, but in
the process lost his grip and slipped from the spar.
Jack snatched for the rigging, grabbing hold of a loose halyard as he fell.
His hands ripped down the rope, the rough hemp cutting deep into his
palms. Despite the searing pain, he somehow kept his grip.
He hung there, flying in the wind.
The sea. The ship. The sail. The sky. All of them swirled around him.
'Don't worry. I've got you!' shouted Ginsel above the storm.
He pulled on the tie-rope strung over the topgallant and hauled Jack
towards it. Jack reached up and flipped his legs over the spar, swinging
himself upright. It took several moments for Jack to regain his breath,
sucking in air between teeth still clamped round Ginsel's knife.
Once the burning pain in his hands had subsided, Jack resumed his
painstaking crawl along the spar. Eventually the tangled halyard was only
inches from his face. Jack took the knife from his mouth and began to hack
away at the sodden rope. But the knife proved too blunt and it took him
several attempts before the threads started to cleave apart. Jack's fingers
were icy to the core and his bloodied palms made his grip slippery and
awkward. A blast of wind shunted him sideways and in attempting to steady
himself, the blade spun away with the storm.
'Noooo!' cried Jack, futilely reaching after it.
Shattered from his efforts, he turned towards Ginsel. 'I've only cut half
the rope! What now?'
Ginsel, lifeline in hand, gestured for him to come back, but another gust
slammed into Jack so hard he could have sworn the ship had run aground.
The entire mast shuddered in its bed and the topsail yanked hard at the
halyard. Weakened by Jack's cutting, the rope snapped as if it were a
breaking bone, the canvas unfurled and, with an almighty crack, caught the
wind.
The ship surged forward.
Ginsel and the other sailors gave a cheer as the Alexandria turned in the
wind and the breaking waves stopped battering her decks. Jack's spirits
were lifted by their unexpected turn of fortune.
But his joy was short-lived.
The sail, in dropping, had jerked the block and tackle tight against the
mast, where it had promptly snapped away and now plummeted like a stone
towards Jack, but this time he had nowhere to go.
'JUMP!' shouted Ginsel