CHAPTER FOUR

A foul musky rot.

William’s semiconscious brain attempted to sort the two scents out. A soft sniffing sound and a quick brush of fur against his chin startled William into full wakefulness. Darkness engulfed him, his surroundings unfamiliar and threatening. He tried to remember where he was. Not on his own sleeping mat, tucked under his warm woolen bedding, that was for sure. How did I get here? He lay still for a few seconds, the sour taste of vomit still strong in his mouth. For a moment, his own blue eyes fluttered open but he could see only dim outlines in the lantern lit darkness.

Lanterns! At once all of his senses screamed high alert.

Many more strong odors filled his nostrils. Pitch. Rot. Animal dung. Shit and sweat. He closed his eyes to mere slits and took stock of his predicament. He was lying on his side, rough plank flooring beneath him, his wrists and ankles bound. My knee is aching like a sonofabitch. What–

A low rumble of voices cut his thought off short. The odor of unwashed flesh grew stronger with the approach of another lantern. He mentally separated it out from another, less prevalent stench, but one which seemed to lie in an invisible ribbon at floor level. Old rotted meat. Kerosene. Something fermenting.

He could hear the soft swoosh of his own blood in his ears again and nausea returned. His shoulders had begun to ache fiercely as well, though he could not feel his wrists or his hands.

How long have I been lying here, and where is here?

He could feel in his cheek, really, more than he could hear the vibration of the creaking floor planks that he was lying upon. Was that the faint calling of gulls? He couldn’t be sure. Am I near the shoreline then? Am I in a waterfront shop somewhere? He thought of the smell of rotting meat. A butcher shop? Or is it rotting fish? Definitely near the wharf then. As he slowly recalled his thoughts, panic and confusion rose again.

Johnny! Is Da’ dead too? They would have fought to the death to save one another. He struggled to hold back tears. And Mum –she’ll be worried out of her mind! All three of us gone; Da’ and Johnny aren’t ever comin’ back!

William had to get home, back to her. What will happen to her and Abbey? And Lucas. William couldn’t remember a single day in his life without his beloved dog.

The lantern light was moving closer. William fought to keep his breathing slow and even. The lantern hovered close, just above his face. A booted foot thudded him forcefully in his mid thigh. William did not move.

“Get this one loose and movin’ about, ‘afore he shits himself, too,” a gravelly voice commanded.

“Yessir!”

More voices. Younger than the gravelly one, William guessed. He strained his memory to recognize any of them as belonging to any of the merchants that his father had done business with. He could not place a single one.

William felt hands grab him and haul him to his feet. At least he thought he was standing on them. His feet were really too numb to tell. With eyes wide open now, he saw the glint of metal in the lantern light, as a dagger blade flashed in front of his face. With one quick slash from his captor, his wrists were cut free, and with a second, his feet.

“What’s yer name, lad?” the gravelly voice asked. William tried to speak but his tongue felt furry and thick.

“Answer me now, piss-pants,” Gravelly Voice commanded, “or I’ll flog it outta’ ya’!”

William was suddenly aware of a cool wetness in the crotch of his trousers. The pungent smell of urine rose above the cornucopia of so many other strange smells. For a moment his fear was squelched by a stab of hot shame in the realization that he had indeed pissed himself.

He licked his dry lips and croaked, “William.”

“William, eh? That’s a fine name fer a tar. Welcome aboard the HMS Argus, Piss-Pants William. Follow Mr. Smith, here. “He’ll get you something to eat and show you to yer work station and yer hammock, in that order. Yer duties start this evenin’ before tomorrow’s first light. Mr. Smith, Piss-Pants William is yer charge fer today. We’re doin’ one on one fer all the new recruits in case they get any frisky ideas.

“Wait! Duties? I don’t understand–” William began to protest, but Gravelly Voice had moved on, kicking at the next unfortunate body lying in bondage a few feet away.

Smith tugged at William’s sleeve. “C’mon,” he said quietly, “Ya’ wanna’ eat or not?” William stared at the one called Mr. Smith. Brown eyes stared back at him from a face that was laced with a network of fine scars over high cheekbones and forehead. The boy’s hair appeared to be a coppery brown in the dim light of the lanterns; it was tied back in a braided plait that reached just past his thin shoulders.  Smith was a head taller and appeared to be somewhat older. William guessed Smith was probably around John’s age–Johnny! His mind filled with an unspeakable sorrow. He pushed the ache aside, trying to make sense of this living nightmare.

“Wha–what is this place? I don’t understand what’s happened–”

Smith turned and looked at him. “How old are ya’ anyway?” He peered closer. William could see a faint scar running across Smith’s cheek from his ear to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve not even many whiskers, do ya’?”

Pride forced the truth from William. “I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”

“Sixteen? Hah!” Smith snorted, “Not a boy anymore, but a helluva’ long ways out from being the eighteen that the friggin’ Navy Proclamation states we must be before volunteerin’….”

The Navy? What the hell? “But I didn’t volunteer!” William protested, “I–”

“Ya’ did as far as the Navy‘s concerned.”

“But I didn’t! I’m not doing this!” William hissed, “I’ll leave–”

The sting of Smith’s sharp slap across William’s mouth caught him in mid sentence. “See here, now,” Smith whispered menacingly, “there is no leavin’ this hell hole, ‘cept overboard in a tarp with a stitch through yer nose. Ya’ hear? Leaving alive is not a choice ya’ have. We’re already near a day out to sea.”

 William took in this new information in stunned silence. Feeling was beginning to return to his feet and he stumbled painfully along as though walking in oversize wooden clogs.

 So I’m on a ship! And in its belly at that. He followed behind Smith, as they made their way through a narrow pathway lined on each side with boxes and barrels of all sizes piled to shoulder height. By now William’s eyes had adjusted to the low light and he caught a brief glance of a small flash of movement at the base of a barrel. Rat! And judging from the smell, more than one. He shuddered to think that the sniff and brush of something soft against his face that had awoken him a few minutes earlier had likely been one of its cousins.

Filthy damn creatures.

A rat bite almost always brought on the fevers, William knew. Problem was, most rats snuck up on a lad when he was lying down, asleep. He had not suffered a bite from one himself, but had heard of the livery owner and all who worked there routinely getting bitten. One of the livery boys had even died of the fevers last winter. William had not known the boy personally, but he had seen him once, when William had accompanied his Da’ into town for supplies. He remembered the lad, a scrawny, shy boy, small even for his age of ten, forking old bedding out of the stalls into a wagon. Talk had been last winter that he had died a fitful death, his vision clouded with demons, such as the fevers often brought on, and him yelling out till his last hours.

 Would the demons have followed the boy into the afterlife? William hoped that when it was his time, his death would be quick, and not drawn out in the unseen horrors that seemed to afflict all who died a feverish end.

Smith stopped at a long narrow wooden table. “Sit. Cook’ll get us some chowder.” He planted himself on a low wooden bench and motioned for William to do the same. “So, you’ll work as yer told, ya’ see,” he continued, “or you’ll die.” It was a simple statement. Smith shrugged as though to emphasize such inevitability.

William stared at Smith in frank astonishment. Has he been reading my thoughts?

William’s eyes, wide in surprise, did not escape Smith’s notice, and the corner of his scar-licked mouth pulled into a thin, sad smile. “Ya’ survived the pressin’, didn’cha? Many don’t.”

Pressing? Christ! So that’s what happened! William had heard that press gangs roamed the countryside near every port in Great Britain, physically abducting nearly all men and older boys that they came across, to be recruits for His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Physical force was almost always used by the “gangers”, as no man who neither had a family nor made his living on land went voluntarily. Being “pressed” into service meant suddenly disappearing, leaving family behind with a good chance of never returning to see them again.

William thought again of John. Of his father’s cap ground into the bloodied grass. Of his mother and Abbey begging at the neighbors’ door–Stop it! You can’t help them now!

“So, who are ya’?” Smith peered at William, holding him in his gaze.

“William.”

Smith continued to stare, waiting for William to go on.

“William Taylor,” William added. “Me Da’s a farmer ….” William’s voice trailed away. Da’s dead. John’s dead. And somebody’s gonna’ pay …. William could feel his chest tighten and his cheeks grew hot. He clenched his teeth and pinched his thigh, focusing on the pain. Don’t cry! Don’t you dare cry, you milksop! Stay hard. Keep your wits about you, he scolded himself.

Smith leaned in on his elbows and announced, “Well, Mr. Taylor, glad to have ya’ on board.” He extended his hand and shook William’s. “Samuel Smith, makin’ yer acquaintance.” Glancing over his shoulder, he squinted into the ship’s murky semi-darkness and cocking a thumb back towards the other sailors, he continued in a low whisper. “And I’ll tell ya’ now, they don’t see no point in feedin’ a body what won’t haul and scrub, ya’ see,” he explained quietly.

“Work, or die, Mr. Taylor,” he sat back and nodded. “That’s yer only choice now.”