have to perform now,’ he told them, and looked at Big Daniel. ‘Bring the prisoners on deck, Master Daniel.’
Sam Bowles was at the head of the forlorn file that came up from the hold, blinking in the sunlight. They were led aft and forced to kneel, facing the ship’s company.
Sir Francis read their names from the sheet of parchment he held up. ‘Samuel Bowles. Edward Broom. Peter Law. Peter Miller. John Tate. You kneel before your shipmates accused of cowardice
and desertion in the face of the enemy, and dereliction of your duty.’
The other men growled and glared at them.
‘How say you to these charges? Are you the cowards and traitors we accuse you of being?’
‘Mercy, your grace. It was a madness of the moment. Truly we repent. Forgive us, we beg you for the sakes of our wives and the sweet babes we left at home,’ Sam Bowles pleaded as
their spokesman.
‘The only wives you ever had were the trulls in the bawdy houses of Dock Street,’ Big Daniel mocked him, and the crew roared.
‘String them up at the yard-arm! Let’s watch them dance a little jig to the devil.’
‘Shame on you!’ Sir Francis stopped them. ‘What kind of English justice is this? Every man, no matter how base, is entitled to a fair trial.’ They sobered and he went on.
‘We will deal with this matter in proper order. Who brings these charges against them?’
‘We do!’ roared the crew in unison.
‘Who are your witnesses?’
‘We are!’ they replied, with a single voice.
‘Did you witness any act of treachery or cowardice? Did you see these foul creatures flee from the fight and leave their shipmates to their fate?’
‘We did.’
‘You have heard the testimony against you. Do you have aught to say in your defence?’
‘Mercy!’ whined Sam Bowles. The others were dumb.
Sir Francis turned back to the crew. ‘And so what is your verdict?’
‘Guilty!’
‘Guilty as hell!’ added Big Daniel, lest there be any lingering doubts.
‘And your sentence?’ Sir Francis asked, and immediately an uproar broke out.
‘Hang ’em.’
‘Hanging’s too good for the swine. Keel haul ’em.’
‘No! No! Draw and quarter ’em. Make them eat their own balls.’
‘Let’s fry some pork! Burn the bastards at the stake.’
Sir Francis silenced them again. ‘I see we have some differences of opinion.’ He gestured to Big Daniel. ‘Take them down below and lock them up. Let them stew in their own
stinking juices for a day or two. We will deal with them when we get into port. Until then there are more important matters to attend to.’
F or the first time in his life aboard ship, Hal had a cabin of his own. He need no longer share every sleeping and waking moment of his life
crammed in enforced intimacy with a horde of other humanity.
The galleon was spacious by comparison with the little caravel, and his father had found a place for him alongside his own magnificent quarters. It had been the cupboard of the Dutch
captain’s servant, and was a mere cubby-hole. ‘You need a lighted place to continue your studies,’ Sir Francis had justified this indulgence. ‘You waste many hours each
night sleeping when you could be working.’ He ordered the ship’s carpenter to knock together a bunk and a shelf on which Hal could lay out his books and papers.
An oil lamp swung above his head, blackening the deck overhead with its soot, but giving Hal just enough light to make out his lines and allow him to write the lessons his father set him. His
eyes burned with fatigue and he had to stifle his yawns as he dipped his quill and peered at the sheet of parchment onto which he was copying the extract from the Dutch captain’s sailing
directions that his father had captured. Every navigator had his own personal manual of sailing directions, a priceless journal in which he kept details of oceans and seas, currents and coasts,
landfalls and harbours; tables of the compass’s changeable and mysterious deviations as a
Sam Bowles was at the head of the forlorn file that came up from the hold, blinking in the sunlight. They were led aft and forced to kneel, facing the ship’s company.
Sir Francis read their names from the sheet of parchment he held up. ‘Samuel Bowles. Edward Broom. Peter Law. Peter Miller. John Tate. You kneel before your shipmates accused of cowardice
and desertion in the face of the enemy, and dereliction of your duty.’
The other men growled and glared at them.
‘How say you to these charges? Are you the cowards and traitors we accuse you of being?’
‘Mercy, your grace. It was a madness of the moment. Truly we repent. Forgive us, we beg you for the sakes of our wives and the sweet babes we left at home,’ Sam Bowles pleaded as
their spokesman.
‘The only wives you ever had were the trulls in the bawdy houses of Dock Street,’ Big Daniel mocked him, and the crew roared.
‘String them up at the yard-arm! Let’s watch them dance a little jig to the devil.’
‘Shame on you!’ Sir Francis stopped them. ‘What kind of English justice is this? Every man, no matter how base, is entitled to a fair trial.’ They sobered and he went on.
‘We will deal with this matter in proper order. Who brings these charges against them?’
‘We do!’ roared the crew in unison.
‘Who are your witnesses?’
‘We are!’ they replied, with a single voice.
‘Did you witness any act of treachery or cowardice? Did you see these foul creatures flee from the fight and leave their shipmates to their fate?’
‘We did.’
‘You have heard the testimony against you. Do you have aught to say in your defence?’
‘Mercy!’ whined Sam Bowles. The others were dumb.
Sir Francis turned back to the crew. ‘And so what is your verdict?’
‘Guilty!’
‘Guilty as hell!’ added Big Daniel, lest there be any lingering doubts.
‘And your sentence?’ Sir Francis asked, and immediately an uproar broke out.
‘Hang ’em.’
‘Hanging’s too good for the swine. Keel haul ’em.’
‘No! No! Draw and quarter ’em. Make them eat their own balls.’
‘Let’s fry some pork! Burn the bastards at the stake.’
Sir Francis silenced them again. ‘I see we have some differences of opinion.’ He gestured to Big Daniel. ‘Take them down below and lock them up. Let them stew in their own
stinking juices for a day or two. We will deal with them when we get into port. Until then there are more important matters to attend to.’
F or the first time in his life aboard ship, Hal had a cabin of his own. He need no longer share every sleeping and waking moment of his life
crammed in enforced intimacy with a horde of other humanity.
The galleon was spacious by comparison with the little caravel, and his father had found a place for him alongside his own magnificent quarters. It had been the cupboard of the Dutch
captain’s servant, and was a mere cubby-hole. ‘You need a lighted place to continue your studies,’ Sir Francis had justified this indulgence. ‘You waste many hours each
night sleeping when you could be working.’ He ordered the ship’s carpenter to knock together a bunk and a shelf on which Hal could lay out his books and papers.
An oil lamp swung above his head, blackening the deck overhead with its soot, but giving Hal just enough light to make out his lines and allow him to write the lessons his father set him. His
eyes burned with fatigue and he had to stifle his yawns as he dipped his quill and peered at the sheet of parchment onto which he was copying the extract from the Dutch captain’s sailing
directions that his father had captured. Every navigator had his own personal manual of sailing directions, a priceless journal in which he kept details of oceans and seas, currents and coasts,
landfalls and harbours; tables of the compass’s changeable and mysterious deviations as a
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