The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith

He nearly vomited over the side. But deep down, a small ember of satisfaction glowed inside him. He’d done it. From across the deck, Danesh mouthed, ‘Well done.’

      The slap of the starter rope across his shoulders scattered his thoughts. He spun around, raw and vulnerable, to see Crawford leering at him.

      ‘I didn’t order you to come down.’

      Christopher bit back the retort that came to his lips. Automatically, he lowered his head and waited for Crawford’s temper to pass.

      ‘I want you keeping lookout. There are pirates in these waters. If one of them gets within a mile of us, I’ll skin you alive.’

      Christopher flinched as if he’d been hit again. He looked up at the main top, impossibly high. Could he really go there again?

      Crawford followed his gaze, and an evil smile spread across his lips.

      ‘You won’t see anything from there. I want you on the crosstrees.’

      High above the main top, the crosstrees were little more than a wooden grating sticking from the top of the topmast. So small, Christopher could hardly see it from the deck. Even looking up at it made him dizzy.

      He didn’t move. Crawford licked his lips and coiled the rope. He flexed it, testing its strength.

      ‘Are you disobeying an order?’

      Christopher fought back the tears that were pricking his eyes. He would not give Crawford the satisfaction.

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Then get your lily white arse aloft before I have to order you again. And you’ll stay there,’ he added, ‘until I give you permission to come down.’

      Christopher began to climb.

      He had hated before, but he hated this more than anything in his life. Even more than his father. Indeed, he rarely thought of Guy any longer. The constant work of handling a ship, forever fumbling, always the last to finish his tasks, left no time for idle thoughts. When he stumbled off watch, he would curl up in the forecastle, nursing his aches and rubbing oil on the blisters that formed as big as pagoda coins on his hands.

      The rest of the crew shunned him. As a white man, he was alien; as a sailor, they despised him. Only Danesh showed him any kindness, and even he seemed cautious about being seen with Christopher too often. He had never been so lonely. In time, he began to look forward to being sent up to the crosstrees, though he could never look down. Sitting among the sails, he felt like a god in the clouds, far above mortal men and their petty fears and hatreds. In those moments, he tried to imagine his future with Ruth, the house they would live in and the fine presents he would buy her. But all too often, those thoughts turned dark, as he began to dream of how he would get even with Crawford, his father, and every man who had ever done him wrong.

      One afternoon, during the dogwatch, he went below to fetch water. He liked going into the hold. The smells of baling yarn and freshly packed cloth reminded him of the Company warehouses where he’d played as a child.

      ‘Chris,’ Danesh hissed from the gloom. ‘See this.’

      Something gleamed in the palm of his hand. A brass key.

      ‘What’s that for?’

      ‘The forward locker,’ whispered Danesh. ‘I stole it from Crawford’s cabin while he was inspecting the rigging.’

      The forward locker was where they kept the spirits. It was supposed to be for the use of the crew, but it was widely rumoured that Crawford kept most of it for sale on his own account.

      Christopher glanced anxiously over his shoulder. ‘What if he finds us?’

      ‘He won’t miss a few bottles. We can sell them in port. Hurry.’

      Danesh slipped the key in the padlock and sprang it. The sharp tang of spirits wafted out through the open door.

      ‘You stay here and keep lookout. If he catches us, he will flay us alive.’

      Danesh handed Christopher the key and ducked into the store. Christopher stood there, staring. He knew he should run, leave Danesh to his fate and disclaim all knowledge if he was caught. It wasn’t his idea. But Danesh was the closest thing he had to a friend on the ship. If he lost him, he’d have nothing.

      Feet thudded on the deck above; the ship’s movements made shadows flit across the square of light that came through the hatchway.

      ‘Be quick,’ Christopher called. ‘I think someone’s coming.’

      Danesh reappeared, with four bottles of brandy cradled in his arms. He laid them on the floor.

      ‘Crawford keeps enough to make an elephant drunk,’ he whispered. ‘One more load will be enough for both of us.’

      ‘No,’ hissed Christopher. ‘Let’s go now. We—’

      The ladder creaked under the weight of a heavy tread. A pair of shoes appeared, giving way to a pair of fat legs in white stockings, then a pair of breeches, then a corpulent torso straining the buttons of its shirt.

      Quick as thought, Danesh dived behind the anchor cable, whose huge coils made a nest big enough for a man. Christopher, petrified, stayed rooted to his spot.

      Crawford ducked his head under the hatchway and stepped off the ladder. Deliberately, he took in the open locker, the bottles at Christopher’s feet and the key in his hand.

      ‘I thought I might find someone here when I noticed my key was missing.’

      Christopher said nothing.

      ‘How did you get it? Who helped you?’

      Christopher stared straight at Crawford, fixing his gaze so he wouldn’t betray Danesh with a stray glance. Crawford took it as arrogance.

      ‘Do you think you’re better than me because your father’s Governor of Bombay? Do you think that gives you the right to steal from me?’

      Crawford’s face was dark with rage, like clouds threatening thunder. Christopher knew that look. He braced himself.

      ‘Boatswain,’ Crawford bellowed. ‘Bring Mr Courtney on deck, and summon all hands to witness punishment.’

      Rough hands dragged him up the ladder. By the time he reached the top, all the crew had gathered around a small barrel that had been set out behind the mainmast. Crawford went to his cabin and returned with a length of rope, thinner and suppler than the starter rope which he usually used. He ran it through his fingers, then tied two knots in the end.

      ‘Prepare the prisoner,’ he ordered.

      They bent Christopher over the barrel. The iron hoops, which had been sitting in the sun, seared welts across his naked chest, but he knew that was just a taste of the pain to come. The boatswain held his hands, while one of the sailors pinned his feet, so he was stretched over the barrel like a piece of laundry.

      Behind him, Crawford rolled back his shirtsleeve. Methodically, he uncoiled the rope. He cracked it on the deck, twice, limbering himself up. He planted his feet firmly, reached back his arm and the first blow hit Christopher with a sound like a musket shot. The pain was excruciating. He bit down on the rag between his teeth, determined not to cry out. Before he could even draw breath, a second blow hit him between the shoulder blades. Then a third, then—

      He almost lost count. Pain came in waves, one after another so fast they blurred together into a single moment of agony. Crawford had abandoned all pretence of discipline: this was a thrashing, savage and uncontrolled, as if he wanted to crush every bone in Christopher’s body.

      But Christopher forced himself to keep counting. Through the agony, he counted every stroke. It was how he had survived his father’s beatings, and it was how he survived this one, drawing strength from the number he had endured. Totting up the blows in some imaginary ledger, to be repaid with interest one day. As long as he could number them, he would survive them.

      The