Birds of Prey

He touched it to his lips, then gave a low moan: he fancied he could still detect a trace of her perfume on it, and he closed his eyes tightly.

It was some time before he became aware of the actions of his treacherous right hand. Like a thief it had crept under the skirts of the loose canvas petticoat that was his only garment in the hot, stuffy little cubby-hole. By the time he realized what he was doing it was too late to stop himself. He surrendered helplessly to the pumping and tugging of his own fingers. The sweat ran from his every pore and slicked down his hard young muscles. The rod he held between his fingers was hard as bone and endowed with a throbbing life of its own.

The scent of her filled his head. His hand beat fast but not as fast as his heart. He knew this was sin and folly. His father had warned him, but he could not stop. He writhed on his stool. He felt the ocean of his love for her pressing against the dyke of his restraint, like a high and irresistible tide. He gave a small cry and the tide burst from him. He felt the warm flood of it spray down his rigid straining thighs, heard it splatter the deck, and then its musky odour drove the sacred perfume of her hair from his nostrils.

He sat, sweating and panting softly, and let the waves of guilt and self-disgust overwhelm him. He had betrayed his father's trust, the promise he had made him, and with his profane lust, he had besmirched the pure and lovely image of a saint.

He could not remain in his cabin a moment longer. He flung on his canvas sea-jacket and fled up the ladder to the deck. He stood for a while at the rail breathing deeply. The raw salt air cleansed his guilt and self-disgust. He felt steadier, and looked about him to take stock of his surroundings.

The ship was still on the larboard tack, with the wind abeam. Her masts swung back and forth across the brilliant canopy of stars. He could just make out the lowering mass of the land down to leeward. The Great Bear stood a finger's breadth above the dark silhouette of the land. It was a nostalgic reminder of the land of his birth, and the childhood he had left behind.

To the south the sky was dazzling with the constellation of Centaurus standing above his right shoulder, and the mighty Southern Cross, burning in its heart. This was the symbol of this new world beyond the Line.

He looked to the helm and saw his father's pipe glow in a sheltered corner of the quarterdeck. He did not want to face him now, for he was certain that his guilt and depravity would still be so engraved on his features that his father would recognize it even in the gloom. Yet he knew that his father had seen him, and would count it as odd if he did not pay him respect. He went to him quickly. "Your indulgence, please, Father. I came up for a breath of air to clear my head," he mumbled, not able to meet Sir Francis's eyes.

"Don't idle up here too long," his father cautioned him. "I will want to see your task completed before you take your watch at the masthead."

Hal hurried forward. This expansive deck was still unfamiliar. Much of the cargo and goods from the caravel could not fit into the galleon's already crammed holds and was lashed down on the deck. He picked his way among the casks and chests, and bronze culver ins

Hal was still so deep in remorse and guilt that he was aware of little around him, until he heard a soft, conspiratorial whispering near at hand. His wits returned to him with a rush, and he looked towards the bows.

A small group of figures was hiding in the shadows cast by the cargo stacked under the rise of the forecastle. Their furtive movements alerted him to something out of the ordinary.

After their trial by their peers, Sam Bowles and his men had been frog marched down into the galleon's lower decks. and thrown into a small compartment, which must have been the carpenter's store. There was no light and little air. The reek of pepper and bilges was stifling, and the space so confined that all five could not stretch out at the same time on the deck. They settled themselves as best they could into this hellhole, and lapsed into a forlorn, despairing silence.

"Whereabouts are we? Below the waterline, do you think?" Ed Broom asked miserably.

"None of us knows his way about this Dutch hulk," Sam Bowles muttered.

"Do you reckon they're going to murder us?" Peter Law asked.

"You can be sure they ain't about to give us a hug and a kiss," Sam grunted.

"Keel-hauling," Ed whispered. "I seen it done once. When they'd dragged the poor bastard under the ship and got him out tother side he was drowned dead as a rat in a beer barrel. There weren't much meat on his carcass it were all scraped off by the barnacles under the hull. You could see his bones sticking out all white, like."

They thought about that for a while. Then Peter Law said, "I saw them hang and draw the regicides at Tyburn back in "fifty-nine. They murdered King Charlie, the Black Boy's father. They opened their bellies like fish, then they stuck in an iron hook and twisted it until they had caught up all they guts, and they pulled their intestines out of them like ropes. After that they hacked off their cocks and their balls.-" "Shut your mouth!" Sam snarled, and they lapsed into abject silence in the darkness.

An hour later Ed Broom murmured, "There's air coming in here some place. I can feel it on my neck."

After a moment Peter Law said, "He's right, you know. I can feel it too."

"What's behind this bulkhead?"

"Ain't nobody knows. Maybe the main cargo hold." There was a scrabbling sound, and Sam demanded, "What you doing?"

"There's a gap in the planking here. That's where the air's coming in."

"Let me see." Sam crawled across and, after a few moments, agreed. "You're right. I can get my fingers through the hole."

"If we could open her up."