The Stowaway

Prologue

Indian Ocean, May 1833

The man glared at Lieutenant Jacob Banks with undisguised hostility, white-knuckled as he sat clutching the sides of a worn, iron-wood chest. It was the only evidence that he realised his life was on the line.

Above deck, men shouted as the Mary Rose pitched and strained its way across the high seas, perpetually at the mercy of the giant swell off the cape. Usually, Jacob would be battling alongside them, bracing himself to meet the pounding fist of God. Yet such pre-occupations were rendered secondary as he met the stowaway’s steely gaze.

‘I’ll ask you again,’ Jacob said, ‘and remind you to keep a civil tongue or I’ll have you over the rail.’

However, the stowaway remained silent, the defiance in his pale-blue eyes at odds with his ragged, wretched appearance. Typical Liverpool scum, Jacob seethed, though the small boy perched next to the man held the lieutenant’s pity.

He was drenched in sunlight from the hatch above, the first of it he’d have witnessed in weeks. Jacob took in the child’s pathetically thin arms, his likewise pale-blue eyes blinking against the glare, and the dark circles of fatigue beneath them that spoke of fears too deep for one so young.

The ship lurched and the boy darted a terrified glance at his father. What kind of person does this to his own son? Jacob wondered in disgust. God only knew when they’d last eaten, and the water barrels here in the hold were surely stale.

Jacob offered his water pouch to the boy. The child stared at it and back at his father with a mixture of longing and fear. The man nodded and the child grasped the pouch, tipping it in desperate thirst.

‘Steady on, lad,’ the ship’s doctor advised.

The child continued to slosh it down until the stowaway raised his hand. The boy stopped immediately, swiping his face and handing the pouch to his father. He took it, yet he didn’t drink.

Jacob understood why. This was a battle of pride and will, a deadly one. Seemingly nothing could be gained in being uncooperative, but Jacob had met such men before.

‘You should drink, sir,’ the doctor advised, but the man ignored him. Jacob could almost admire his strength, if he wasn’t seething over his treatment of the boy.

They’d left Liverpool four weeks ago, and the prison-like hold stank of refuse and urine, rotting stores and dank wood. Excrement littered the floor like seed, and vermin no doubt nipped at the poor child’s feet at night. Yet it was the rats that had rescued the pair in the end.

If the ship’s cat hadn’t been let loose down here to hunt today, the stowaways may never have been found. This rear of the hold was crammed only with long-term stores. A cough had given them away. Jacob wondered if the man had any idea that the sound had likely saved his life, even as he frowned to think the duo may well be carrying disease.

The doctor merely shrugged, for they didn’t appear to be sick. Emaciated certainly, and the boy looked frightened anew as the ship dipped in creaking anticipation of yet another enormous wave. It arrived with a mighty roar, pounding against the ship’s side behind the terrified child, and Jacob registered that God’s mighty fist was directly knocking on the boy’s door. His father’s too. It was destiny, and Jacob was fated to answer its call.

How easy it would be to take them above to feed and clothe them, and yet Jacob couldn’t show such unquestioning mercy. Not without damaging his hard-won authority.

The two men alongside looked to him now, wide-eyed as they awaited his orders. Laurence Harlow was Captain of Marines, and would take close heed of Jacob’s ruling, and the doctor would be likewise personally invested. Life and death decisions were easier to make if a strong leader had final say, and with the ship’s captain already drunk and bedridden, Jacob’s word was fast becoming law.

He wanted to lead with compassion but by Jove, this stowawaymade it hard. Jacob watched with mounting anger as the man shifted his position, his hate-filled gaze unwavering.

‘I find it difficult to comprehend why you feel yourself in a position to barter, sir,’ Jacob said as evenly as he could. ‘We have offered you water and all we ask for in return is your name and what possible reason you have for being discovered in the bowels of His Majesty’s ship.’

The man remained silent, filthy and cornered alongside his small child, yet arrogant as if he held the entire navy at his disposal. This couldn’t continue. Jacob was beginning to lose face and he had to assert his authority.

‘You do understand the law when it comes to stowaways, do you not? Tell us your name or face the consequences!’ he demanded, pointing towards the sound of the crashing waves.

‘But what of the boy, sir?’ the doctor said, and indeed the poor lad looked set to faint in terror.

‘Speak,’ Jacob warned the man again, but the stowaway gave him nothing but contempt.

‘I will ask you one more time!’ Jacob all but shouted now. The child flinched but Jacob drove on, staring the man down. ‘What . . .is . . . your . . . name?’

Then ever so slowly, the man began to smile. A sinister, mocking affair beneath matted whiskers and grime. He opened his mouth, and Jacob held his breath as he rasped in a guttural tone.

‘I am the king of Iceland.’