Canadian Adventurers and Explorers Bundle. John Wilson

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      A time of excitement at York Factory. Hudson’s Bay Company ships offload trade goods and take on the valuable cargo of fur bound for London.

      The cook slipped him a biscuit and a little salt pork. “For the road. God bless you lad.”

      David followed at a quick trot behind his escort. The rough-looking crewman was in a hurry to return to his ship. His instructions were to bring back two apprentice boys, but one would do. He didn’t want to keep his captain waiting. “Captain Tunstall he wants us aboard early he does. Cap’n don’t like things left t’ last minute,” he warned, as David began to lag behind. The Prince Rupert was rafted on the outside of two coal barges on the Thames. It was a fine Hudson’s Bay ship, and its bright gunnels and new rigging seemed a good omen to David.

      “There should be two boys!” Captain Tunstall insisted from the quarterdeck as the crewman and David climbed the shipside ladder.

      “Bloody hell!” the crewman hissed. In panic he turned to David, demanding an answer. “Where’d the little bastard go!”

      “Don’t know sir, he’s been gone six months,” David answered carefully.

      “Damn, damn, damn!” the captain growled. “Back to the school and see if you can’t find where the mutinous beggar went. And you, my young fellow!” he ordered, “follow the mate to your quarters below.”

      David followed obediently, hoping the crewman might somehow find Sam. The headmaster would never tolerate a runaway and even less a deserting apprentice, David reasoned. Maybe the headmaster knew of Sam’s whereabouts all along.

      Captain Tunstall ordered that David be kept in his quarters until the Prince Rupert was put to sea. The second mate led him to the lower deck.

      “Not a proper place to sling a hammock,” the seaman confessed. “No portals or vents, but ‘tis dry and warm enough. Mind don’t soil the sailcloth with your shoes or the master sailmaker ‘ll stitch ye to the top gallants,” he said, latching the door as he left. David sat silently and listened to a chorus of rumbles and shouts while the last of the Prince Rupert’s provisions were stowed away. Eventually he struggled into a hammock and half-heartedly ate some of the cook’s hard biscuit. He saved the remainder in his coat pocket, but there was faint hope of sharing it with Sam. The scent of Stockholm tar and new sail-canvas filled his nostrils as he drifted into sleep inhaling the ship’s stale air.

      Next morning he woke to the clanging of the ship’s bell and the sway of his hammock. He was still alone, and the Prince Rupert was rolling her way to open water. “Show a leg! Out and down!” a great and terrifying voice called. “Up all hammocks!” the first mate ordered, and David rushed to his feet.

      “Seven bells.’Tis morning watch in half an hour, lad. Quick. Come to the table,” summoned a gentler voice, as the ship’s cook peeked around the bulkhead and handed David a bowl of thick porridge. “Take a place at that last table there,” he said, motioning to a crowd of men already huddled over their gruel at the mess tables. David and the men ate in silence, and no heads lifted to acknowledge the newcomer.

      “Third watch on deck!” the first mate’s command boomed down the main hatch. David raced to finish his breakfast as the crew scurried to place their bowls in the cook’s washtub. He joined the rush up the main hatch ladder. On deck, each seaman hustled to his station while David remained awkwardly wondering where to go.

      “To the holystones!” ordered the captain. A seaman jumped smartly into action. David watched him take a bucket of sea water and a pumice stone and begin to scrub the forecastle decks along with several other men already on their knees. He followed the men’s hands, scrubbing in small circles, grinding the wooden deck into milky grey puddles until the sweeping of their hands melded with the dizzying roll of the ship. Before the Prince Rupert entered the Channel swell, his stomach was knotting in nauseous pulses. He fought the sensation until involuntary convulsions finally sent him for the rails, where he spilled his porridge into the English Channel.

      “Seasick? N’er mind,” jibed a seaman while continuing to scrub. “The admiral himself spends some time bent over the rails till he gets his sea legs. Welcome aboard, your bloody Lordship,” he scowled. David leaned over the railing again to the laughter of the crew and spent the remainder of the watch imitating the admiral. At nightfall, he fell exhausted into his hammock.