Snake Bite Read Free

badly
he thought of them. Those marks slid up or down depending on whether the sailors were working hard or not, how observant they seemed, how deferential to him and to the Captain they were and how
many fights they got into on board the ship. By being the first sailor to draw Mr Larchmont’s attention to the storm, Sherlock could get some additional points – if it
was
a
storm. But by passing the opportunity to Jackson, Sherlock could make the sailor into more of a friend, and that might prove useful in the future.
    ‘Thanks,’ Jackson said, eyeing Sherlock curiously. ‘I’ll not forget that.’
    He turned away and headed towards the raised section at the back of the ship where the wheelhouse was located, and where Mr Larchmont could usually be found.
    Sherlock glanced at the horizon again. The dark line was now more pronounced. It stretched as far above the horizon as a couple of fingers held at arm’s length, and its edges seemed to be
stretching out to either side, like arms seeking to encircle the ship. There was something about the unnatural purple colour of the storm that made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach. He could
feel a warm breeze on his face, blowing from the direction of the storm. He noticed that the deck was pitching beneath his feet more heavily than it had been even a few moments before. When he
looked at the grey-green mass of the sea he could see that the waves were getting higher, and the white spume on their tops was blowing off like the froth from a pint of beer and floating above the
water.
    ‘Ahoy! All hands on deck!’ a gruff voice called. Sherlock turned to see Mr Larchmont standing on the raised area to the rear of the ship. Jackson was standing beside him.
‘Raise as many sails as possible, and tighten all the ropes,’ Larchmont shouted, his voice carrying clearly all the way from one end of the
Gloria Scott
to the other.
‘There’s a storm coming, boys! There’s the mother of all storms coming, and we’re going to try to outrun it.’ He grabbed Jackson by the shoulder. ‘Go and notify
the Captain,’ he said, more quietly. Sherlock could tell the words from the shapes his mouth made. ‘Tell him what’s happening.’
    ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Jackson responded, and turned away.
    The deck of the ship was suddenly a seething mass of activity as sailors ran or climbed in all directions. Larchmont’s gaze fell upon Sherlock, who was standing still in the midst of the
chaos. ‘Avast, young stowaway! Get up that rigging and check the foremast sail ropes for tightness or I’ll leave you behind in a rowing boat to face the storm yourself!’
    ‘Aye aye, sir!’ Sherlock raced for the nearest web of rigging. It led like a spider’s web of rope up towards the stacked sails. The rope was rough against his skin, and he felt
his newly developed muscles straining as he pulled himself upward. The ship pitched and tossed as the rough waves pushed against it: for a moment, as it leaned over, Sherlock looked down and saw
the sea directly beneath him. The waves almost seemed to be reaching up for him – hundreds of white hands clawing their way up from the water. He shook off the image and kept climbing.
    He got to the bottom-most sail and scrambled along the yard, fingers clenching against the rough wood, checking in turn each of the ropes that tied the top of the sail to the yard. They were all
tight – no chance of them giving way in the storm unless it was particularly bad. He kept a firm grip on the ropes to prevent himself from falling, and kept an eye out for splinters on the
wooden yard. He’d seen what happened to sailors when they got a splinter embedded in their skin: the wound could get infected and swell to twice its usual size, and then it was touch and go
whether the injured area would have to be removed. There were a thousand and one ways to get badly hurt on a ship. For once, Sherlock could see Mycroft’s point – the safest way to live
your life was