The Rose of York Read Free Page B

cannon shot and the main mast almost drove into the sea. Barrels and ballast down in the hold slammed into one another and everything not secured above the hatches— barrels, ropes, pulleys, canvas, and chests—was swept overboard. Galahad tried to escape, shrieking and snorting, rearing and plunging against the chest board of his stall. Water spouted down through the floor planks of the bowsprit above Richard’s head like dozens of fountains. He sputtered for breath and dug deeper between the barrel and the coffer. Men were shouting, slipping and sliding, saved from the sea only by the ropes tied around their waists. Slowly, the ship righted itself.
    “All hands on deck!” shouted Warwick, his voice faint above the roar of the water. “Shorten topsail! Lower the main yard! Haul up buntlines!” He stood on the poop, leaning against the wind, his cloak flapping in the squall.
    As men at the clew lines battled to drop the thundering canvas to the yards, one wrestled with the rope ladder, fighting for every step. The sudden tempest had given them no time to prepare the ship, and now the wind battered the sails with ear-shattering force, threatening to shred the sails of Neville scarlet. Every man’s gaze, like Richard’s own, was fixed on the man climbing the ladder. Up, up he went, the small unsteady figure, inching his way along the weaving ratlines like an ant on a too-slender reed.
    He lost his foothold. A gasp went around the ship. For an agonising moment he dangled by one hand. Then he plunged to his death with a bone-chilling scream. His body thudded on the deck.
    A silence fell that even the storm seemed to respect, for the winds quieted and the ship steadied. A second man appeared on the ratlines. With the same heart-stopping anguish, Richard and the ship’s crew watched his every laboured move. Smiles eased their taut faces when he reached the topsail, but as he struggled with a stay, a corner of the canvas came loose and struck his chest. He lost his balance, then fell headlong into the black void, his shriek of terror reverberating in the night.
    Another wave submerged the ship. The stern rose with a queer lurch and the bow plunged into a chasm, sending men sprawling. Richard saw the white sea looming above them high as a castle wall, then the tip curled like some monstrous tongue and hung there as if to savour the taste before devouring them. It broke over the ship. A hideous groan rumbled through the vessel and it shuddered. The mizzenmast crashed down.
    Warwick’s frantic orders to the helmsman drifted through the roar. “Helm hard a’ port! More hands! He cannot put up the helm!”
    No one answered his call. “It’s no use!” someone cried. “We’re going to die!” Voices rose in prayer. “God the Father of all mercies…”
    Warwick ran down the poop ladder, grabbed a kneeling man by his collar and pulled him from the rail to which he clung. “Is that what you want? To die?” he shouted. “By the fiend, you will, unless you do as I say!” He flung him back, grasped another by a fistful of shirt. “You have a wife and children, Summers. They’ll starve without you! Do you not care?” He thrust him aside and seized the next. Richard’s heart gave a twist. The lanky fair-haired boy reminded him of his dead brother, Edmund. “And you, Bankston, what about that bonnie lass you claim to love? Is she not worth living for?” He looked around at the eyes fixed on him. “Where’s your courage, you gutless milksops? Do you see me wailing and sobbing? We’ve survived worse! Follow my orders and live! Each man to his place. We haven’t failed until we give up.”
    “But two are dead!” a mate cried. “Unless we shorten sail, we’ll sink, sure as fish swim!”
    “I’ll not ask you to do what I won’t do myself!” yelled Warwick, tearing off his cloak.
    Before men could stop him, he was climbing the ratlines. The wind whipped him. He lost his footing once, but he recovered. Lightning