Free Neptune's Fingers by Lyn Aldred

way. The boy was up there wasn’t he? Jack was never sure how he managed it. One minute he was standing on the deck, the next he was halfway up the derrick, almost to the spar. The sun burned into his eyes as he climbed and he could see nothing. He blinked several times and opened his eyes wide. Nearly there. He could see a pair of feet in front of his face – bare feet, calloused and hard. The noise up here was unexpected. A flapping sound, foreign to him dominated all else. He shinnied up the next few feet and climbed onto the spar, a pair of guiding hands helping him up. Puffing and blowing, he stood up.
    â€œYou’ve no stamina, cully,” said a lilting voice.
    It was then Jack took in his surroundings. Expecting to see Guthrie’s Bay and the competing boats, it is not to be wondered at that his balance faltered so he snatched out in desperation at the main mast. The land was no longer there. Water, as far as the eye could see, undulated in ever rolling troughs and crests, while the ship rolled with it, sails flapping in the stiff breeze. The power of speech eluded Jack. Once more his mouth was open as though it had a faulty hinge. The boy was all mirth. Now it was Jack’s turn to look out of place.
    â€œIt’s better without shoes, mate,” he suggested. His feet clung to the yard like a monkey. Jack had never seen anyone look so at home anywhere. While the world rolled and lurched beneath them, the boy stood solid as a rock on the thin piece of wood stretching out from the mast, and he, Jack, teetered like a tightrope walker without a pole. “Sit ye down, now.” The boy pointed to the yardarm beneath their feet.
    Jack was glad to sit. Not one to be seasick, he ventured there could be a first time. There was less of him to sway while seated. His rebellious stomach subsided for the moment and as yet, his tongue would not work. He looked wildly about him. Where was The Aurora? Where were the other boats? Where was Guthrie’s Bay?
    â€œYou’re on Her Majesty’s Ship, Kestrel, as fine a Barque as ever sailed.” Jack’s face still held its frozen disbelief. “Don’t mind the noise of the sheets. They always talk to one another up here.”
    â€œSheets?” mumbled Jack.
    â€œThe sails, cully. The sails be sheets. Look up yonder. The gallant mast is a treat for the eyes way up there, is it not?”
    Jack could not argue. They were a treat for his eyes all right but he was willing to wager it was a different kind of treat to the one the boy talked about. Merciful heaven, how grateful he was not to be up there. His face visibly paled.
    â€œYou’ll get your sea legs, mate. By the time we get to Sydney Town, you’ll be able to do it with your eyes closed.”
    Sydney Town? No one’s called it that for years, he thought. Stone the crows! Panic was the overriding emotion within him. “Where are we?” he managed to ask.
    â€œNot sure but we must be near the straits. You need your wits about you there. Always bad in the straits.” This was not reassuring news, at all. Jack would have preferred to hear something more comforting. Which straits? Surely not Bass Strait. That was hundreds of miles from home. His next question sat poised on the tip of his tongue but would not jump off for fear of the answer.
    â€œWhat year is it?” he managed, after a bit.
    â€œ1853,” he said. “What year is it with all those boats with no sails?”
    â€œ1933. They are fishing boats. Trawlers. 1853? Crikey!”
    â€œTrawlers smell. It’s a blessing, it is, the fish drown it out.” The petrol-driven engines had a smell of their own.
    â€œWas that you I saw on the spit?” asked Jack.
    â€œYou were going to drown,” he said, frowning. “It’s bad to drown.”
    â€œYou’re telling me!” said Jack. Jack’s brain started to catch up. “The Kestrel? Not the one on the rocks at