Iron Ships, Iron Men

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Starboard half a point, sir,’ the coxswain replied, and spun the helm.

  ‘You’re going in.’ Purves made a statement rather than asked a question.

  ‘We must. That ship could be sinking.’

  Dimly he heard the boom of the signal gun again, but now he was concentrating, standing on the port bulwark, hands twined in the rigging, as he stared at the water between the two cays, clearly a darker green than the shoals to either side. If he could just keep her in the green ...

  ‘I’ll go forward,’ Purves volunteered, realising that he was not going to change his captain’s mind.

  ‘Good idea. You can keep a lookout for heads,’ Rod agreed.

  ‘By the deep six,’ came the chant.

  Thirty-six feet. The sloop drew twelve. But now the islands were abeam to either side, and the schooner was for the moment lost to sight. She had ceased firing her signal gun, as she could tell the British ship was coming to her assistance.

  Rod peered at the water opening in front of him. The wind had freshened some more, to a good Force Six, about twenty-eight knots, he estimated, and even inside the island barrier whitecaps were being driven up, to a certain extent obscuring the differing colours of the sea. There were other islands, studded to left and right, and occasional deeper flurries of white to denote rocks either breaking the surface or just below it. But the clean water seemed obvious enough. Indeed, to the right, where the American ship was anchored, and where the pirate could still be seen, although now some two miles away, there appeared a long, if narrow, stretch of the deep green. As the inlet led south, it would be difficult to enter, beating against the slowly increasing southerly wind, but with steam power the sloop did not need to tack. His confidence grew.

  ‘By the mark four,’ the leadsman called.

  Twenty-four feet.

  Purves came hurrying aft. ‘You must take her out, Rod,’ he shouted above the wind. ‘It’s too shallow.’

  Rod looked at the schooner again. She was only about half a mile away now, sheering to and fro at her anchor, but certainly riding in deep water. At this distance he could even see the men working the pumps, while she had put down two boats, and these, aided by men on deck, were attempting to pass a sail beneath the hull, to at least partially check the inflow of water and enable them to plug the hole where she had struck the coral. She was probably quite capable of saving herself in normal circumstances, but with a full gale imminent, and in these confined waters, the fellowship of the sea demanded he go to her assistance, even had she not called for it.

  And had he not even been tempted to continue his pursuit of the pirate for just as long as he had six inches under his keel.

  ‘Starboard your helm, cox,’ he said. ‘Two points.’

  ‘Two points to starboard, sir,’ the helmsman acknowledged, turning the bows up to point directly into the wind.

  ‘He’s signalling,’ Purves shouted, also clambering into the shrouds.

  ‘Aye.’ Rod studied the flags which were climbing into the American rigging. ‘He’s trying to warn us not to hit what he did. Starboard another point, cox.’

  ‘Starboard a point, sir.’

  Rod stared over the port bow, trying to decide where the shoal was, but the wind was now howling, and the entire surface of the lagoon was covered in whitecaps.

  ‘By the mark three.’

  ‘Eighteen feet,’ Purves called. ‘For God’s sake ...’

  ‘Starboard,’ Rod snapped. ‘Starboard, full helm.’ He had at last seen the tell-tale white which marked very shallow water — and it was white streaked with brown and purple, to denote the coral that was also there.

  ‘Starboard,’ the cox repeated, and spun the wheel. The sloop swung away from the danger, and was caught by a tremendous gust of wind, which struck her broadside on and drove her sideways.

  ‘More steam,’ Rod snapped at Purves. ‘More steam. Bring her back to the wind, cox. Mr Armitage,’ he bawled, ‘stand by to anchor.’

  The coxswain spun the wheel the other way; Purves hurried amidships to give the necessary orders to the engine room; Boatswain Armitage assembled his anchor crew on the foredeck. Slowly theSplendid turned back up into the wind, her engine grinding out power, black smoke belching from her funnel, the paddle wheels churning the green water. Rod gave a sigh of relief as the reef slipped by to port, and he could see the expanse of deep water in front of him; had he been under sail, like the American, he would probably have struck as well before he could regain control.

  ‘Avast the anchor, Mr Armitage,’ he called through the speaking trumpet Kidder had brought to him. The wind was now so strong there was no chance of making himself heard otherwise. ‘Mr Purves, prepare to go alongside the Yankee.’

  The American had discerned his intention, and her crew were hanging out great canvas encased fenders of rolled warps, to protect their topsides. But that they were glad to see the British could not be in doubt; Rod could hear their cheers as they saw the steam sloop edging up to them.

  Then there was a sudden silence. For a moment Rod was not sure what had happened, beyond an understanding that the deck had ceased vibrating, and that above his head the black smoke was dissipating, and then disappearing altogether. At the same moment Mr Hope emerged from the engine room hatchway.

  ‘We’ve lost steam,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a fractured valve. We’ve lost steam.’

  Rod seized the speaking trumpet again, even as his ship began to fall away, being driven now by some forty knots of wind. ‘Anchor, Mr Armitage,’ he yelled. ‘Anchor.’ Armitage released the blocks, and the anchor chain roared away. Still the ship went racing sideways, now blown almost on to her beam ends. Rod clung to the lee rigging, looking down at the flurry of water beneath him, only half-hearing the shouts of alarm from forward. He felt totally helpless, all the ten years of experience, the seamanship he had imbibed and practised, the professional skill he had learned, negated in an instant by the failure of a machine he did not really understand, but had yet resolved he should trust, as his superiors had decreed. Only the anchor could save the ship now; there was no time to get sail on, or to sail her out of trouble if he could — the waters were too restricted.

  And the anchor was not holding. He watched the colour of the water changing beneath him, almost as if in a dream, his mind clouded by an overwhelming sense of impending catastrophe. The jar, when it came, was almost expected, but it nearly jerked him from his perch, as it sent men tumbling about the decks like ninepins. But still the anchor did not hold, and the wind was increasing. TheSplendid struck again and again, and went over further; with a horrifying crackling sound the paddle wheels disintegrated as they too struck, and there was a terrifying series of crashes from above Rod’s head, as both masts went by the board, followed immediately by the funnel. The rigging fell with the top hamper, and he found himself in the water, still grasping the shrouds, and discovering to his amazement that he was actually standing in five feet of water, although waves were breaking over his head, while his ship before his eyes turned from a proud wearer of the White Ensign into a total wreck.

  There had been no time to launch any boats. The ship was now entirely on her beam ends, her starboard wheel turning idly, held there by the screaming wind and by the water pouring into her hull, grinding herself to pieces on the coral in the most heart-rending manner. Judging by the bangs and crashes from within, the boiler was actually tearing itself loose, to complete the catastrophe. Half the crew were in the sea, and the others were still clinging to the wreckage, while the engine room crew hastily clambered through their hatch, which now resembled a door let into the deck halfway between the waterline and the upper bulwarks.

  Rod listened to halloos from across the water, upwind. The American sailors had watched, no doubt in consternation, the swift and total destruction of their would-be rescuers, and had abandoned their efforts to repair their own vessel to do some rescuing of their own. The two boats already in the water were pulling as hard as they co
uld for the wreck, and two others were being launched. Now it was the British turn to cheer and shout their gratitude, as they splashed and swam towards safety, and flopped over the gunwales, aided by the brawny Americans.

  Rod was last to leave the shroud to which he was still clinging. Indeed, he almost did not go at all. His mind, his whole being, seemed consumed with the horror of what had happened to his first command, and had it been quickly possible, he would have released the shroud and happily drowned. But that was going to be difficult to do in less than six feet of water, and he could hardly go down with a ship that was not going togo down, until she broke up.

  ‘Come on, there, fellow,’ shouted the officer commanding the closest American boat. ‘Come on.’

  With his hat swept away and his uniform a bedraggled mess, it was impossible for anyone to discern Rod’s rank. But he was clearly going to be rescued whether he wished it or not. He sighed, released the rope to which his aching hands almost seemed to have become permanently attached, and made his way across the reef and into the deeper water on the far side, where hands were waiting to pull him over the gunwale.

  ‘Anyone else?’ the officer inquired.

  ‘No, sir. Not that I can see,’ said the seaman in the bow; some dozen ofSplendid’s crew, wet and huddled and shocked, already sat amidships. Rod remained in the bow, gazing at the wrecked sloop, her flag still set, but drooping into the water, as the boat pulled back to the schooner.

  ‘That was a real sad happening,’ the officer remarked. ‘But your master was a gallant man. Is he safe?’

  ‘That’s him forward,’ said one of the survivors.

  The officer said nothing further, but when the boat nosed alongside the schooner, the last to arrive, and as the others were already discharging their cargoes of rescued men, he cleared the way with a few brisk commands and himself aided Rod to the ladder. Rod went up hand over hand, crossed the bulwarks, and found himself beside a dripping Purves. ‘Well, Mr Bascom, are you satisfied?’ the second lieutenant inquired.

  ‘You must have a roll call immediately, Mr Purves,’ Rod said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Make sure no one is missing. I am sure these good fellows will return for a search should it be necessary.’ He faced the flush after-deck of the schooner, and saluted. And had his salute returned by a mountain of a man, wearing an officer’s blue jacket and white trousers, like himself, who was at this moment advancing. ‘Lieutenant Rodney Bascom, commanding Her Majesty’s ShipSplendid, sir,’ Rod said.

  The giant nodded. ‘Lieutenant Jeremiah McGann, commanding United States ShipMontgomery. Glad to have you aboard, Mr Bascom, if I could wish the circumstances had been different. Are all your people safe?’

  ‘My lieutenant is making sure of that now, sir. I, we, are most grateful to you for coming to our assistance so promptly.’

  ‘As you came to ours,’ McGann reminded him. ‘Now, Mr Bascom, you’ll come below and change those clothes.’

  *

  The after-accommodation on the schooner was surprisingly spacious, but Lieutenant McGann had to hold a whip around from his own officers to provide anything suitable for Rod and Purves to change into — his own clothes were simply too large.

  ‘Your vessel won’t break up overnight,’ he said reassuringly, ‘even with this breeze blowing. Once we have that hole in our bottom properly plugged, my men will return and see what can be salvaged. Until then, gentlemen, feel free to borrow what you require. And I think, in all the circumstances, Mr Curry,’ he said to his first officer, ‘our guests should have a glass of medicinal brandy.’

  He contented himself with lime juice, as did his officers; alcohol was not permitted to be used on board United States warships, except for medical purposes. Then, having seen his guests properly outfitted, he immediately returned on deck to supervise the work going on of applying glue and timber to the inside of the tarred sail, which had by now been successfully carried into position over the hole, to make the ship again practically watertight.

  Rod and Purves also went forward, to the schooner’s forecabin, where their men, happily all safe, were being offered changes of clothing and warming drinks, if not brandy.

  ‘All present and correct, sir,’ Boatswain Armitage reported. ‘Save for some cuts and bruises. And our gear.’

  ‘I’m just relieved to see you all safe,’ Rod told them. ‘As for your gear, you’ll get most of it back, bo’sun. Just as soon as our Yankee friends can manage it.’ He returned on deck, to gaze across the water at the wreckage of theSplendid. He still could not fully accept that such a thing could have happened: kept expecting, and hoping, to wake up and find it had only been a nightmare.

  ‘There is going to be the devil to pay for this,’ Purves remarked at his shoulder. ‘You have lost your ship, Rod. There will be a court martial.’

  Rod nodded. ‘So we have to justify our actions. It was pure ill luck the engine faded at such a moment.’

  ‘We should never have been in such a position,’ Purves insisted. ‘I would like my dissent as to your course of action entered in the Log.’

  Rod gave him a hard look; there was clearly little support forthcoming from that direction. But the fellowhad protested. ‘Why, if that is what you wish, I will see that it is done. Supposing I can retrieve the Log Book.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bascom,’ Purves said, and walked away.

  Rod remained staring at his ship. The wind, which had gusted to gale force during the actual moment of stranding, was already beginning to die away as the sun set and the dusk closed in. But there remained enough of a sea running, even in these sheltered waters, to drive little whitecaps against the shattered hull; he watched it still move, further destroying itself with every surge. He wanted to weep. How he wished he could turn back the clock three hours, and make his decisions over again. But would he not make the same decision again? Unless he were able to foretell the future.

  The American captain stood beside him. ‘All fixed,’ he remarked. ‘My people will start salvage work immediately.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rod acknowledged. ‘I’ll go across with them.’

  ‘I guess you must be feeling pretty low,’ McGann observed. ‘I’d like you to know that we understand, all of us. And that we are truly grateful for your courage in coming to our aid.’

  ‘Even if you did not require our help after all,’ Rod remarked, with a touch of bitterness.

  McGann nodded, sadly. ‘I fired that signal gun partly because our anchor wouldn’t hold, just like yours, and I saw us where you are now. This bottom seems to be entirely thick weed. It actually did bite in after we must’ve dragged about two hundred yards, but by then you were already committed to the entrance. Incidentally, however, I also fired the gun to advise you that Delmorde was there for the taking, if you’d come in after him. We hit him hard just before we struck, and that is a deep water channel over there.’

  Rod gazed at the now almost-vanished pirate. ‘Well, they’ll be celebrating tonight,’ he commented. ‘This must be their biggest ever victory. Forgive me, Mr McGann. I am feeling somewhat dispirited.’

  ‘I can believe that. Will there be trouble for you?’

  ‘There’s an understatement.’

  The giant grinned. ‘All hell to pay, right? But look here, Mr Bascom, I’m prepared to give evidence on your behalf that you acted as any proper seaman should have done. You cannot be held responsible for the failure of new-fangled ideas.’

  Rod forced a smile in return. ‘I am grateful for your support, Mr McGann. But let’s hope my superiors take the same point of view.’

  *

  ‘Now, Lieutenant Purves,’ said Lieutenant Anderson, prosecuting. ‘Will you tell the court what was your reaction when Lieutenant Bascomb decided to take his ship through the reef and into the shallows?’

  The over-heated room in Kingston, the main seaport of the British colony of Jamaica, was quiet, save for the creaking of the fans being worked by the black boys in the corridor outside. A court martial was an affa
ir private to the Navy, but the loss of Her Majesty’s ShipSplendid had provided the sensation of the year, and the room, by no means large, was crowded, with officers and their wives, and with various government officials who had obtained permission to attend an event which provided a welcome diversion to the normal boredom of their lives, and thus occasionally there was a cough or a rustle of material, or the scrape of a chair. But now even these ceased; everyone knew, with preliminaries having been completed, and evidence heard from Boatswain Armitage and the coxswain as to weather conditions and completeness of the loss, that the real crux of the matter was at hand.

  The sense of impending crisis had even communicated itself to the crowd, mostly of black people, who waited outside the Navy Office. They knew little of the workings of the Royal Navy, and cared less, but here again was the chance of sensation.

  Rod, seated at a table beside Harry Lynch, who was acting as his ‘friend’, or defending attorney, had gathered during his weeks of house arrest that opinion in Kingston was about evenly divided between those who felt he had been unlucky, and those who accused him of foolhardiness. But public opinion did not matter here; there was no question of a jury in a court martial. And the censorious consternation with which the news of the disaster had been received by Captain Renwick, added to the obvious disappointment the Captain had felt that Juan Delmorde had not, despite all, been taken, combined with his equally obvious reflection that he had made a serious mistake in giving Lieutenant Bascom such a responsible command at so young an age — a mistake which might easily bring criticism down onhis head from their lordships of the Admiralty — had not been reassuring. So now, even apart from the somewhat awe-inspiring surroundings in which Rod found himself, the armed, red-jacketed marines standing to attention within the doorway, the three senior officers, chaired by Captain Renwick himself, who faced him across the long table on which lay the naked sword which was the symbol of their authority and power, he understood that here today he was at the most critical moment of his career. Even a reprimand would remain entered in his record for the rest of his life, always a deterrent to advancement. And unlike so many of his brother officers, he was not a privately wealthy man, nor did he possess any influential friends — the captain who had been a friend of his parson father and had first taken him to sea as a teen-aged midshipman, had died four years before.