by Peter Tonkin
Another big sea reared up behind her and broke over her as though she were already part of the reef she was sluggishly drifting towards. Her deck sloped further as her masts nodded, looking more like a wooden hillside than the flat plain it should have been. A hillside behind a waterfall. At least there was no more debris to be washed off her, thought Robin grimly.
Nor anything much for Richard to hold on to when he climbed aboard either. The empty davits of a smashed or long-gone lifeboat. A few lines. The rope ladder of some rigging still belayed to the side and attached to a spar in the mess on the far side.
The trough of the next wave approached as Lionheart sat up on the foam of the broken crest. Robin looked down on the deck from on high, and the running boards seemed to be levelling off. The masts once again were pointing at the overcast rather than the wave-tops.
‘We’d better be going,’ said Richard after the briefest of pauses. ‘Time and tide...’
Richard led Doc down the forward companion-ways that were normally the preserve of the crew and out through the weather-deck doorway. Up until the moment that he opened the strong metal door it had been possible for Richard to think, to plan, to work out ways in which he would overcome the monster that held them all in its fearsome grip. He paused, holding the icy handle in his gloveless hands, smiling slightly foolishly down at the puddle of water on the floor beside his feet. A puddle which told of yet more orders carefully obeyed. With a surge of confidence, he opened the door.
But the instant he stepped out on to the deck, all reasoned thought had to stop. He could concentrate only on the here and now. Focus like a warrior only on what lay immediately within his arm’s reach. He had to fight with all his strength and will simply to stay upright, to breathe, to step forward.
The power of the wind came at him like a wrestler, wrapping its icy, foam-strengthened arms around him. It battered his senses with a totality that made the Wolf’s howl die to a whisper. That drove all warmth from him with an unforgiving immediacy. That penetrated his wet-weather gear with the ease of abyssal deeps. That choked him with the casual ease of great waters. That sneaked like cunning ice beneath his feet so that the instant he began to move through the disorientating - dizzying - blast of it like a drunkard in the cold night air, he slipped and slithered helplessly towards the side.
As he had known he would.
Knowing his enemy of old and all her terrible wiles, he knew the best defences he could draw against her. And therefore that first, fatal, drunken, slithering lurch was brought up sharp by a safety wire and the shaking, almost palsied, fists clutched on the steady line and clipped his harness home. Then, held safe, he turned to see his companion echo his every move - from slither and slide to safety.
Then, looking - and feeling - like the weakest of geriatrics, the pair of them hunched themselves unsteadily down the shrieking, shuddering, spindrift infinity of the fifty-foot walk to the bow.
Chapter 4: The Wreck
Richard only realized he had reached the point of Lionheart’s bow when the white metal safety-railing stopped his progress. He closed his fists upon its icy solidity and raised his head. As he looked forward, a flaw in the storm allowed him an instant’s clear vision of Goodman Richard’s deck. He was still staring up at it, awe-struck, when Doc collided with his shoulder. Then they stood there, side by side, clinging like limpets.
Like the storm itself, the four-master had been distanced, reduced, somehow contained by the view from Lionheart’s bridge. Close to, she was huge and, in her wrecked state, immensely threatening. The streaming black cliff of her deck stretched beyond the edges of Richard’s vision on either hand. He had to turn his head to encompass the enormity of her. The shrouded crest of her starboard side rose almost to the seething overcast. He had to look up to distinguish it from the clouds. The movements of his head, robot-like, from side to side then up and down seemed only to make her larger. And the larger she was, the more threatening. She seemed on the point of rolling over entirely, of stamping them out like flies.
The boards of her decking, sprung, splintered and simply torn open by the destruction of her masts, seemed to ripple as though they too were liquid, become part of the element that was bent upon consuming her. Wind battered round her, moaning and howling in every line, strut and stay. Water thundered over her, streamed down her, roared through her. And she herself was screaming.
The relentless pounding of the cataclysm which wrenched her first one way and then another was simply beginning to break her apart. Even before the black rock jaws of the reef got to chew on her, the boiling saliva of the foam was beginning the ocean’s strange, slow digestion of this pretty morsel. Her keel was writhing; her structural frames were twisting deep within her. Her stout sides, designed to flex with the roughest seas, were simply being wrenched apart. The decks between them, like her weather deck, were losing their strength, their integrity. Nails, pins, nuts and rivets were tearing loose. Planks were rubbing together like the ends of broken bones. And all of this unnatural movement made a thousand individual squeals and shrieks that built together into the great ship’s overwhelming death-scream.
The two men on the point of the forecastle may have been standing, overawed, but the team who backed them were more alert. As Richard and Doc remained, stricken by the scene before them, Robin and Tom were easing Lionheart forward as they had planned. Luck favoured their simple bravery. The wild ocean relented. Or perhaps it was the passage of yet another slow and solid tanker close enough at hand to break the power of wind and water for a vital moment or two. As Lionheart eased in, Goodman Richard rolled back into a trough followed by short sharp chop - not more great rhythmic rollers. Richard found himself given those moments’ grace to look down on to a nearly steady, almost horizontal deck fortuitously webbed with the rope ladder Robin had noticed earlier. He undipped his safety harness and laboriously climbed over the safety rail. Doc’s strong hands held him - and, although he did not know it, his safety line as well.
At the first instant of stasis he leaped. It was a fall of perhaps a yard. Doc didn’t even need to release his hold on the line until Richard’s strong hands closed on the rope ladder stretched so tautly across the deck. And there, beside the ladder, another line stretched, just as taut, but with no rungs knotted across it. A convenient jackstay for his safety line if nothing else.
But to be fair, thought Richard as he pulled the end aboard and clipped on, he should not be too surprised to find lines and ladders here. Up until a few hours ago, this had been a fully-rigged four-masted sailing ship. There were miles and miles of lines, sheets, stays, braces, tacks and God knew what else aboard. The miracle was that these ones were not lost in some mare’s nest of a tangle like the ropework over the far side. His prayer was that they would hold safely for another half an hour or so. And, aptly enough for the thought, he remained on his knees.
Doc’s harness clip thumped into his chest then and there was enough slack in it for him to secure it beside his own before the Australian leaped forward and down on to the deck beside him.
The instant Doc leaped, Lionheart engaged her bow thruster and was edging safely back before the next swell came in. Up went the mare’s nest to seaward. The deck began to tilt. The arrival of tons and tons of water became very imminent indeed. And considering what it had done to a well-found vessel, neither of the would-be rescuers wanted to guess what it could do to flesh and bone. The pair of them clung on to the ladder for dear life, scrambling upwards like bright-yellow tree frogs in some storm-bound Amazonian rain-forest. The rope ladder heaved and tautened beneath their almost prehensile fingers, seeming to Richard at least to attain the consistency of steel cable - cable spiked with needle-splinters. Only the fact that the cross-rungs were of thinner rope than the main lines allowed them to grip them at all, for the thick cords gouged their knots into the shrieking, splintering wood beneath their unbelieving eyes.
Now the deck was not quite as flat and featureless as Robin had believed. Further
up the majestically steepening slope ahead of Richard and Doc there was a raised hatch cover. Unlike a tanker or a liner, the sailing ship had been designed with almost nothing on the deck in any case - no cabins, shelters, scarcely even a cockpit bridge house to get in the way of the sail-handling. But Richard had been aboard, shown round by Charles Lee as part of the plan to get him on the charity board. And Richard knew that these raised hatch covers, secured with weatherboards and sealed with strong, sliding hatches, gave directly on to the ship’s main accommodation areas in a series of small, low-roofed interlinking rooms. The hatch immediately up-slope from them was one of the largest, standing almost knee high and presenting a solid wall a good six feet in length that would, with any luck, break the power of the deluge that was all too imminent. Or it would do so if they could get close enough to it in time.
And then, thought Richard grimly, they might just have a chance to open up, scramble in and close it again before the next inevitable hammer-blow of water. If there was anyone below ready, willing or able to loosen the hatch locks. The upward heave of the deck stopped. The change from movement to stasis was quite sudden - there was no slowing or faltering. An immense thundering appeared from the heart of the raving cacophony around them. ‘Here it comes!’ bellowed Richard. But only the tearing of his throat told him he had spoken - he didn’t even hear the words. He sucked in a great gasp and wrapped himself, spider-like, in the rigging. The water exploded all around them. For a strange, unearthly moment it was as though they were behind a waterfall looking out as the first wash of the water soared over the hatch cover as Richard had prayed it would. That and that alone saved them. For when it collapsed into a bruising welter - more like brick than liquid -some at least of its vicious power was gone. But still it pounded them, tore at them, exercised almost unimaginable force on them. Richard felt his shoulders crack, felt the steel-hard rope he was clinging to gouge into his flesh as it gouged the teak deck earlier. He felt it crush his head like a nut in a cracker. He knew with soul-deep certainty that his legs would tear free at any instant and when they did so, his spine would break and - likely as not - the bottom half of his body would be torn away leaving only his tattered torso wedged immovably in the rigging.
But no.
The deck began to swoop vertiginously, like a lift-car whose ropes have snapped. And as suddenly as the upward heave had stopped, the wash of the water was gone. Richard’s arms tore his body upwards and - for a miracle - his legs were still attached and able to thrust as well. He knew he had reached the hatch cover when the top of his head crashed into it with enough force to make him see stars. An instant later Doc’s yellow helmet struck with equal force - but hopefully less damage.
Richard was already pounding with his fist, shredding skin from his almost senseless knuckles. The downward swoop was beginning to slow. The wind was howling closer. They were coming into the trough. Now was the moment.
And the hatch slid back.
Richard went in head-first immediately like a great fish slithering into the hold. He found himself sliding on his belly past the slim form of the person who had opened the hatch and away down a wooden companionway. No doubt he would have slithered on to the deck at its foot and away down the slope had his safety line not jerked him to a halt. Doc was thinking more clearly, however, and after a moment, the tight line slackened and Richard crawled on down on all-fours on to the deck.
Doc swung in more conventionally and stood, helping the man on the companionway get the hatch cover closed again. And not a moment too soon. What had been a downward slope began to rise. The angle of the companionway became almost horizontal, leaning sideways like something out of Escher’s artwork. Doc found the man who had stood at his shoulder lying full-length on top of him and only the hatch-sides held him safe from falling down through the banisters. The thunder of the next wave was like an avalanche scant inches above their heads.
Richard crawled back to the foot of the companionway and hauled himself erect. He was breathless with cold and winded into the bargain. He was gulping in great bites of air. So, next after the sound, it was the stench that hit him. There was an unexpectedly dry, dusty element to it - all the microscopic debris trapped in numberless wooden seams and joints had been released by the destructive working of the frames. But there was the wet smell too - the rotting slimy aroma of bilges let loose and toilets overflowing because of the unnatural angle of the hull. The dangerous dampness of brine invading areas designed to be dry. Of sickness, compounded by the sickly-sweet aroma of everything aboard which had once been contained in a breakable vessel long since smashed and leaking. Of burning. Of terror.
The deck began to right again. Richard looked around. He was in the mouth of a corridor leading between closed doors into oddly angled darkness. He realized that all the illumination available was coming from a few naked bulbs on a string suspended from the ceiling. For every bulb still burning there were three or four shattered and dark.
The man in charge of the hatchway slid off Doc and came clattering down the stair. Richard caught him and they leaned together, gasping. Introductions were unnecessary. Richard had met First Officer Paul Ho along with Captain Jones and all the rest of the crew when Charles Lee had shown him round.
‘Did the Captain get to you, then?’ gasped Ho.
‘No. We got your distress call. We’ve brought Lionheart. Did you get any of our radio messages at all?’
‘Nothing much. I don’t think our radio was working very well at all. Sparks is pretty badly hurt as well. The Captain took our best radio into his lifeboat. Said he’d be able to get help one way or the other.’
‘The Captain?’ demanded Richard. ‘The Captain abandoned?’
‘The Captain and several officers. Over an hour ago just before the really bad blow started. The masts had gone by then, though. The wind came up too suddenly and caught us with far too much canvas up. Mainmast went and took the foremast just like that. They took all the starboard lifeboats with them and smashed them to pieces. The Captain took the biggest portside boat and went for help. The Scillies, he said. We were expecting him back with the St Mary’s lifeboat...’
‘Well we’re what you’ve got instead. We two and my SuperCat Lionheart.’
‘A SuperCat? We need a lifeboat. And a big one at that. We could really use a tow if we could get one rigged.’
‘That’s not very likely, mate. And we’re all there is,’ said Doc, arriving beside them, having double-checked the hatch locks. ‘And we’re in a hurry.’
Paul Ho looked around ruefully. ‘Yes. She hasn’t got a lot more in her. Two or three hours I’d say before she starts leaking really badly. Power won’t last much longer either.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ Richard explained as Paul began to lead them down the corridor. They walked with their arms out as though miming crucifixion. The rolling tilt of the corridor kept their hands in constant contact with one wall or the other. ‘You’ll be on the reef at Wolf Rock in thirty minutes.’
‘Christ! Are we that close?’ Paul looked over his shoulder, his face horrified. Behind the doors literally on either hand, things shifted, slid and crashed about. The first door Richard touched seemed to be bulging slightly with the strain of containing whatever wreckage was behind it.
‘And getting closer,’ grated Richard. ‘We need to move. How many have you got aboard?’
‘Forty crew. Sixty cadets.’
‘What sort of state are they in?’
‘See for yourself.’ As he spoke, Paul opened the door at the end of the corridor and the three men stepped into what must have been the one fairly sizeable area aboard. It looked as though it had been the dining room - the mess. And it really was a mess now. Everything that could be stripped out had been stripped out. There was little left other than benches secured to the walls and holes in the floor where tables had been screwed tight. The shaft of the mizzen mast thrust through the middle of it with a festoon of lights tacked to it, the bulbs jumping and shimm
ering strangely as the wooden column flexed and vibrated in the storm immediately above.
The considerable area of bare flooring was covered with bodies. For a fleeting, horrific moment, Richard thought they were all dead - they lay there limply enough; they were pale enough. And the place smelt badly enough. But no. There were figures on the benches too, holding themselves carefully against the ship’s motion. And, as the list became more pronounced with the arrival of the next big wave, so the apparent corpses on the floor all tensed themselves to keep from slipping, sliding and rolling into a heap.
Richard looked around the place. It seemed to him that the people on the benches were mostly crew and the bodies on the floor belonged to the kids. And, he thought as his eyes cleared further still, to the wounded. He hoped most fervently that there was no one too completely exhausted or too badly hurt to walk. The deck came level. The mast stopped juddering. The light steadied and the raving of the storm died for an instant.
Richard stepped into the room and began to speak, using his quarterdeck bellow and starting as slowly as he dared, hoping to get their attention focused squarely on him for the really important part.
‘My name is Captain Richard Mariner,’ he began. ‘I’ve crossed aboard here with my colleague Captain Weary from our vessel Lionheart which is just beside us now. And we’ve come to rescue you...’
Chapter 5: The Rescue
Richard had been in this kind of situation before, but never in such dire straits as these. From the sight of the ship, the experience of coming aboard her - and the sensation of being below decks within her - he was half-expecting to find only the helpless, the halt and the lame. Such was the destruction and danger so obviously all around - the sense of the fabric of the vessel and everything aboard being so relentlessly reduced to splinters and atoms by the sea even before the inevitable crushing crash upon the rocks - that he supposed he would be talking only to the terrified and the refractory.
