Finally, one morning, as I was feeling a tooth coming loose from my mouth, there came a whisper from Brew through the wall that I didn’t want to hear.
‘‘We passed Ushant last night.’’
We ’d be well into the Channel by now. We were almost back in Englishness.
Kinvig guessed my thoughts, though I never spoke a word. ‘‘Don’t you worry, Captain. I’ve had a thought. We’re not finished yet, so we’re not.’’
The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson
JUNE 1858
LORD MY FATHER who art in heaven, these cool nights tell me we are nearly returned. Another man might feel despair at the ordeal I have endured: hungry, shackled, suffering from sickness, forced to suffer the company of a trafficker in liquor, and to watch my persecutors—Thine own foes, the agents of the evil one—strut in triumph. Another man might feel abandoned, and even cruelly betrayed. Another man might be filled with rage at the seeming futility of his great quest, that he embarked upon with such high hopes, and endured so bravely, all merely to serve Thou thyself. I feel no bitterness. I cast no blame. Lord my Father who art in heaven, I valiantly preserve my faith still. I only ask that if Thou hast some great design for me still—as I can only assume Thou must—then let it be soon. I am more than ready, and watch every moment for Thy smallest sign, though there has been nothing till now.
Was Eden here, in England, all along? Is this the answer? Has all of this great venture merely been some kind of grand test? But then why didst Thou send me all that way?
Lord my Father who art in heaven, at least couldst Thou ease this hunger that I feel. Surely that is not so much to ask? I have such a strong longing for apples, and see them often in my dreams. Even the miracle of an onion would be greatly welcome, or perhaps a raw potato.
Dr. Thomas Potter
JUNE 1858
MANXMEN= treacherous even to v. last. Self heard Brew (lashed to mizzenmast as per usual) instructing helmsman to steer NNW. When self questioned he re this he claiming we = carried into Bay of Biscay by difficult sea currents + must set course to avoid Breton Peninsula. He pointing to distant point of land to NNE, claiming this = Brittany. Self = doubtful. From own inspection of charts had supposed we = already further N. Also could see several distant vessels journeying E or W. These = entering or leaving English Channel? If distant land = not Brittany but Cornwall, then NNW course would take selves into Irish Sea + to Isle of Man. Brew hoping lead selves into trap + wreck ship on some Manx shore, so his Celtic Type compatriots may murder selves? When self accused he his reply = weak and unconvincing. Evident own suspicions = well founded.
Self considered only most radical action will answer this latest attempt subversion. Cannot jeopardize selves by continuing entrust ship to lying + conniving criminals. Decided selves must take complete command of vessel, including navigation + control of ship’s wheel. Cannot be so difficult if even Manx Celtic Type = can manage, while selves have = observing Brew, Kinvig etc. etc. long enough to gain ample understanding re their craft. Self acted at once. Had Brew unlashed from mizzen-mast + thrown off quarterdeck. Self announced henceforth self will act both as captain and chief mate + crew to take orders directly from self. Brew whining protests, prophesying disaster etc. etc. (of course) but self determinedly ignored. Likewise dispensed of China Clucas at the helm, replacing he with Hooper. Hooper worried that he = too weak (scurvy) but self assuring he that = not far now to go. England = within sight.
Issued own first order = ‘‘loosen more sail.’’ Wind = light while self suspecting Brew = deliberately attempting slow vessel. Brew claiming more sail = dangerous, saying wind will strengthen + masts = weak from lack repair. His complaining only serving strengthen own resolution. Ordered more sail still! Crewmen v. slow in performing duties aloft, so self = obliged fire one round from revolving pistol into air. V. effective. Self at once proved correct in judgment. Sails held, ship making better progress. Self had crewmen returned to fo’c’sle or lashed to pump, as before. Set course ENE.
Self feeling v. tired. Decided go below for rest, leaving Hooper (helm) + Hodges at watch. Looked in on Skeggs. He v. bad. Own mouth + hands painful with scurvy, so difficult even write this entry. Find self filled with most unhappy feelings re shore of England that selves = approaching. Am greatly troubled by fears. Must land or die, though this means self will suffer accusation, if not arrest + imprisonment by ignorant men. One comfort = that have now completed Destiny of Nations.
Whatever own fate may be, do hope + believe this work shall = my child for a future (+ wiser) age.
Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
JUNE 1858
I WAS WOKEN by the sound of creaking wood, though it wasn’t like any wood creaking I’d heard before, being sort of slow and huge, as if half a forest was falling on its face. Just as I sat up there was a mightiest crash and all at once it seemed as if some kind of guts had been slit, with great lumpers of things spilling down from above all in a rush, filling the air thick with dust. Something dropped onto my lap, dull and heavy as a dead body, knocking the wind clean out of me, and in the same instant I could feel the whole vessel rolling sharp to larboard, as if some great hand was tugging her over. She started righting herself, only to swing right back. Had the keel gone? If she capsized, then seawater would come seeking a road through every hole and rottenness and take us to the bottom fast as could be. I’d never fancied drowning, but it’s not up to a body to choose his way, while there was little I could do. I counted seconds, and more, and though the ship rolled on, still we floated. Finally she calmed into a sharp lean, and I decided I wouldn’t be breathing seawater just yet.
I gave a spit as mouth was dry with the stink of tar and paint dust. Looking down at my lap, I saw I hadn’t caught anyone’s corpse after all, but just a big coil of rope. By then the air was starting to clear a little, showing me how our gaol now had a brand-new piece of furniture, this being a proper tree of wood that was skewed clean across the place, and had smashed the door to pieces. There’s a magic about things that have got into their wrongest place and it was hard to think this was one of the yards that on an ordinary day would be sat halfway up a mast, with a length of sailcloth dangling from it to trouble the wind. A proper show it made, too, spearing through the floor timbers, with its fuss of canvas and ropes cluttering up the cabin. I was glad it had chosen to drop in slantwise, as it happened, as straight down might have knifed me along with the boards. There was no doubt how it had got in. Glancing up, I saw the hole it had fingered through the deck timbers, which was wide enough to drop a cow or two, and told a tale on that rain tickling my face. I could just make out part of the mast it should’ve been fixed to, which was now lying along the deck. Beyond I could see sky, all prettiest pink with the dawn. And a good morning to you, too.
Here was a fine piece of rottenness. My poor Sincerity, ruined by dirts of Englishmen that should never have been allowed near a sailing ship. It was hardly much of a surprise, as Brew had said Potter had piled on a madness of canvas. On another vessel he’d have suffered nothing worse than a burst sail or two, but not this one. Thanks to his wrecking, the bands and bolts would’ve been rusted through, the ropes would be slack and the mast itself would’ve been half rotten and aching to split into so many spillikins. All that was needed was a good puff of wind and over she’d go. Then I found myself in puzzles, though. This could only be the mizzen, as the others were too far forward, yet, as I recalled, Potter had said in his rules that no sail was to be set aft. Then why had it come down?
I pushed the coil of rope off my lap, like some old dog that’s got too comfortable, and had a try of my arms and legs, finding that though I had some fine bruises nothing seemed actually broke, which was something. I could hear voices calling out from up above, and from their direction I guessed they must be the pair lashed to the pumps. I was glad they’d not been smashed to death by the mast. Though I couldn’t catch their words for the wind, they sounded raging as could be. As it happened, the reason c
ame soon enough. All at once there was a mighty thump from the ship’s side, jarring the whole vessel. That little noise told me that not one but two masts were down. The main must have pulled the mizzen with her. Worse, while the mizzen had dropped along the deck, nice and tidy, the main had sheared clean over the side, where waves had just battered it against the hull. If the mast kept scelping her like that, it was only a matter of time before it poked a hole clean through the ship’s timbers and down we’d sink, nice as nip.
‘‘Thank you, Lord, for preserving me from disaster,’’ mumbled the Reverend into the dust, catching, as ever, just the wrong moment.
It was then I noticed another interesting change. The fact is that if a body happens to find himself shackled to the floor for a few months, he soon comes to know every little habit and mood of his chains, almost better than he knows his own wife. The fetter between my wrists, being small, had a mean and nagging feel, rattling at any fuss, while the larger one, which was held to a ring bolted to the timbers, was more heaviness, tugging me back with a start like it bore some grudge. Now, though, I realized that this last seemed a touch lazier than usual, giving just a scran before it hauled at my arms. I soon saw the cause. The yard had smashed a mighty rent across the timbers of the floor, which had cut nearly through to the metal ring. Here was a welcome piece of curiosity. One of the ring’s bolts was quite loose, so I could pull it free without trouble, and though the other was stuck, that was a fine start. Fingers trembling at this chance of not getting drowned after all, I set about trying to work it from the floor. This wasn’t easy, for sure, but little by little the wood began to splinter, till I could feel the bolt loosening nicely, like a bad tooth. Finally I crouched above it, gave a mighty tug, and out it jumped. There was a fine sweet moment. I was free! Aside, that was, from the half a hundredweight of chain still trailing from me.
Now I was wondering what was happening up on deck. ‘‘Is anyone still in there?’’ I called out through the hole in the wall.
‘‘Every one of us,’’ Brew’s voice called back. ‘‘And all right as rain except that we’re about to drown.’’
Here was a rotten piece of wonder. I’d assumed Potter would let some of them free so they could cut away the mast. What did he think he was doing? ‘‘I’ll get you out of there, don’t you worry,’’ I promised, though it was more wishing talk than anything known.
‘‘Captain Kewley, you must help me.’’
It was so long since I’d heard the Reverend speak to me rather than to his friend in heaven that I almost jumped. So he wanted rescuing, did he? The gizzard of the man. All these weeks he’d hardly troubled himself to tell me the time of day and now, when he needed some help, he was all talk. I was sore tempted to leave the troublesome article to rot, which was all he deserved. The fact is, though, that if you’ve been shackled next to a fellow for a power of time it is awkward to just step away and leave him to breathe seawater, however low and useless he may be. Before you know it you’re wondering how you’d feel if somebody did the same to yourself and that’s the finish of your rushing. I kicked away the leavings of the door and was about to step outside into the passage, but then I turned back.
‘‘All right, Vicar.’’ The surprise I got when I put a sight on his chains. Would you know it, he was hardly held to the floor at all, if only he’d bothered himself to look. The timbers by his feet must have taken more rainwater wet than had mine, as they were flaky with rot, while the mast had done the rest. All it took was a bit of a tug and he was settled. However much time we had left, and whatever I might have to do, I couldn’t see myself doing it with a weight of chains to carry, that was sure. Just along the passage was the boatswain’s locker, where, in normal times, there was kept an axe, just in case some rope needed snapping in a rush. Normal times these weren’t but the axe was there nonetheless.
‘‘Stretch your chains over the there,’’ I told the Reverend hurriedly, pointing at the yard that had dropped on us.
He obeyed with a kind of giggle, and so I brought the axe down, aiming for the little ring that held them all together. My strength being half gone with scurvy, it took four tries, but in the end the ring snapped, so the main chain dropped away and the smaller one was sheared in two. His hands free, Wilson picked up a long nail from the floor and began fiddling at the rings round his wrists.
‘‘There’s no time for that,’’ I told him quickly. ‘‘Here.’’ I handed him the axe and started gathering up my chain, hoping he had a good eye for chopping. I never did discover, of course. I suppose I should have learned my lesson by now, as the fact is there’s no doing favours to Englishmen. Rather than show a proper bit of gratitude, like a body might have expected, the evil old article just murmured, ‘‘I have work,’’ and then, while I was still trying to guess his joke, he started clambering onto the yard and up towards the deck. There was a low, dirty piece of helpfulness. I managed to catch one of his feet, but d’you know he gave me a nasty kick with it right in the eye, while, the chains still tugging at me, this was enough to knock me clean over. There’s words for that sort of thing, and I called him them, too, but it didn’t stop him scampering away. Truly, that fellow really was the end. As I watched, he was already trying to pull himself through the hole in the deck timbers.
All at once what little time I’d had was robbed from me, and my troubles—which had been more than enough before—were doubled and trebled and doubled again. It’s a clever man indeed that can shear a chain between his wrists with an axe that he’s holding himself. Worse again, there was the question of surprise, this being the one solitary thing that I’d have had on my side in whatever wild, desperate something I’d have do against the Englishmen. With the Reverend scrabbling through the hole to the deck, my surprise would be as fresh as last month’s kippers. Still, there was no use in staying here and waiting, so I reckoned I might as well venture something, however desperate. Gathering up my chains in an armful and picking up the axe, I hurried back along the passage and up the stairs.
So it was I found myself putting a sight on a world that I hadn’t seen for a good little while, and a rotten sort of world it looked, too. I knew those dirts had made a mess of my vessel but still I never supposed it would be so bad as this. A proper ghost ship she seemed, with her paint flaking and her deck timbers buckled. Why, she was worse, as even a ghost ship will have a full quota of masts. The Sincerity had lost two, just as I had supposed, leaving a pair of stumps, like dead trees, while the foremast looked lonely as could be. Why, she was hardly like a sailing vessel at all anymore, being all sky and mad strewn wreckage. A tangle of ropes pulled taut over the side told me where the mainmast was, though I hardly needed telling, as that moment another wave sent it thumping into the ship’s timbers. That little mess would have put paid to the rudder, and leave the ship drifting like a dead thing. All in all we were now nothing more than a big wooden lumper of wreck, waiting to sink.
This took me to my next little piece of rottenness, which was quite the king of them all. At a moment like this any normal seaman, whether angel or pirate, will have only one thought, and that’s to save his vessel. Inside half an instant he’ll pick up the nearest axe and start chopping at wreckage before it sinks her. What was going on here was rather different. The Englishmen were all busy as beavers, for sure, but their delight was all in trying to lower the main boat. All in all it seemed they weren’t eager to clutter themselves with Manxmen, preferring to keep this a private ride just for themselves. I could see the shore, with a prettiest line of surf breaking, and though it was a few miles off it looked near enough to suit them nicely.
What a fine case of Englishman’s murder this was. Murder by doing nothing, which is your Englishman’s favourite, I’m sure. Shooting or bludgeoning a shipload of men to death is such a dirtying sort of thing to do, as well as being legally awkward besides, so what could be prettier than to quietly set out for the shore and leave all this untidiness behind, handy as kittens drowning in a bucket. All my
friend Potter needed to do was shut his eyes for a moment, dream up a smart little story to tell the curious, and, with a little gentle rowing, all his worries would be gone. He must, I supposed, be quite hugging himself beneath his beard. No wonder the two bodies at the pumps were raging and screaming so. The boys in the fo’c’sle must’ve heard them, as they were hammering and shouting fit to burst.
Not that the Englishmen were doing so well in their murdering. Truly, you never saw a gang of dirts less fit for messing with ships than these. All they had to do was lower a boat, which is hardly your most difficult piece of seamanship, but a proper pig’s ear they were making of it. The boat was hanging over the ship’s side, but only a foot or two, as it was nicely jammed. As for the Englishmen, Skeggs—who looked pale as death—was lying inside it with his head propped up on one of the rowing benches, while Hodges and Hooper stood beside him tinkering with the blocks, and Potter was facing them over the rail from the deck, a pile of guns and a leather carrying case at his feet. Was that our gold in there? Our gold that we’d sailed clean round the world to earn? The low mucks.
An ill-tempered gang of dirts they were, too, yelling at one another like drunks raging over the last swallow from the bottle. I suppose they were getting scared they mightn’t escape after all, and would accidentally murder themselves along with everyone else. The poor babes. If only they’d thought to ask, I could’ve told what was wrong, as I could see it with one glance. The blocks were nearly solid with rust while the ropes holding the boat were fraying like sheep’s hair. This was their own fault, too, seeing as it was them that had brought the ship into such a handsome state of ruin in the first place.
‘‘We must cut the ropes,’’ shouted Hooper.
English passengers Page 50
