The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  ‘Nor’-westerly,’ he says looking directly into it, ‘and getting up.’ He looks a little worried. ‘Back at the helm, Red. I’ll trim the main and reset the jib.’

  I check the binnacle. The compass shows we have fallen off several degrees from the proper heading. As soon as we have a few knots underway so the ship can turn with speed, I adjust the ship’s wheel back on course.

  Rowdy has the mainsheet wrapped around his hand pulling it in, his arm muscles taught and straining to hold in the boom. He stands only a few feet from me, his face grim and determined.

  ‘It’s getting up, Red. An extra ten knots in the last few minutes. We are in for a big blow, I’m thinking. We’ll be in for a long night.’

  Over the next two hours, the wind steadily increases, and every ten minutes or so Rowdy reduces the sails’ area, but the old lugger fights against it, beating into the waves. The lugger is about half the length of the Black Dragon, but solid, made of two-inch-thick planks, more of a draught horse than a thoroughbred racehorse, and she smashes into the waves instead of riding over the top of them like we are used to. At dusk, the wind still blows strongly but is steady.

  ‘I’ll take the helm for a spell,’ declares Rowdy. ‘You go check on them below.’

  I am surprised he has any strength left. It has been so hard fighting against the wind and current, and he should be utterly worn out, for Rowdy has been doing the work of three or four men. Even with the cold wind, his shirt is drenched, and sweat runs down his face.

  There is nothing I can do for the Bosun and Briggs other than place wet rags on their foreheads and feed them some squashed fruit as best I can. Both are delirious.

  ‘We can’t keep this tack up, Red,’ says Rowdy when I return to the wheel. ‘We might have to run south, at least until the wind turns.’

  ‘How will we find the others if we do that? We have no charts,’ I reply, worried. We have two very sick men on board, and Rowdy and I are exhausted. And what if Bosun Stevenson and Mr Briggs die? They could at any minute, they look so poorly.

  ‘Charts aren’t any good out here, Red,’ he says. ‘There’s nothin’ in the Indian Ocean. Africa is thataway, Australia the other, and Sumatra northwards. When the wind changes, and we get a strong sou’-westerly, we sail east and eventually bang into Australia. Like the old Dutch mariners.’

  I wonder if that is actually a good idea. The coast of Australia is littered with Dutch shipwrecks. I have already experienced one shipwreck too many. I don’t imagine the gods allow you to survive more than one. But Rowdy is right, we can’t continue on our current course.

  He goes forward and releases the jib sheet. It flutters wildly in the nor’-westerly wind, and then I nod, ready. Rowdy frees the mainsheet, and at the same time, I spin the wheel. The boom swings across, and the lugger glides to starboard and settles into a new course with the wind directly behind us. Suddenly, the tension on the ship’s wheel eases, the thumping of the waves on the bow stops and the lugger rides smoothly.

  The night is as dark as I’ve ever seen it and the sky bright with stars. There is a sliver of a moon a bit later, enough for me to see as I steer the lugger further and further south, the wind never easing. But what am I steering south towards? An endless ocean full of storms and no one and nothing until we run out of food and water, or until the lugger sinks. It is, unquestionably, not the most seaworthy of crafts.

  Before dawn, Rowdy calls. ‘Red?’ He is on deck, but I can’t see him in the gloom.

  ‘Rowdy?’

  ‘Red … I think … I think … I have it too,’ he calls, his voice even quieter than usual.

  I immediately loop the holding rope on the wheel spoke and run forward. Rowdy sits on the deck, his back up against the mast, gasping for air.

  ‘Red, the minute the wind changes, turn east. Save yourself.’

  ‘I’ll save us all, Rowdy. Don’t worry!’ I say, confidently. I don’t know where that comes from or how I can seem so self-assured, because I’m not, but I am suddenly aware that I sound exactly like Captain Bowen.

  ‘Red … I’m burning up,’ Rowdy says.

  ‘Hang on, Rowdy.’

  I find a bucket. There is already a rope tied to it, so I throw it over the side to pull up seawater. I pour it all over Rowdy and then do it several more times. He seems relieved. It occurs to me that the Bosun and Briggs might be in the same way. Their bunks are located just at the bottom of a short gangway. I pour bucket loads of seawater over them as well, before heading back to take the wheel.

  At first light, I see Rowdy shivering. ‘Leave me,’ he says. ‘Let me shiver it out. I have to break the feve…’ Before he can finish, his eyes roll back in his head, and his head lolls forward. Maybe it is best he is unconscious. I just don’t know what to do.

  The Bosun and Briggs are the same. Neither is conscious, and the cabin air is foul and damp.

  Back at the wheel, I check the compass and try hard to remember the map of the Indian Ocean. We headed nor’-east for several days before I turned south and lost the Tartar. If we continue on this tack, I might just, with all the luck in the world, hit the Australian mainland on the westernmost tip somewhere around Shark Bay. Failing that, then it will be straight on to Antarctica with the four of us frozen to death, and our bodies discovered years later on a mysterious ghost ship trapped in the ice. That is even if I survive until tomorrow. Like the three men, I too could easily succumb to this terrible illness anytime soon.

  I take a bite out of a pomegranate and peel back the skin. The disease cannot really be scurvy, but I am taking no chances, so fruit it is. Captain Cook can’t have been wrong about that.

  I stand at the wheel all day, fighting fatigue as I try and edge the Charlotte to the east. Too many degrees to the port side and the front edge of the jib flutters and we lose speed. Several times I fall asleep standing up, but shake myself awake. I am so tired and hungry but, above all, I am scared out of my mind. I am terrified that the men will die. Mostly, I worry that I will fall asleep and the lugger will broach against the wind and capsize. We have no dinghy on board, and even if I could get off the sinking ship, the others would drown without waking up.

  I have no idea how long I am at the wheel. Days? It feels like weeks. Occasionally, I go to make the men more comfortable. I find a pillow for Rowdy’s head, and I try and force him and the others to drink fresh water or fruit juice, but mostly they cough and splutter it out.

  I think I might be hallucinating as I hear voices and see visions. Ma is calling me, Captain Bowen is laughing, Emma at the Esplanade offers me cakes and, surprisingly, Miss Anna from the big house calls me to come quick. ‘Red! Red! Her voice is so close. I shake my head, but she keeps calling.

  The wind changes, and I see high clouds have formed, but something is not right. ‘Red!’ It is not Miss Anna but Bosun Stevenson. He is awake and stands unsteadily at the gangway, leaning against a stay and gasping for breath.

  ‘Red, Briggs is dead,’ he wheezes.

  ‘Bosun, sit down!’ I call. I loop the wheel and run to him. His skin is as pale as a sail and black circles rim his eyes. Suddenly, I am wide awake, and my head clear. I reach and cup my hand on his brow. It is almost a normal temperature. The fever has passed. I can hardly believe it.

  ‘Where is …? What’s going …?’ he stammers.

  ‘You’ve been sick,’ I tell him. ‘Rowdy and Briggs as well. Rowdy is over by the mast.’ I point.

  ‘You have been sailing all alone?’ he asks, almost not believing it possible.

  I nod.

  He looks to the port side and scans the horizon. ‘The Captain? Where is the Captain?’

  ‘We lost sight of him four or five days ago, could be more. I had to turn south. A strong nor’-westerly. It was too forceful for Rowdy and me. Just the two of us. Then Rowdy got sick too.’ The words babble out of me.

  The Bosun looks at me hard. ‘Four or five days? You’ve been sailing all alone for four or five days?’ He stops talking and takes
a deep breath and lets it out with the longest sigh. ‘I need to rest, Red. I need to recover my strength. I’m as weak as a kitten. But look at you. You look as bad as I feel,’ he continues. ‘You must be all but done in. Help me to the wheel. I can at least do that. There’s not a lot of pressure on it if we stay running before the wind.’

  I lower him onto an upturned bucket behind the ship’s wheel. ‘You need to get some sleep, Red,’ he says.

  ‘But Mr Briggs, Bosun,’ I say, sadly. ‘Poor Mr Briggs.’ I hang my head in despair and shame. Not only have I failed to keep on course, but one of my crew has died. There can be nothing so terrible for a skipper. It is even worse than losing your ship.

  ‘We can worry about him in a few hours,’ says the Bosun. ‘Rowdy’s hammock is over there. Rig that back up to the rail and kip for a while. Before you drop.’

  I wake just as the sun sets.

  The Bosun is still at the wheel, one hand gripping a spoke, the other on the centre, holding himself sort of upright.

  ‘Bosun, I’ll take over,’ I call.

  He doesn’t argue. ‘Can you first make me some tea, Red? I don’t think I can struggle down the ladder.’

  Rowdy remains unconscious, but before I head below, I pour more water over him. He doesn’t even move.

  I stoke up the galley stove and wait until the kettle whistles. As it does, I hear another noise behind me. Briggs is not dead. He stirs, obviously hearing the kettle’s noise. He turns his head. ‘What?’ he asks, sounding completely bewildered. ‘What? What’s happened? Red, is that you?’

  ‘Mr Briggs!’ I cry in relief. I can’t believe it. I reach for him to check. He too is now a more normal temperature, not a human volcano of heat, though he cannot even lift his head from the stinking bunk.

  NOT ALONE

  The next few days are harsh, though nowhere near as stressful as when I was all alone, with only the stars for company. But I am beyond exhausted. The others are still too ill to move much, and can only lay about listlessly on deck, their heads racked with terrible, intense headaches.

  I haven’t said anything to them, but our lugger seems to be riding lower in the water, and this morning when I was in the galley, I think I heard water splash in the bilges. I may have been mistaken, and I sure hope I am. Otherwise, we are slowly sinking.

  I look up at the sun and out across the endless expanse of water in all directions. There is nothing to be seen, no dolphins, no turtles, not even a seabird. When we sink, we’ll be left clinging to wreckage in an endless ocean. How long will we survive? The water is not too cold, so not minutes, but maybe a day or so, at most.

  ‘Red?’ asks Bosun Stevenson, quietly, as I go take the wheel from him. ‘We are settling in the water. I can feel it.’

  I nod. ‘I thought so too,’ I say, equally quietly. ‘How long do you think we have?’

  ‘A few days, a week maybe,’ he answers. ‘There is no hurry, but you need to think about making a raft, Red. Ready for when it happens. Search below for any barrels or drums you can find. Anything that floats well. Bring them up and lash them around the sides of that hatch cover.’ He points to the open lattice-like wood square in the centre of the deck. ‘You’ll need canvas for shelter,’ he continues, ‘a mast with a sail, and something to use as a rudder. And a box with as much food and water as you can fit in it.’

  I shake my head. The idea is too overwhelming to comprehend.

  ‘When the lugger finally sinks, you’ll have to tie us to the raft. Think you can handle all that, boy?’ he asks. ‘We won’t have the strength to hold on for long.’

  ‘Rowdy and Briggs,’ I ask, ‘do I tell them now as well?’

  ‘They are both old sea-dogs,’ he says. ‘They’ll have worked out we’re going under.’

  I am increasingly worried. Not only is the lugger, without doubt, sinking lower in the water, but I also have no idea where we are or how far away from land we might be. And even if we do manage to reach Australia, most of the western coast is utterly inhospitable, with no water, no shelter and little hope of survival.

  I look around helplessly. The Bosun spends more time asleep than awake, and the other two can still barely move, the illness having devastated them.

  I check the compass for the thousandth time, and glance up at the leading edge of the jib and at the wind direction telltales at the top of the mast. It is just like every other day. But I stop and frown slightly. Something has altered. Somehow, I can feel it. I scan the horizon. I am right. Directly astern of us, several miles back, is a sail. I jump to my feet, slip the loop over the wheel spoke and sprint for the mast. I am up the ratlines to the masthead in record time. I squint against the light. Sure enough, it is a lugger, just like this one, on the exact same course as us. I wave, even though I know they are too far away to see me.

  ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ I call, as soon as I hit the deck. ‘There’s a boat. Heading this way!’

  Excitedly, I drop the mainsail and then let out the jib just enough to keep us moving forward, but slowly.

  The new lugger draws towards us. Soon it is close enough for me to make out its lines and rig. It is identical to this one in every respect and moving swiftly. I wave and yell when it is within shouting distance. No one waves back. There is no sound. I peer closer. A flock of seabirds soars overhead and swoops down. I can hear their noisy squawks.

  It is difficult without a telescope to see what exactly is going on on board, but at about two hundred yards the skipper of the lugger makes no attempt at shortening sail or even steering closer to us.

  ‘Ahoy!’ I yell.

  It is then I notice the stink. It is like nothing I have ever smelt — worse than the cave full of bats. It is even worse than Mr Tosser’s cesspit at home, and that is really saying something. I put my hand to my mouth to stop myself gagging.

  It is obvious the skipper has no intention of stopping, and it is going to sail straight past us, less than ten yards away on the port side.

  ‘Help!’ I yell as loudly as I can. ‘Help! I need help here! I really do!’

  It takes only a minute for the lugger to pass by, and in that long, terrible sixty seconds I see hell on earth. The skipper is slumped over the ship’s wheel, clearly dead, and a seabird pecks at his face. The bird flies away, a hunk of bloody red meat wedged in its beak. The skipper’s face is half eaten away. I close my eyes for a second at the shocking sight. Near his feet, another crew member lies dead, and birds swarm all over and pick at his skin.

  Further forward near the mainmast, two more crew members lie still, one on his back, his face a frightful mess of pecked bloodied gore. The other wears a red patterned shirt. I look a little more closely. No, the red is not his shirt but blood. What I thought was the pattern is his gizzards splattered all over him. Entrails hang from his belly and more birds peck at them in a feeding frenzy. On the opposite ratline, a younger crewman hangs upside down, his foot tangled and trapped in the foot lines. He sways like a rag doll, his eyes now black empty sockets, and his fingers all chewed off.

  I stand stunned, unable to quite believe the truly hideous scene sailing past. After the excitement of seeing the lugger and hoping we might be saved, all I now feel is horror, revulsion and rising numbness. So much for my Captain Bowen–sounding boast that I would save everyone. If I had fallen with the disease, that would be exactly us now, birds pecking at our dead bodies as we sailed endlessly south. I fear my future is passing in front of my eyes.

  Its sails forever set, the stricken lugger continues on its unrelenting passage into the unknown, and as it gets ahead, I see on its stern the name, Edith, and its home port of Cossack.

  Cossack again. Is that what happened? Cossack has a typhoid epidemic? Did the crews we captured from the Cossack luggers come ashore carrying this disease and infect us? I can feel my thoughts swimming in confusion. So have the Captain and the crew on the Tartar been stricken as well? Are they too all dead and sailing ever onwards on a ghost ship? And why am I still unaffected? Why me?r />
  I wait all the rest of the day before hauling the mainsail back up the mast and moving off again. I want the ghost ship to get well ahead, so I am in no danger of catching up to it.

  All night I sit on the deck at the wheel, adjusting it with my foot. The wind is so steady and straight that I hardly need to steer at all and I drift off to sleep many times, only to wake with a start, the dreadful scene filling my mind over and over like an endless nightmare.

  An hour after dawn I go below and get some food to feed the men. There are some loaves of very stale bread, but after soaking them in port wine, they become soft enough to eat and tastier. None of the men has much appetite, but they all give in and eat a little after I badger them into it.

  Two more days pass, or it could be three, or even four, as I think I might be going a bit doolally with loneliness and fear. The lugger is even deeper into the water now, and I can feel it moving slower. We are definitely sinking.

  I have been constructing the raft, and it looks like it might float well enough but, even so, it will be overloaded and down at water level so that any sharks and other sea monsters that might want to eat us will have no trouble.

  I take a break at noon and climb the ratlines to look to the east. There has been unfamiliar seaweed floating on the ocean, and if I can see any birds, it might mean we are close to land. Deep down, I know we are nowhere near the coast, but I have to pretend, even if it is just for my own sanity.

  I check the horizon for every single one of the 360 degrees, but it is a clear ocean under a cloudy sky. No, it’s not. At ten degrees north, there is a speck, a white speck. I stay at the masthead, clutching on for at least an hour watching it. The speck is undoubtedly a sail, and it moves back and forward diagonally across the wind, so it is going reasonably fast, at least three or four times the speed of my boat. And if it is tacking back and forward, someone must be actually sailing it.