‘Hold on!’ he yelled as the vast breaker tumbled down towards the brig’s stern like the jaws of some vast leviathan of the deep closing on its prey. He felt the whole ship shudder and pitch crazily as hundreds of thousands of gallons of water slammed on to the poop. The deck fell away sickeningly from beneath him and he went over backwards, splashing into the knee-deep water. Still the breaker descended, a vast wall of cascading water eating its way up the length of the deck from stern to stem.
Towards Killigrew. Floundering, he rolled on to his front and half crawled, half doggy-paddled towards the stump of the foremast. He threw his arms around it, took a deep breath, and then the water crashed down on him. The weight of water drove the breath from his body and seemed intent on pushing him clean through the deck. It was strangely silent beneath the water after the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves.
The pressure on his back slowly receded, and then the waters surged about him, transferring the weight to his arms and shoulders as the flood tried to drag him away from the mast-stump. Even if he had been at full strength he could not have hoped to resist that pressure; as it was, his trip into the rigging had left him hopelessly drained. His arms gave way and the water swirled him away: up, down, sideways, it was impossible to tell. Something heavy slammed against him, and then a fresh surge of water span him through its inky depths.
He thought about swimming towards the surface, but dismissed the idea as nonsensical: he did not even know which way the surface lay. There was nothing he could do but enjoy the strange feeling of peace which filled him as the water swept him where it would. Was he drowning? Probably. He had always supposed that one day it would come to this, but he had never thought it would happen this early in his career. There had been so much he wanted to do with his life, so many battles left unfought, it seemed a shame it should all come to an end now. Others would remain to fight those battles, of course, but he was not sure he could trust them to do the job properly. And then there was Eulalia waiting for him in London…
Something else slammed against him, and he clung to it instinctively, just as he clung on to his life by holding on to what little breath remained in his lungs. The water tried to pull him away again, but with less determination now. Then a roaring filled his ears. At first he thought it must be the blood roaring in his head as he died, but then he realised it was just the turbulence of the storm-tossed waves.
A moment later whatever he clung to broke the surface, and Killigrew surfaced with it. The wind, rain and spindrift stung his face and he gulped air into his lungs.
He was clinging to the rails of the head. By a miracle, he was still alive. By an even greater one, the Leopardo was still intact and afloat. Shaking his head to clear the rain and hair out of his eyes, he saw other members of the crew on deck looking about them with wonderment as if astonished to find that they still lived, and he shared in that wonderment.
‘Man overboard!’ boomed Duarte.
No rest for the wicked. Killigrew pushed himself to his feet and crossed to where the boatswain stood at the rail, pointing out into the inky blackness beyond. Killigrew could just make out a figure floating level with the storm-tossed ship, perhaps thirty yards from the side. At that distance his face was no more than a white blur, but Killigrew somehow sensed that it was Coffin. If he had thought about it he would have left the chief mate to drown. Not even Madison could have blamed him for doing nothing after all he had already been through, and trying to save the chief mate was suicide anyway. But there was no time to think. He quickly unwound a coil of rope which had been thaned up tightly round a belaying pin. He gave one end to Duarte and tied the other around his waist.
‘Make that fast!’ he snapped at Duarte, and then jumped overboard thinking: There’s trust for you.
His narrow escape from the rogue wave had filled him with a sense of exhilaration, as if part of him had got the impression he was indestructible. He knew the idea was false, and yet somehow it inspired him with renewed strength. He started to swim out with a strong, easy crawl-stroke to where Coffin struggled in the water. But his strength had deceived him and quickly gave out. Just a few more feet, he thought, as his exhaustion caught up with him.
He reached Coffin as the chief mate was going down for the third time. Killigrew caught him underneath the chin and dragged him back to the surface. It was all he could do to float on his back supporting Coffin. Then the rope around his chest tugged against him and he realised that the muscular boatswain was hauling them both back to the ship.
‘You’ll die when I decide it, and not before,’ he heard someone snarl at Coffin, and it was only by process of deduction he realised it must have been himself. If the half drowned chief mate heard him, he gave no indication of it.
Then they bumped against the Leopardo’s side and strong arms hauled them both over the bulwark. The storm seemed to have abated a little. Killigrew hoped it was over now, rather than a temporary lull. Coffin sprawled on the deck, vomited sea water, and lay still.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Madison.
Duarte put an ear to Coffin’s chest, and then shook his head. ‘He lives.’ The brawny boatswain lifted Coffin in his arms and carried him almost tenderly below deck to the sick bay. Killigrew followed.
Pereira looked distinctly seasick in the dim glow of the oil lamp which swung wildly from an overhead beam. There was only one cot in the sick bay, and it was already occupied by the man who had fallen from the rigging earlier. But from the way Pereira had pulled the sheets up to hide the man’s face he was no longer in need of a comfortable bed. Killigrew hoisted him out unceremoniously and Duarte lay Coffin in his place.
Before Pereira could do anything, a spasm shook Coffin’s body and he leaned over the side of the cot to fetch up more sea water. Gasping for breath, he looked up at the boatswain. ‘What happened?’
‘You were washed overboard,’ said Duarte. ‘Senhor Killigrew saved you.’
Coffin glanced across at him. If Killigrew had expected gratitude he was disappointed, but even he was stunned by the look of sheer venom in Coffin’s eyes, as if the chief mate would have preferred to have been left to drown. Then Coffin turned his eyes on Pereira. ‘Brandy,’ he gasped.
‘I have none,’ said Pereira.
‘There’s a bottle of aguardiente in Madison’s cabin,’ said Coffin.
‘I’ll fetch it,’ offered Killigrew.
As he made his way aft below decks he thought about Coffin’s reaction on hearing who had saved him, and began to understand it. How hateful it must have been to a confirmed anglophobe like Coffin to owe his life to an Englishman! The thought afforded Killigrew a small modicum of amusement, but it was short lived. He remembered how the Chinese believed that if one saved a man’s life, one was responsible for that man for the rest of his existence; a very Chinese logic, but a kind of logic nonetheless. Any atrocity Coffin committed from now on would lie on Killigrew’s head. It was a thought which filled him with a distinct feeling of unease.
He went into Madison’s day cabin. Despite the tarpaulin which had been stretched over the skylight in the deck head, the glass had shattered under the pressure of the waves and now lay in shards all over the floor, while water dripped steadily from above. In spite of this, the shutters which protected the windows were still in place, and the oil still burned in the lantern which swung from an overhead beam, casting eerie, swaying shadows across the scene.
By some miracle the bottle of aguardiente in a drawer of Madison’s desk had not been broken. Killigrew took it out and pulled out the stopper, pouring a generous and – in his opinion – well-earned measure down his throat. He gasped with pleasure as the fiery liquid burned its way down to his stomach.
So much had happened during the past few hours that he had forgotten he was on board the Leopardo for a specific purpose, and it was only in that instant he remembered it. This was the opportunity he had been looking for from the moment he had joined the crew. He went to the door and glanced o
ut. Seeing no one, he closed the door and went to work.
He carefully searched the other desk drawers, taking care not to drip water on to the papers within, but found nothing to indicate who the financier behind this slaver was. Then he turned his attention to the safe. It was locked, of course, and the key was doubtless on Madison’s person. Killigrew did not know anything about picking locks, but there was no harm in inserting the key to his own sea-chest to see if that fitted: it would only take a couple of seconds.
But a couple of seconds can mean the difference between life and death. Just as he was trying to withdraw the key, having failed in his attempt, the cabin door opened and Duarte’s massive bulk filled the frame.
Chapter 13
Flotsam
‘So!’ snarled Duarte. ‘Senhor Coffin was right about you! You are a spy!’ He quickly pulled his pistol from its holster. ‘No tricks. Keep your hands where I can see them.’
‘Certainly.’ Killigrew raised his hands.
Duarte crossed the cabin and came around the desk, keeping his pistol on Killigrew the whole time. He gestured for Killigrew to back away from the desk. ‘There’s a perfectly good explanation for all this,’ said Killigrew. ‘But I’m sure it will sound better coming from your lips, Captain Madison,’ he added, with a nod of acknowledgement towards the door.
Duarte only half-turned before he realised he had been tricked, but it was all the time Killigrew needed. He snatched the bottle of aguardiente from the top of the safe and smashed it over Duarte’s head.
The boatswain straightened and turned away from the desk, the liquor running down his face. He levelled the pistol between Killigrew’s eyes and pulled the trigger.
Killigrew did not even flinch. ‘I’ve yet to see the pistol that still worked after the kind of drenching we’ve both had.’
Duarte threw the pistol at his head. Killigrew ducked and then lunged at the boatswain’s throat with the jagged remains of the bottle. Duarte knocked his arm aside with one hand and drove his other into Killigrew’s stomach.
It was like being butted by a charging bull. Killigrew doubled up in agony. Then Duarte caught him by the arm and dashed his wrist against the side of the safe. Killigrew dropped the broken bottle. Duarte lifted his knee into his face, smashing his head back against the safe door.
Killigrew slumped to the deck. Duarte reached down and seized him by the lapels, lifting him to his feet once more. The boatswain was bigger and stronger than Killigrew and furthermore he had not spent the past hour climbing about the rigging in a force-twelve hurricane, or swimming in tempest-tossed seas. Killigrew knew that if he was going to survive this encounter then he was going to have to kill Duarte as quickly as possible, while his little remaining strength held out.
He drove one fist into the boatswain’s stomach with all his might, and then the other. Duarte grunted, and then hoisted Killigrew’s feet clean off the deck, swinging him around and slamming him against the far bulkhead. Killigrew punched him on the jaw, snapping his head around, but when it came back to face the young Cornishman it was still smiling. Duarte punched him in the stomach again, following it up with a hammer-like blow to the back of the neck as he doubled up.
Barely conscious, Killigrew fell face down on the deck and tried to crawl away. Duarte stood over him and rolled him on his back before wrapping his massive hands around Killigrew’s throat, squeezing.
Killigrew felt himself choking. He flailed wildly at the boatswain’s torso, but it was like trying to dig a tunnel through a mountainside with his fists. His vision swam and he felt himself suffocating as Duarte increased the pressure on his windpipe.
A red mist filled Killigrew’s eyes. He fumbled blindly about him on the deck for something he could use as a weapon, anything. His searching fingers found the pistol. He gripped it by the butt and thumbed back the hammer.
Duarte laughed. ‘That won’t do you any good, inglese. Wet powder, remember?’
Killigrew brought the pistol up between Duarte’s legs with his final reserves of strength until it slammed hard against the boatswain’s crotch. Then he pulled the trigger. The hammer fell and Duarte screamed in agony. He released Killigrew and the Englishman broke away and pulled himself to his feet.
He snatched up a chair and brought it down against Duarte’s head. It was the boatswain’s neck rather than the sturdy chair which snapped, silencing his screams.
Killigrew quickly closed the door and prayed that the noise of the storm had muffled the sounds of the struggle from the rest of the ship. If it had not, he was a dead man. But if he did not move quickly he was a dead man anyway. He opened the windows at the rear of the cabin. In the flashes of lightning he could see that the seas were still mountainous; no sooner had he opened the shutters behind the window than a wave crashed against the stern, drenching him.
He picked up Duarte and dragged him across to the window. It was almost impossible to fit him through. ‘Why the devil couldn’t I have got into a fight with Pereira?’ he wondered out loud. He gave a final push and the corpse popped out like a cork out of a champagne bottle to be swallowed up by the sea.
Killigrew closed the shutters and the windows behind them, turning to survey the cabin. It was a mess, but no more than could be accounted for by storm damage. Ditto his own face, which he supposed was no oil painting after the beating Duarte had given it. An inch of water sloshed about his feet; Killigrew could only pray it would be put down to the water dripping through the tarpaulin over the smashed skylight.
He adjusted his neckcloth and returned to the sick bay. ‘What happened to you?’ asked Pereira, wide-eyed.
‘I slipped and fell in the dark as the ship lurched,’ Killigrew explained glibly. ‘Where’s Mr Coffin?’
‘He went back on duty. Said the ship needed him.’
‘The same goes for me.’
Killigrew went back on deck and found Madison and Coffin standing on the quarter-deck. Lightning still flashed in the heavens, but further away now, and the wind had died down to a shriek. Killigrew checked the compass and the dog-vane to make sure they were not in the eye of the storm; if they were, then the worst was yet to come. To his relief he saw they still headed south-west while the wind came steadily off the starboard beam: they were out of danger and putting distance between them and the tornado with every passing minute.
‘What happened to you?’ grunted Coffin.
‘Slipped and fell,’ said Killigrew.
‘Holding the bottle of aguardiente, I suppose, since you haven’t brought it with you.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘I’m afraid the cabin’s rather a mess. That rogue wave must have smashed in the skylight. There’s glass and water all over the place.’
‘We can clean up in the morning,’ said Madison. ‘Where’s Mr Duarte?’
‘I don’t know. I left him with Mr Coffin in the sick bay.’
Madison glanced at Coffin, who shook his head. ‘He went out after Killigrew.’
‘He’s probably somewhere down below,’ said Madison.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ agreed Killigrew.
* * *
‘Coisa ho!’ cried the lookout at the masthead.
‘Coisa, coisa… what the devil is a “coisa”?’ Madison demanded.
‘It’s Portuguese for “thing”,’ offered Killigrew.
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Killigrew,’ Madison said irritably. ‘What I meant was, what kind of a “coisa” is he referring to?’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ Killigrew tilted back his head to call up to the lookout. ‘Where away?’
‘Fine on the port bow!’
Madison, Coffin and Killigrew levelled their telescopes in that direction and searched the horizon for the unidentified floating object, but saw nothing. ‘Has the fool been drinking?’ wondered Madison.
It was the morning after the storm. The sky was clear and the air fresh, the waves choppy. The dawn had revealed the full damage to the Leopardo: both to the ship itself and to its cr
ew. In addition to the man who had been killed in his plunge to the deck, three men were missing and presumed swept overboard, Duarte included. Now the crew were hard at work trying to jury-rig the spars and rigging to compensate for the loss of the foremast and the jib-boom. With her spread of canvas thus reduced, the Leopardo was making poor speed as she resumed her south-easterly run to the Guinea Coast. Now she responded sluggishly to her helm and was almost impossible to steer. Madison would have given anything to have lost the mainmast rather than the foremast, but it had been the storm’s decision, not his, and there was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad job. In addition, the storm had sprung several timbers, and while the carpenter and sailmaker laboured to plug the gaps other crewmen worked at the bilge pump.
Killigrew realised he was making the mistake of looking for a ship, which in those conditions would have been visible the moment its sail rose above the horizon if the lookout were attentive. But the lookout had not cried ‘sail ho!’ but ‘coisa ho!’ Killigrew lowered his telescope accordingly, looking for something smaller. He found it almost at once.
‘It’s a mast.’
‘Ours?’ asked Madison.
‘If it is, it’s acquired some extra appurtenances.’ There were three figures clinging to the floating mast. Somehow Killigrew doubted they were the men missing from the Leopardo’s crew, unless Duarte had been blackballed from entry to Davy Jones’s locker.
‘Castaways,’ said Madison. ‘From some other ship that foundered in last night’s storm, I suppose.’
‘We should leave them,’ said Coffin. ‘The last thing we want is strangers sniffing around on board. We’ve already got one of those,’ he added, ‘and as far as I’m concerned that’s one too many.’
Madison said nothing, chewing over Coffin’s proposal as if giving it serious consideration. The suggestion was anathema to Killigrew. If the castaways were left to their fate their chances of survival would be non-existent that far out from the coast, and Killigrew had been brought up to believe it was the duty of every seaman to go to the help of those in peril on the sea regardless of all other considerations. But he was not sure a slave crew would operate under the same strictures.
Killigrew of the Royal Navy Page 24
