by Jane Jackson
The sun had risen. But instead of the pastel shades of a mellow autumn morning, low grey clouds with flame-tipped ragged edges filled the eastern sky.
They passed the warehouses and reached the wharf. As they rounded the corner Caseley saw black smoke belching from Cygnet’s wheel shelter. She was too breathless to speak. But Jago cursed with bitter fluency as they covered the last few yards and saw Martin, his face smeared with soot and tears, helping Hammer hurl buckets of water onto the flames.
The staysail was set. Jimbo and Nathan, their faces contorted in effort, were hauling on the mainsail halyards, but the weight of the gaff and enormous canvas sail was too much for them.
Catching sight of Jago and Caseley, Nathan yelled to Jimbo to cast off. Hopping nimbly onto the quay, Jimbo loosed the bow line. Jago swept Caseley up into his arms and threw her over the gunwale. Then, waving Jimbo back on board, he cast off the stern line himself and jumped the widening gap between quay and ship.
Lifting Caseley to her feet, he took her hands and wrapped them around the polished spokes of the wheel.
‘Head her into the channel,’ he pointed. ‘Aim for that buoy.’ Then leaving her he hurried forward bellowing, ‘All hands to the mainsail! Martin, put that bloody fire out!’
Caseley clung to the wheel. Still breathless and shaking from their headlong dash, she didn’t have time to worry about the enormity of the task Jago had set her.
She glanced shoreward. Men were gathering on the quay. Was Antonio there? She couldn’t see him. Nor did she recognise the men who had attacked them. Under the staysail, the schooner was drawing away from the quay. The menace in the crowd’s silent watching made her throat close and she swallowed. Then smoke drifted across, obscuring the scene and she quickly looked ahead.
With Jago and Nathan on one rope, Jimbo and Hammer on the other, the four men hoisted the peak and throat halyards controlling the inner and outer edges of the sail, hauling on them evenly to send up the gaff to which the edge of the sail was laced, parallel to the boom.
The rhythmic squeal of blocks and rattle of mast hoops finally stopped. Jago passed the throat halyard under a cleat to hold it fast, while Nathan threw his full weight on the taut rope to pull the edge of the sail nearest the mast up tight. Nathan’s effort enabled Jago to take in a few more inches of rope. When the throat halyard was finally secured, Hammer and Jimbo swiftly hoisted the peak, made it fast then coiled the loose ends of rope over the belaying pins. Not a word had been spoken.
Jimbo ran forward to trim the staysail and hoist the jib as Hammer and Nathan scrambled aft once more to help Martin who was working feverishly while sobbing with shock and exhaustion.
Jago eased out the mainsheet. The boom swung to starboard and the sail filled. Caseley felt new weight on the helm. Clenching her teeth so hard that they ached, she eased the wheel over. Cygnet responded. Bowsprit pointing towards the river mouth, the schooner surged forward.
Caseley could hear a low crackling, and felt the heat through the back of the wheel shelter. Thick smoke and choking fumes billowed from the open door as the man drew bucket after bucketful of water from over the side and hurled it into the paint store.
Gulls screamed overhead and further down the river brightly painted fishing boats scurried back to the protection of Puerto Chico, the little harbour.
Caseley’s knuckles were white as her grip on the spokes tightened. Everyone else was making for shelter. They were heading for the open sea and the approaching storm.
They had no choice. She knew that. Had they stayed in port – it did not bear thinking about.
‘I reckon we’ve beat the bugger,’ Jimbo yelled in triumph, his sweating blackened face appearing round the wheel shelter.
The smoke was thinner, paler now it was mixed with steam, and the voracious crackling had stopped. But the fumes still caught in the throat, and were joined by the acrid stench of charred wood and burnt paint.
Jago came to the wheel. ‘I’ll take it now.’ His tone was curt and he didn’t look at her as she stepped aside.
‘Hammer, see what can be salvaged,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Chuck the rest overboard. Nathan, you and Jimbo set the lower topsail, then the foresail and secure all hatches. Martin,’ he beckoned the boy forward. ‘What happened?’
Caseley leaned against the shoulder board, massaging the stiffness from her fingers as she listened.
Martin’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face and clothes smeared with oily soot. Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, he shifted from foot to foot.
‘I was in the galley when they came,’ his voice was hoarse, rasping from the smoke. ‘Three of ’em there was. One had blood all down his arm. They had torches. I went for your gun, Cap’n. I – I thought it would scare ’em off.’ He rubbed one bare grimy foot against the other.
‘How else could you have defended the ship?’ Jago said calmly. ‘You were here alone.’
A smile lit the boy’s weary face. ‘Gave ’em some shock, I did. They didn’t expect that.’ His expression clouded. ‘One was trying to burn through the bow mooring line. Another had just throwed his torch down the fo’c’sle. That’s when I fired. I got ’n in the leg.’ He faltered.
‘Good.’ Jago nodded. ‘What was the third man doing?’
‘Trying to smash the day room skylight. But when he seen me coming, he kicked the door of the paint store and chucked his torch in. Then he jumped back on the wharf with the others. Laughing they was – not the one I shot. He was on the ground. I didn’t know what to do first what with smoke coming out of the paint store and the fo’c’sle. I thought of all our clothes and gear down there –’ he stopped.
‘Good lad. Fire is far more dangerous below deck than above.’
‘But by the time I’d put ’n out the paint store was well alight. Soon as they bast – Basques,’ he corrected quickly, his gaze darting to Caseley, ‘seen Jimbo and Hammer come back they took off, dragging their mate with ’em. Jimbo told me to keep going with the buckets while they made ready to leave soon as you got here.’
‘Where was Nathan?’
‘He come just a couple of minutes later with bags of fresh bread rolls and oranges. He said we wouldn’t have time for revittling, so he’d took care of it.’
Jago grasped the boy’s thin shoulder. ‘I’m proud of you, Martin. You showed great courage and presence of mind.’ The boy shrugged and shuffled his feet, but the dirt on his face could not hide his blush of pride. ‘Where did you put my gun?’
‘He’s over there, Cap’n, on the hatch cover.’
‘Put it away, then clean yourself up and turn in for a couple of hours.’
‘I’m all right, Cap’n.’
‘Do as you’re told, boy. I’ll need you later.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Martin shambled forward to collect the gun, rubbing his eyes, his mouth opening in a wide yawn.
‘Jago?’ Caseley said. ‘Shall I make tea?’
He nodded briefly, checked the sails and compass then glanced over his shoulder to see how Hammer was doing. Looking anywhere, Caseley realised, but at her. ‘While you’re in the galley,’ he added, ‘see if the oatmeal can be salvaged.’
She hesitated, wanting to ask him what was wrong.
‘Go on, then,’ he snapped. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Stung by his tone, she turned to the companionway, fumbling with the fastening on her cape. He was tired. They all were, but responsibility for the ship and crew rested squarely on his shoulders. Her presence had been an added burden.
But they had both achieved what they had set out to do – he had his cargo, she had delivered the package – so why was he so angry? Was he blaming her for the attack?
As she thought about it she realised he had every right. Had she not been aboard it would not have happened. Yes, it would. Whoever had carried those documents would have been a target. Had her father been fit enough to make the journey himself Antonio Valdes would have employed different tactics. But t
he objective would have been the same.
Roughly folding her cape, she wedged it behind the chocks on which the dinghy rested. She was too hot and sticky to wear it and it would be awkward in the galley. But there wasn’t time to take it below and she didn’t want it blown away.
The wind whined and moaned in the rigging. As another gust caught her, Caseley felt its force like a giant hand on her back and was glad to reach the shelter of the shack.
She lifted the lidded iron pot from the stove top and put it on the zinc sheet on the floor. Then she riddled out some of the ashes, fed a few sticks and some more coal into the stove, and opened the damper to coax a flame from the glowing embers.
Taking the kettle she went out, holding tightly to anything within reach as the deck heaved under her feet. The fresh water tank was just over half full. Thank heaven Martin had reacted so quickly. Had the water been contaminated or the tank punctured, they would have had to put into one of the French ports. It might have been days before they could leave. And Jago was anxious to get home.
At the back of her mind, warning bells were ringing. Something wasn’t right. But the harder she tried to fathom what it was, the more it eluded her.
Back in the galley she set the kettle within the fiddle rails to boil, then crouched and lifted the lid off the iron cooking pot. Inside a thick, black tarry substance coated the sides and bottom. That must have been the source of the smoke.
She gritted her teeth and scraped loose as much as she could then lurched across to the rail with the pot.
‘What are you doing?’ Jago demanded.
‘It’s burnt,’ she shouted back and tipped the mess into the dark rolling water, momentarily dizzy as it came up towards her then fell steeply away. Turning, she crossed to the fresh-water tank, but before she could draw the dipper out, Jago shouted again.
‘Have you no sense? You use seawater for a job like that.’ He sounded furious.
Caseley flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t –’
‘Think? That seems to be a habit of yours. Don’t just stand there, get some food ready.’
She flinched. There was no teasing note to take the sting out of his criticism, only barbed impatience. He meant to hurt.
Caseley turned away, catching Nathan’s eye. He winked in sympathy. But his expression turned harder and puzzled as he glanced towards the man at the wheel. He grabbed a bucket with a rope tied to the handle and swung it over the lee side, drawing it up full.
‘Here you are, miss.’ He set it on the deck be the galley doorway. ‘You’ll find a tin of sand just inside there. Use a handful or two on a cloth. Scour it out ’andsome, that will.’
‘Thank you. Nathan …’ she hesitated. ‘Can I ask you something?’
The mate regarded her steadily. ‘Depends.’
She recognised the warning. She could ask, but he might not answer. ‘I’ve never been at sea in a storm. I know it’s going to get worse, and I’m sure J – the captain knows exactly what he’s doing, but …’ she glanced nervously at the straining sails.
Nathan followed her gaze, and his stern expression softened. ‘Think we’re carrying too much canvas, do you?’
Caseley looked at the iron pot and shrugged. ‘Like I said, I don’t –’
‘Nathan!’ Jago bellowed.
The mate ignored him. ‘The minute the skipper sees the wind driving her head under, we only got to release the ropes from they pins and the sails will drop. There’s far more danger in being close to shore in a storm. So he’s making searoom before the wind get too strong and we have to reef down.’
‘Nathan, get over here!’
The mate lifted his head, his ruddy features tightening. ‘Aye, sir.’ She wasn’t alone in finding Jago’s hostile behaviour unusual.
The kettle boiled. Despite the sand, it was going to take time to get the pot clean, so Caseley put it aside and made the tea. Leaving it to brew, she collected her cape and went towards the companionway, clutching at the hatch cover and skylight for support.
‘Given up already?’ Jago snorted.
She winced and a lump formed in her throat, making it ache. Why was he doing this? She opened the hatch door and latched it back. ‘I’m going to fetch the milk and some jam for the rolls.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Do you want yours in the mess, or would you prefer it where you are?’
His gaze held hers for a moment and in his smoky eyes she saw self-loathing and a plea. Startled, she felt her heart contract. Immediately he looked away.
‘Everyone stays on deck.’
Cold and distant, his tone was totally at odds with the powerful emotions she had just glimpsed.
Retrieving the rolls, Caseley split and spread them with jam, then poured the tea. Unable to fill the mugs more than halfway without the tea slopping over the rim, she realised with growing dread that the sea was much rougher. Setting the mugs and the plate of rolls on a battered tray, she made her way carefully aft.
Working in the snug warmth of the shack, she had managed to shut everything out, clinging for comfort to the normality of domestic chores. But out on deck ink-dark seas loomed over the gunwale. Spindrift fogged the air. The wind tore at her hair and clothes as the first drops of rain splashed into her face.
She glanced up, gasping as a wall of foam-streaked water bore down on them. The stern lifted and Caseley staggered, crying out as the tray tilted and the mugs began to slide. But Nathan reached her just in time and grabbed the tray as the sea passed beneath them.
‘All right, miss. I got ’n.’ He grinned. She tried to smile back but her mouth wouldn’t respond. Though she told herself there was no need to be frightened, that the crew were experienced sailors who regularly faced storms like this, her body wasn’t listening. Her throat was dry, her skin dewed with the sweat of fear. She shivered as her heart galloped.
Nathan shouted to Hammer and Jimbo. Dressed in oilskins and sou’westers, they skittered along the canting deck, brightening at the sight of food.
‘Take a mug down to the boy, shall I, skipper?’ Jimbo said through a mouthful of bread and jam.
Jago nodded and, swallowing his tea in two gulps, replaced his mug on the tray Nathan held and took a roll. ‘Hammer, fetch my oilskins, and Nathan’s while you’re down there. Where are you going?’ he demanded as Caseley followed Hammer towards the companionway and Nathan took the tray back to the galley.
‘For my cape,’ she pointed, glancing at the darkening sky.
He shook his head. ‘Go below.’
‘But what about dinner?’
‘Martin will see to it. That’s his job.’
Something snapped. Not stopping to consider the consequences of matching his anger with her own, Caseley whirled round as large raindrops fell onto her unprotected head and soaked into her jacket.
‘If you tell him to, Martin will cook dinner, tend the fires, help on deck, and work until he drops. He would die sooner than let you down. But he’s totally exhausted. If you put him to work now he’s quite likely to have an accident. That may not bother you, but I’m not prepared to have it on my conscience.’
She paused only to take a breath, her chin high. ‘No passengers, you said. I can cook. I’ll make dinner.’ Turning her back on him she limped furiously towards the galley, slinging to the rigging as the schooner pitched and rolled.
‘Miss Bonython!’
The icy rage in his voice froze her and apprehension shuddered down her spine. Yet though every nerve was stretched tight, she turned and met his gaze.
‘You dare lecture me about conscience?’
‘I want to help, that’s all.’ Head down, she dived into the galley. Sinking down onto the little stool she closed her eyes. Never in her life had she spoken to anyone like that. Nor had she ever seen such anger directed at her. She loved him and hated him, and it was tearing her apart.
She pressed her fingers hard against her forehead and sucked in a deep sobbing breath. Then she reached for the cooking pot and another handful
of sand.
Chapter Nineteen
Cygnet drove on through steepening seas. Focused on each task, Caseley took no notice of the rain lashing the roof of the little shack or the water washing over the schooner’s deck. She heard orders shouted, the thud of running feet, the rattle of blocks and mast hoops, and the clacking of the patent reefing gear as the fore and mainsails were reefed down.
Having got the pot clean, she needed fresh water to rinse it out and prepare the vegetables. But her cape was still jammed behind the dinghy, and without some form of protection she would be soaked to the skin in seconds.
Looking round the cramped galley she found a piece of old sail canvas. It was stiff and smelly but would have to do.
Holding it over her head and shoulders with one hand, she screwed up her eyes against the driving rain and stumbled out to the tank.
The wind shrieked, whipping the tops off the waves so the air was full of salt spray. The rain was so heavy and the cloud so low, it was impossible to tell where sea ended and sky began.
She struggled back to the galley, water streaming down her face and the canvas to soak into her long skirt. She set the bucket down and immediately half of it slopped onto her shoes and ran over the floor. Rinsing the pot twice she threw the water down-wind out of the door, then lurched outside again to the salt beef barrel.
The smell of the meat made her feel sick. As she fought nausea, swallowing hard, she considered abandoning her attempt to cook a meal. The men would understand. They knew she had no experience of conditions like this. No one would think any the worse of her. They were probably amazed she had stuck at it so long.
Clinging to the barrel as the deck heaved and dropped beneath her feet, she recalled Jago’s bitter taunt. ‘Given up already?’ That had been an hour ago. It had got much worse since then.
‘Damn you,’ she whispered as the rain hammered onto her back. Slamming the lid back onto the barrel, she fastened it down with fumbling fingers then, clutching the chunk of gritty fat-marbled beef, slithered back to the shack.
She made up the fire once more, deeply grateful for its crackling warmth. Hunched on the tiny stool, a chopping board on her knees, she cut up the meat, potatoes, onion, and turnip and scraped it all into the deep pot, covered it with fresh water, and jammed on the lid.
