Bloody Sunrise

by Christopher Nicole

  He drew a deep breath before the wave broke. The chartroom itself was filled with gushing water, tearing the table from its bolts and casting it too against the bulkhead, just missing him. Water splashed around his waist, and then began to recede, but Juno was still on her beam ends, only slowly recovering. Nicholas reached his hands and knees, crawled up the sloping deck to the doorway, and stared at the bridge platform in horror: it was empty, the wheel spinning uselessly. He got to his feet, instinctively grasped the helm, twisting it to starboard, but there was no response from the inert hull. Another wave was rearing above the stricken ship. He scrabbled at the voice tube. ‘Engine-room!’ he shouted.

  There was no immediate reply, and he heard a cry for help from close at hand. He released the helm and ran to the lee side of the bridge, as the next wave broke, again forcing Juno on to her beam ends. He lost his footing and crashed into the port rail, gazing down at surging green water lapping over the deck as the sloop was forced down, and at Midshipman Ebury, hanging on to a stanchion as his body dangled over the sea. Desperately Nicholas reached for the boy, caught the sleeve of his tunic, as they were both immersed in water. Then the wave receded, and he was able to drag Ebury up sufficiently for the midshipman to get his arms through the rails. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were knocked down,’ Ebury gasped, dragging himself back on to the bridge. ‘The captain and number one went. So did the cox.’

  Nicholas looked out at the raging sea. Without steerage way there was no possibility of launching any kind of a rescue effort, even supposing it was possible to stay afloat and alive in such a sea for more than a few minutes. Once again he tried the voice tube. ‘Petty Officer Crabtree, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Lieutenant Moultrie?’

  ‘He ’it ’is ’ead, sir, when the piston went. ’E’s bleedin’ somethin’ terrible. I don’t like the look of ’im.’

  ‘Can you repair the piston? I must have steam.’

  ‘We’re goin’ to ’ave an explosion down ’ere in five minutes, sir. We should shut down completely and blow off.’

  ‘Look,’ Nicholas bellowed. ‘If you have so much steam, put some of it to work.’ He closed the tube, gazed at Petty Officer Reynolds, emerging up the lee ladder in a sodden mass.

  ‘We’re making water,’ Reynolds gasped, and looked around him. ‘Where’s the skipper?’

  ‘Gone overboard,’ Nicholas told him. ‘With Lieutenant Thompson.’ Reynolds gulped. He was forty-five years old, twice the age of the young lieutenant. The boy had a lot of experience, but he had never commanded a ship, much less in a life or death situation. ‘There’s been a failure in the engine room,’ Nicholas told him, while Juno went over again to another wave, and the three men hung on for dear life. ‘Until they repair it, we’ll have to make sail. I know it’ll be difficult in these conditions. But it has to be done. Or we’ll be driven on the coast.’

  ‘Make sail with what, sir?’ Reynolds rolled his eyes. Nicholas looked out at the foredeck. So much had happened so quickly he had neither heard nor noticed, but in the knockdown the foremast had gone overboard, snapped off some eight feet above the deck. ‘The after mast has gone too, sir,’ Reynolds pointed out.

  Nicholas staggered as Juno received another savage blow, which drove her over yet again. And now she was sluggish in her recovery. ‘Man the pumps,’ he said. ‘Get her dry. And rig a sail on that stump. Anything will do, to keep her head up to the wind. Otherwise we’re going to be rolled over, soon enough.’

  ‘She’s too heavy, sir,’ Reynolds protested. ‘She’ll not respond.’

  Nicholas chewed his lip; what the Petty Officer was suggesting was the very last resource for a warship – and the ultimate responsibility for her commander. It would mean a court-martial. But then, the loss of the ship would also mean a court-martial. He opened the voice tube. ‘Can you repair?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Crabtree replied. ‘And we’re making water down here, sir. Permission to blow off.’

  ‘Yes, blow off. All right, Mr Reynolds. Get those pumps going, and get some sail on. Mr Ebury, cut the guns loose.’

  The midshipman swallowed. ‘All of them?’

  ‘The seven-inch first,’ Nicholas said. ‘But stand by for the others.’

  The two men went down the ladders, swinging to and fro as Juno rolled scuppers under, and wave after wave came aboard. Nicholas, alone on the bridge, clung on as he watched the men on deck hurrying about their orders. The forward gun was cut free, and on the next roll went overboard, carrying a length of rail with it. Ebury and his team made their way aft to deal with the stern gun, while Reynolds and his people tried to rig a sail on the stump of the foremast, and the pumps began to clack . . . while the seas grew bigger and bigger. Nicholas knew they were in a serious situation. His first command! The thought came to him strangely, and with it, a sudden grief at the loss of Longmore and Thompson. Juno had been a happy ship. Now she was a hulk, being driven ever closer to a rockbound coast.

  He squared his shoulders. He was in command. He had a ship to save, and a hundred lives, or he was not worthy of the sodden uniform he was wearing. And now the rain had stopped. It was utterly dark, with the clouds seemingly immediately overhead. But it had stopped raining. He peered upwards into the blackness, and nearly shouted for joy as he saw, away to the south, the gleam of a star. The sky was clearing. Ebury joined him, panting, hands bleeding where he had torn his nails. ‘She’s riding easier.’

  ‘We’ll make it,’ Nicholas told him. ‘It’s blowing itself out.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Ebury was pointing to the north-east.

  Nicholas frowned at the distant glow, ran into the chartroom to fetch a pair of binoculars, shook them free of water, and focussed as best he could; the seas remained huge and the ship was still rolling through sixty degrees. ‘Lights.’

  ‘Ships, do you reckon?’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘Too high up. Must be ten miles off . . .’ They had been carrying more leeway than he had supposed.

  Reynolds appeared. ‘We’ve got some canvas up, sir.’

  ‘Then take the helm. Keep her bows up as far as you can. What’s the situation below?’

  ‘We’re coping, sir. It’s not gaining.’

  ‘And the worst is over, Petty Officer,’ Ebury said.

  Nicholas levelled his glasses at the flickering lights again.

  *

  Dawn revealed the true danger of their situation. By then the wind had dropped to a gale, but that was still too high – some forty knots – to permit Juno to make headway against it with her jury rig and a good deal of water remaining in her hull despite the unceasing pumping. The sea stayed big, smashing against the helpless sloop, driving her onwards . . . and now the land was clearly visible, not more than five miles away, a series of cliffs rising out of surf-swept beaches. What was galling was that there was not a cloud in the sky, and to the east the sun was rising in pink-streaked perfection. It was going to be the most beautiful day. But there was nothing that Nicholas or anyone else could do to save his ship from being lost; they were now in the grip of the tidal current, and being sucked ever closer to the shore.

  By now most of the engine-room staff had come up, and Nicholas was able to examine Engineer-Lieutenant Moultrie, while cursing the fact that they did not have a surgeon on board at the moment either – he too was awaiting their arrival in Edo, as it had not been supposed one would be necessary on such a short voyage. The engineer had suffered a terrible wound in the head where he had been thrown against the piston; although Crabtree had bound it up he was still losing blood, and remained unconscious. Nicholas made him as comfortable as possible and then studied the land through his glasses. He thought he could make out the roofs of houses. Houses meant people, and perhaps medical assistance. But no one over there was going to be able to help them unless they could get ashore, which was not going to be easy, and certainly could not be attempted in the boats: there were still massive waves breaking on the beach. But if he could d
rive Juno on to the sand it should be possible. ‘Put the rest of the guns over, Mr Ebury,’ he said.

  ‘Aye-aye.’ This time there was no hesitation, even if the thought passed through both of their minds that Juno would have little effect on Japanese behaviour if she arrived in Edo Bay totally disarmed. The sixty-four-pounders were cut loose, and smashed through their ports. Now the ship was making more water than ever, but it was no longer important; she was not going to sink before she reached the shallows.

  There was a shattering crash, and, brought up short by the impact, Juno was struck massively by the following waves. Nicholas found himself on his hands and knees, cursing their luck. Offshore reefs were usually easily distinguishable because they ‘showed’, that is, even if well beneath the surface, there were always breakers or at least disturbed water over their heads, to enable any ship keeping a lookout to avoid them. But in the confused seas left by the storm, with whitecaps in every direction, this reef had been invisible. The engine room was whistling desperately. Nicholas scrambled to his feet to listen. ‘There’s water coming in down here, Mr Barrett, sir,’ Crabtree spluttered; he had remained below with a skeleton crew to work on the repairs. ‘She’s bad holed.’

  ‘Then you’d better bring your people up.’ Nicholas went to the rail, and looked down. Juno had a pronounced list, and there was a horrifying grinding and crunching coming from below him, as successive waves drove the hull further on to the rocks. But she was holding, while the sea remained a maelstrom. He chewed his lip in indecision.

  ‘Shall I break out the boats, sir?’ Reynolds asked.

  ‘I think we’re safer here, for the time being,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘This ship is wrecked, Mr Barrett,’ the Petty Officer protested. ‘She’s going to sink.’

  ‘She’s not sinking at the moment, Reynolds. The seas will go down, now that the storm is blowing itself out. If the hull keeps together for another four or five hours, we’ll have an easier passage.’

  ‘And if she don’t, sir?’

  ‘If she starts to break up, we’ll launch the boats.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Reynolds said, obviously keeping his temper with great difficulty, ‘if she starts to break up, it’ll happen too quick for us to get off.’

  ‘How many times have you been stranded on a reef, Reynolds?’

  ‘I haven’t, sir. But I’ve talked with people who have.’

  ‘Different times, different places, different circumstances. We’ll stay with the ship, Petty Officer, and that is an order.’

  Reynolds looked as if he would have liked to argue, but changed his mind and went down the ladder. Ebury had been listening to the exchange. ‘He’s not very happy,’ he commented.

  ‘I don’t think any of us are very happy at the moment,’ Nicholas reminded him.

  ‘Do you really think she’ll hold together for four hours?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘It’ll give you time to get some gear together.’

  The midshipman’s uniform was a mess, both torn and sodden, and he had lost his cap. But Nicholas supposed he did not look any different himself, and at least they were alive. Now Ebury grinned in turn, before humping his shoulders. ‘Damned shame about the skipper and number one.’

  Nicholas nodded, and frowned as he looked down on to the deck amidships, aft of the bridge platform. This was being swept by the seas which continued to break against the stranded hull, but even so most of the crew seemed to have gathered there, listening to Reynolds. Now, as Nicholas watched, they began to untie the straps holding the two cutters, which were stowed amidships, just aft of the funnel. ‘What the devil are you doing?’ Nicholas bellowed.

  Reynolds faced him. ‘With respect, sir, the men wish to abandon ship and make for the shore.’

  ‘I have ordered you to stay with the ship, Petty Officer.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but the men don’t feel you have the right to condemn them to death. There’ll be a place for you and Mr Ebury, sir.’

  ‘Petty Officer, you are committing mutiny,’ Nicholas shouted.

  ‘I’m saving all our lives, sir,’ Reynolds replied. ‘It’s a matter of experience.’ He joined his people in launching the boats.

  ‘That is absolute madness,’ Nicholas said. ‘There aren’t enough places, and those boats will not live in that surf.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Ebury asked.

  ‘Go into the chartroom and bring out two revolvers.’

  Ebury gulped. ‘There’s a hundred of them.’

  ‘Look, are you mutinying as well? Fetch the guns.’

  He watched the boats being launched. The port side of the ship gave a lee to the wind and the sea, although it was impossible to be sure how close the rocks were to the surface. But for the moment the cutters were riding easily enough.

  Nicholas watched Engineer-Lieutenant Moultrie being lowered into the first boat. He was still unconscious. ‘Put the lieutenant back on board,’ Nicholas shouted.

  ‘Can’t let him drown, sir,’ Reynolds called. ‘Come on, lads, look lively.’ The boats began to fill with men.

  Ebury reappeared, with two revolvers and a box of cartridges. Nicholas checked that the guns were loaded, then leaned over the bridge rail. ‘Petty Officer Reynolds, I am ordering you to obey my command, and remain with the ship.’

  Reynolds looked at Nicholas, then at the gun he was holding. ‘You’ll not fire into us, Mr Barrett,’ he said.

  The threat was implicit. Nicholas looked at Ebury, face grim with the conflict between duty, which called upon him to fire even if he was immediately lynched, and his instinctive desire to preserve his life. Now the boats were full; the captain’s gig had been launched as well, but even so the three boats were hopelessly over-crowded. ‘We can squeeze you in, Mr Barrett,’ Reynolds called. ‘And Mr Ebury.’

  ‘Don’t you think . . .’ Tom Ebury said.

  ‘Don’t you move,’ Nicholas told him. ‘Those men are about to commit suicide.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Listen to me, all of you: you’ll not survive.’

  Reynolds was having a discussion with the other senior seamen. Now he looked up ‘We’ll not force you, Mr Barrett. But this is your last chance to get off.’

  ‘Go and be damned to you,’ Nicholas replied.

  Reynolds shrugged and stepped on board. The boats cast off, the oars were broken out, and they began pulling for the distant shore. Nicholas glanced at Ebury, who was biting his lip. Then he saw the boy’s expression change, and looked at the boats. The first one had left the lee of the ship, and was in the midst of the waves. Overloaded as it was, the first sea to break against it half-flooded it, and the men began to bail desperately. The other two boats were now also out in the open, and they too were taking water. Oars flashed in the sun as they rose in the crests, and were lost in the following troughs. Nicholas gazed in horror as each boat in turn began to fill from the repeated waves breaking on the low gunwales. Then one followed by another of the oarsmen in the first boat caught crabs and lost their seats as they were jostled by their panic-stricken companions. The boat lost way and turned broadside on to the waves, was picked up, and rolled over. Men jumped in every direction as their oars flew through the air.

  The second boat, following close behind, made an effort to check itself, but then smashed into the upturned craft, scattering timbers, and driving men under. But it too was already waterlogged, and sinking; the shouts of the men about to drown came back even against the wind. The gig was last, and avoided the struggling mass in front of it. Nicholas watched its crew beating with their oars at those of their messmates who tried to get up to it, calling for help; the gig was also already over-crowded. But they were not to save themselves, even by such selfishness. Soon enough they too were picked up by a wave and rolled over, and scattered into the turbulent sea.

  Nicholas and Ebury watched in horror as the flailing mass of heads and arms slowly began to dwindle, savaged by the raging sea. There w
as absolutely nothing they could do, at a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile. They could not reach their men, save by throwing themselves into the water and also drowning. Beneath them Juno heaved and groaned, but stayed on the rocks, and did not yet suggest she was about to break up. ‘What are we to do?’ Ebury muttered.

  Nicholas levelled his glasses; there was now no sign of life where the shattered boats floated, upturned, drifting towards the shore. ‘We wait,’ he said.

  *

  The two young men were exhausted, and became more so as the day wore on, and the seas only slowly subsided. They were both hungry and thirsty. Nicholas clambered down and located some biscuits, but the fresh water supply had been contaminated; they drank some brandy instead. Then as darkness closed in again, they slept, on the bridge deck, knowing that they would awake to a crisis. The ship was holding firm on the rocks, even after the seas had abated, but they now had no means of reaching the shore, unless they could make a raft. Nicholas dreamed, of men screaming, men shouting, gradually coming closer, until he realised that he was no longer dreaming, and that there were men, close at hand, shouting, but in no language he had ever heard before. The ghosts of the drowned seamen, perhaps!

  He dragged himself up, grasped the bridge rail, and discovered that the wind had dropped and the seas had gone right down. They had been asleep for several hours and it was again broad daylight, but the land had disappeared behind a curtain of mist. Yet approaching them were several boats. They were strange craft, because although of some size, they were paddled rather than rowed. But not so strange as their crews, little fellows scarce larger than schoolboys, with crisp black hair and hard muscled, yellow-brown bodies. Those who handled the paddles wore little except a cloth around their loins, but in the stern of each craft there were half-a-dozen warriors, each wearing a suit of what looked like iron scales, with an enormous flattened helmet, complete with nose-piece in the replica of some hideous monster, and fashioned with false moustaches, also made of iron, so as to give their faces an aspect at once fearsome and faintly comical. There was nothing comical about their weapons, however, even if they seemed somewhat primitive to European eyes. Each man carried two swords, one long and the other short, both contained in metal sheaths and thrust through the multi-coloured sash about his waist, and in addition a spear and a bow composed of several pieces of wood joined together, and as long as the man himself.