Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “We’ll make it through this, Ben,” he said gently. “Come on, the men will need us. We have to clean up and make what repairs we can.”

  Pike stared at him blankly, as if he had not heard such a crazy notion in all his long life. But Robbie gently urged him forward. He knew a dose of hard work would be the best medicine for the heartbroken old sailor.

  Robbie fetched a box of tools, then began cutting away at the tangled mass of sail, mast, and untold hundreds of yards of rope and rigging. Suddenly an agonized gasp escaped his lips, and Robbie jumped back, staring as one looking on death for the first time.

  It was scarcely any wonder that he had not first noticed the bodies, half covered as they were with sail, and with rain and wind pelting him in the face. But now that he saw them his heart suddenly went sick. He turned away and gagged violently.

  Young Sammy’s foot was tangled in a coil of rope. He had apparently been part way up the rigging when Jenkins tried to free him. But he had not been in time to save either of them before the mast toppled over, taking them both to their deaths beneath it.

  A half-choked, screaming sob broke from Robbie’s lips, followed by a hot rush of tears escaping from his eyes. He clenched his teeth together to try to stop, but it was no use.

  “Oh, God, why! Why is life so cruel to those who deserve it least!” he yelled into the wind.

  Sammy had so loved the sea, had spoken dreamily about becoming a captain one day. “But don’t worry, Robbie,” he had said. “I’ll never give up a clipper for steam!” They had laughed heartily. After all, they were true sailing men! Suddenly the boy was dead, before his first voyage was half over.

  And what a good man Jenkins was! How could they possibly continue without his strength and know-how? If Robbie could have felt glad about anything at that moment, it would have been because the able sailor had died heroically. If anything could give back an ounce of hope, and could enable the men now to do what they had to do in order to keep the Tiger afloat, it would be the memory of that hero’s death, giving his life trying to save another. Therefore Robbie turned with renewed vigor to the task of clearing the deck and caring for the dead. The bodies were wrapped in canvas to await burial at sea when the weather permitted a proper service.

  It took the remainder of the night to sort through and clear off the debris from the deck, while the rest of the meager crew hauled in all the sails. There would be no way they could run now, especially after Torger delivered his report that the rudder was weakening. They would have no choice but to heave to and sit the squall out.

  By the first gray light of what passed for dawn, the winds had abated somewhat and the seas had quieted enough for a brief funeral.

  As the dead were brought to the rails, everyone seemed to look to Robbie for some kind of eulogy. Pike, even as captain, seemed out of the question for such a role. But any words Robbie tried to force out only stuck in his throat. Could he say that their brave comrades and faithful shipmates had given their lives because of their skipper’s greed? Could he say they had given their lives for a worthy cause—shipping contraband to Chinese outlaws?

  All at once something sprang into his mind. It seemed ages since he had heard the words from an old sailor; in truth, it had been only a few months since that day when he and young Andrew Graystone had walked happily along the London docks.

  “They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; These see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep.”

  Robbie paused. That was all the old man had said. It didn’t seem like much of a sendoff for these two shipmates. Then a quiet voice from the rear of the small group spoke, taking up the scripture where Robbie had left off:

  “‘For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heavens, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their departed haven.’”

  A great hush fell over the group when Drew stopped as quietly as he had begun. For the first time since Robbie had known him, the Vicar spoke of God with neither cynicism nor bitterness. The words of Scripture had been spoken with apparent sincerity, even if with the sincerity of a man who believes a thing though he himself cannot personally espouse it.

  But as amazing as were Drew’s words and the almost prophetic look upon his face as he spoke, even more so was the sanctified hush that fell on the rest of the crew. Hardly a man of them had ever before made so much as a mention of God. Yet now even the roughest of them bore upon their tough, weather-beaten countenances a look of reverence lovely to behold.

  The verses reminded them not only of the realities of the sea, but also of its mercy. They well knew what a haven, a safe harbor in a time of storm, was. And they were reminded now that death also could be a haven from the stormy cares of life. As they stood there, some of the men, in the quiet of their own hearts, found themselves repenting of past hardness, either toward God or their fellowmen. It is difficult to predict what the Vicar’s reaction would have been had he been told that his words had served to draw some of these men a few steps closer to their Maker. The lady from the mission in Calcutta had said, “Even a sailor can be used of God,” and her words must also apply to an embittered ex-clergyman.

  The timing of that Godly intervention could not have been more perfect, for many of these men would very soon find either their final haven or tumult, as their hearts would reveal when the time came.

  In that reverent atmosphere the bodies of the dead were discharged into the sea. Then as God had given Noah the rainbow for a sign, He seemed to give to these men a sign of His presence also. A great bright streak of light broke out above the back of the mass of gray clouds. The dawn had boldly made itself known, forcing back the darkness of the diminishing storm.

  All at once the reverie ended with a shout.

  “A ship!”

  All eyes turned astern. There against the dark, murky horizon, where the water and sky met together in a dull blend of gray, the shadowed outlines of a ship in full sail appeared. A great cheer arose from the crew of the Tiger. Each one of them well knew they could not have gotten much farther in their condition. Even though land was only five, perhaps eight, miles west of them as they skirted the Chinese coast, without the main mast it might as well have been a hundred.

  Only Robbie did not join in the jubilant cheer of anticipated rescue. He remembered, if they did not, that not all vessels met in these waters were necessarily friendly. He also vividly remembered the different look in the cut of sail between an English clipper and a Chinese junk.

  29

  Final Port of Call for the Sea Tiger

  The shouts aboard the Tiger quickly fell the moment the ominous outline of the Kiaochow could be clearly distinguished. Most of the men merely stood gaping, as if they had been cheated by their false hope.

  But Robbie sprang into action.

  “Digger!” he shouted, “break out the weapons! The rest of you, let’s trim what’s left of these sails!”

  Unquestioningly the men obeyed. But Pike, who had been moving about in a daze, laid a hand on Robbie’s arm. The act was not resistant, nor were his words spoken out of authority. He asked a simple question, as one might to his commander: “What are you doing?”

  “We’ll either fight them or outrun them!” returned Robbie.

  “You know we can do neither.”

  “We have to try! We can’t just sit here.”

  “We can give up, and hope we are spared.”

  Robbie appraised Pike for a long moment. Was he truly suggesting giving up, or was there some unseen ulterior motive in his statement? This hardly seemed the same Pike who was such a short time ago willing to brave all mann
er of hazards to save his valuable cargo. Was it possible that he knew his cargo, and perhaps himself as well, would be saved, and in actuality he cared not a thing for ship and crew?

  Robbie could not even force himself to believe his own thoughts.

  Now was not a time, however, to deliberate with himself. There was only time to act on gut instinct. And his instinct told him that there was little hope a man like Chou would spare them. Then came Pike’s quiet words, as if he knew he no longer carried the right to determine the fate of his ship. “Do what you can,” he said, then spoke no more.

  Even before the Kiaochow was within the Tiger’s range it began to fire, though these blasts fell far short. But these initial forays with cannon fire were merely intended to intimidate, for Chou was after the cargo and would not dare chance damaging it. As soon as they were close enough, the cannons were replaced by guns, and a volley of handfire between the two ships ensued. Though some of the Chinese weapons were archaic, others were not, and within ten minutes three more of the Tiger’s crew were dead and Chou’s hoard had been diminished by only a handful.

  Chou waved a flag of truce and the fire on both ships ceased. It was not truce he wanted, but surrender.

  “Give up at once,” he yelled across the water, “and you may yet find mercy!”

  Even as he spoke of mercy, Chou stretched his arm to his left indicating his cannons, manned and ready to fire.

  Robbie turned back to gaze upon his own meager crew. There were but nine of them left, as well as Pike, who had retired to the chart house to await his ship’s final fate. Robbie was silent a moment, then said, “What’ll it be, men? You have the right to choose how you will die.”

  “I say fight it out if we have half a chance!” cried Overlie.

  “We might not have even that much,” said Robbie solemnly.

  “Give ’em the bloody cargo!” said Digger.

  “Yeah, what is it to us?” added another.

  “We may do so and still find ourselves on the end of their swords,” said Robbie.

  “But if we don’t give it to them, they’ll kill us all first, then take it anyway!”

  “Look at ’em! There must be fifty men still on that ship!”

  A general clamor of agreement arose.

  “What do we have to lose? The cargo’s as good as lost. We can’t hope to win in a fight.”

  “That’s right! The only chance is to let them have it!”

  “It may be no chance at all,” said Robbie.

  “But it’s the only one we have!”

  At last Robbie realized that the men were no longer prepared to lose their lives for a skipper for whom they had lost their respect. Especially when giving up seemed to offer their only hope—however slim—of survival. Facing certain death, it became easier to put their fate into the hands even of a pirate.

  Slowly Robbie raised his weapon into the air, took one last look toward his men as if to ask, “Are you sure this is your decision?” Then with great effort of will, he flung the gun into the water. His men immediately followed the lead.

  Within moments, notwithstanding the substantial breezes and that the sea was by no means calm, the Kiaochow had moved alongside the Tiger. The junk’s crew had obviously had a great deal of experience of this very kind.

  Chou was the first to step aboard, wearing an ugly, triumphant grin. One look at Robbie, and Chou thrust an evil finger toward the first mate.

  “Hold him!” he ordered to several of his men. “He looks as if he is not fully convinced of the wisdom of his decision.”

  Three bare-chested Chinese stepped forward and held Robbie fast. He now had to look on, helpless, as the remaining hoards of pirates swarmed aboard his ship. A half dozen of the marauders held guns to the crew, while another thirty or forty went below to begin relieving the Sea Tiger of her cargo. The task was no small one, and it was noon before the contraband of rifles and other items was stowed aboard the junk.

  When the task was completed, Chou sent three of his men to ferret Pike out of his hiding place. They found him half drunk, and dragged him before their leader.

  “So, where do great sea captain’s warnings leave him now?” laughed Chou.

  “You dirty, yellow-eyed—”

  But Chou’s fist rammed Pike viciously in the stomach, cutting off further insults as the captain crumbled to the deck.

  “Go ahead, put up good show, Mister Captain Pike,” jeered Chou. “But do not worry. You need barter but once with me to save skin. Your words on island suffice.”

  “What the—!” exclaimed Digger. “You tried to make a deal with these savages!” he cried at Pike. “Why you double crossing, no good—”

  Digger burst free from his captors and threw himself at his traitorous skipper. He reached Pike and had his hands around the older man’s scrawny throat when a shot rang through the air.

  The huge bo’sun dropped heavily to the deck.

  Robbie fought to break free, but he could not budge. He could not help, anyway. Digger was already dead.

  Then he became conscious of Chou’s wicked laughter ringing through the air as the echo from the shot died away. More even than pillage and murder, he seemed to take great delight in turning men one against the other, watching mate betray mate in a final hopeless effort each to save his own skin.

  “It might prove better sport,” he said, still laughing, “to leave you to mercies of own men, eh, Pike? But no, I would not miss watching you squirm before Wang K’ung-wu.”

  He motioned to his men. “Take him aboard Kiaochow!”

  Staring straight ahead, Pike hobbled away between his captors. He looked neither to the right nor left, refusing to catch the eye of any of his crew, all of whom stared after him silently. Robbie’s gaze followed him all the way, still hoping that in the end Pike would turn and say something to reassure them that he had not sold them out. But it looked as though he would never know.

  The moment Pike was aboard, Chou led the rest of his pirates off the Tiger, though not before they had crippled its two remaining lifeboats. Any relief the men may have felt at seeing the devilish junk pulling away from its hull was short-lived. For within moments Chou gave the order and the cannons of the Kiaochow began firing. The first ball fell short, but the next two hit the Tiger broadside, and a third and fourth blasted apart a large portion of the interior deck. A fire was soon raging amidships from the explosive charges.

  The wind swiftly carried the junk away. The Tiger was now shipping water at an incredible rate from more than a half-dozen gashes and rents in its once-proud hull. Black smoke poured into the sky as the bright orange flames from the burning sails licked the masts that had once mightily held them against the world’s winds. Slowly it began to reel toward port, as the stern sank deeper and deeper into the rising sea.

  The men who remained of the crew began leaping over the side of the ship so as not to be sucked into the vacuum-like pull of the sinking vessel. Robbie waited a moment before jumping, thinking, as for an instant he surveyed the tragic end of a proud craft, that it had probably been some mercy of Providence that young Sammy had been taken as he was. He quickly counted six heads bobbing up and down in the water.

  There should be another, he thought. But the seas were turbulent enough that anything could have happened to the other man. Then he spotted the Vicar, clinging to the side of the slanting starboard deck farther toward what had once been the bow of the ship. Robbie ran up the deck toward him.

  “Jump, man!” he shouted.

  Still the Vicar hung tightly to the rail.

  “Jump, or we’ll go down with her!”

  “I . . . I can’t swim,” said the Vicar, almost pitifully.

  “That hardly matters now, Vicar!” said Robbie. He grabbed at Drew’s hands, struggling to unwrap them from their panicked grip, then half shoved, half pulled the Vicar, and the two of them leaped over the side and into the water.

  When they sputtered to the surface, with his left hand clutched around the V
icar’s shoulder, Robbie swam furiously to escape entanglement in the ship’s rigging and to distance himself as much as possible from the sinking ship.

  When he could swim no more, he stopped, just in time to watch the sea swallow the last of his noble Sea Tiger. The tears that rose in his eyes would never be seen by another man, for the ocean washed over them freely. But Robbie was too exhausted to care—they were going to die; what else mattered?

  A great wave washed over them, then another. But Robbie could not give up. Each time he struggled to the surface he pulled the nearly unconscious Vicar with him.

  “Isn’t the third time under supposed to be the last?” gasped the Vicar. “Let me go and let me die! They say drowning is the most peaceful way of all.”

  Another wave crashed over them and Robbie kicked and fought once more to the surface.

  “I’ll not let you go, Vicar!” Robbie tried to shout.

  Another wave interrupted him.

  “If we go . . . we both go together!”

  A moment later and they were under the surface again. Each time they seemed to remain under longer. This time Robbie’s grip on the Vicar began to slip. His lungs ached for air. His legs were numb from the cold and the ceaseless kicking and the added weight of the Vicar’s body.

  What would it be like to drown? Robbie wondered. With the thought came a momentary relaxation of his strength. He could not fight much longer. And what was the use? They could never make land—the ship was gone, the Vicar couldn’t swim. Why not just give in to the sea? Why not just let it wash peacefully over them. Relax, he thought sleepily. Just let the water sweep over . . . rest . . . just rest. It would all be over soon . . .

  Suddenly his head broke through the surface and he again felt air on his face. He gasped violently for oxygen, then felt himself smack hard against some object in the water with them. Vicar! Where was the Vicar! Oh no! The Vicar was gone! He’d let go of him! . . . What was that floating in the water?