I had very little idea as to where we were, but one does not admit that to the crew.
“Approximately here,” I said, pointing to the area near the Ragged Islands. “We must have gone past Great Inagua in the night, our speed being faster than I thought. We’ve been steering northwest, but I think the wind must have more easterly in it now and has given us far more leeway than I anticipated. That we haven’t seen land in the two hours since sunrise means that we have to be in this area between Cuba to the south, Great Inagua to the east, Acklins Island to the north, and the Ragged Islands to the west. It also means that we should see one of these places soon. Once I get a good position fix, I can alter course and we can then motor to Nassau.”
“Aye, an’ remember this thing’ll surely cause one hell o’ a commotion at Nassau,” said Rork. “Nary a way ta keep her—o’ us, neither—under wraps once we arrive.”
It was a valid observation. I hadn’t thought that far out in advance. I was beginning to do just that when my cogitation was interrupted by two events.
Absalom shouted out, “Reefs ahead on the port bow. I think it’s the southern end of the Great Bahamas Bank, sir. Yes! Look over there where the clouds are clearing, abaft the starboard beam—I think that is Santo Domingo Cay!”
We were at the second circled point marked on the chart. I searched for the cable ship, thinking they might be using this place as a secondary rendezvous with Sokolov. I saw nothing on the ocean, not even a fishing smack.
Absalom came aft and showed me on the chart. “That makes the reef ahead of us South Head. I’ve sailed the deep water in this area.” He shook his head and looked overboard at those razor-sharp coral teeth scattered in front of us as far as the eye could see. “But never up in the reefs. Very dangerous area, sir. Only a few channels through here. Coral heads and reefs are everywhere for hundreds of miles to the west, and for about fifty miles up to the north.”
The appearance of fixed objects below allowed me to ascertain our speed and drift. I calculated quickly. Courtesy of Sokolov’s motor-driven propeller, our speed was somewhere around twenty knots, faster than the fastest ship in the U.S. Navy. We would cross the fifty miles of reefs in a little over two hours.
“No problem, son. We’re above those reefs and will be beyond them by noon.” I called forward, “Corny, alter course to due north. Once we get to the Exumas, we’ll follow that chain of islands toward Nassau.”
Corny replied in a comically false Irish accent, “Aye, sir. Due north’s easy to find. Methinks I’ve got the hang o’ this here thing now. Next stop: civilization.”
Smiles broke out. For the first time in a long time, I felt optimism. We would make it. And Rork and I would have quite a story to tell, and this warship to show, Commodore Walker and Admiral Porter. That might make them forget we were absent beyond our official leave. The tragedies and heartache we’d endured on the search for Luke Saunders would have at least some mitigation. Our smiles were short-lived, however.
For right then, the electrical motor chose to stop.
***
“I can’t steer!” yelled Corny. “She’s going sideways. Won’t turn into the wind!”
Kovinski dashed aft and looked at the battery, checking the India rubber–clad cable connections. He held his hands up in a helpless gesture. They were still connected. The battery had expired.
We were a mile past the edge of the reef by then. I studied the saw-toothed coral under us to determine our course and drift. The wind was in control now, blowing us west northwest. We could only steer downwind. Away from Nassau, away from the inhabited islands of the Exumas, and toward the vast desolate stretches of the Great Bahamas Bank.
“Steer as much northerly as you can, Corny. If we can reach the southern end of Andros Island we can find a beach.”
“Not many beaches down that way, sir,” said Absalom dejectedly. “And no one lives down there, either.”
Kovinski, his imperturbability shed, muttered something that sounded like “Blay.” I learned later that meant “damn” in Russian, a remarkably benign curse considering our predicament. Rork had no such civility and unloaded a combination of English and Gaelic in the direction of the motor.
“Do the best you can, Corny,” I repeated. “Absalom, kindly return to your bow watch and sing out if you see a ship or a boat.”
“Too shallow for ships here, sir.” Our young crewman was still shaking his head, his tone woefully maudlin. “Won’t see any boats either—nobody sails this far into the reefs.”
It was a struggle to keep from using some sailor oaths myself. Instead, I calmly said, “Just keep watch, Absalom, and you can forgo additional comments about how deserted this area may be. We fully understand that now, but we’ve no choice at this point.”
Rork put his hand on the youngster and flashed a grin, while steering him forward. “Aye, lad. Now’s the time to get tough, not sad. This crew ain’t done in, nary by a long shot. Oh, me’s seen far worse than this wee little setback.”
Absalom clearly had trouble imagining that. “Really?”
“Oh, boyo, did me ever tell ya about the time when dear ol’ Commander Wake an’ me was stuck in a slave box in the middle o’ nowhere in the Sahara desert o’ Africa? Aye, we was surrounded by the most evil-eyed bunch o’ cut-throatin’ buggers I ever did see. Now that was a dicey deal! No? Well, let’s go to the bow, an’ while you have a gander at the ocean through that glass, I’ll tell ye the tale.”
As they moved forward, Kovinski leaned close to me. “Without the assistance of the motor, we have slowed down quite a bit, have we not?”
I checked the reefs again. He was right. “Yes, Major. I’d guess we’re doing about ten knots now.”
“And those clouds I see on the horizon where we are headed, they are a storm, are they not?”
The clouds around us had gradually been getting thicker and darker. The cloud line on the horizon was black and too big for a thunderstorm. Rork and I had already seen it and knew what it meant, but hadn’t said anything to the others. I saw that Absalom had too, but had refrained from scaring anyone.
“Yes, that cloud line on the western horizon is a storm. Looks like it could be a bad one and it’s coming this way.”
“And it appears that we are losing height above the reefs, am I correct?”
Corny had brought that to my attention, but like the storm, I hadn’t mentioned it to the others. “Yes, the bullet holes in the gas bag above us have been allowing the hydrogen to slowly leak out. We’ve been losing altitude for some time now.”
Kovinski’s jaw tightened. “Then it would appear we are in extreme peril—and powerless to do anything about it.”
“Yes, Major. It’s out of our control now.”
Map 5
38
Tongue of the Ocean
Twenty miles east southeast
of Snap Point, southern end
of Andros Island, the Bahamas
Thursday, 6 September 1888
Like the tropical storm we’d encountered in the Straits of Florida two months earlier, this one approached rapidly. The reader may wonder at the unlikeliness, not to mention the unfairness, of having three hurricane storms hit us in just a few months, but at that moment such philosophy was lost on me.
Concerned about our inexorable sinking, I gave orders to jettison the battery, motor, and propeller, with a view toward lightening the ship. We disconnected and manhandled them overboard and the craft instantly rose upward, bouncing in the rough air even more violently than before. Too late, I realized I had jettisoned too much weight, that some was needed to dampen the buffeting, like ballast stone in a sailing vessel. And worse yet, once our initial ascent had ended, we still continued falling. The rate was slowed, but still relentless.
When the storm was five miles away—and we were already fifty miles within the maze of reefs—the wind veere
d quickly to the southwest, then west. It went from a benign trade wind pushing us, to a Force 6 on our nose. Sokolov’s aerial warship was spun around, all efforts to steer were useless, and we now sailed downwind to the northeast, just ahead of a formidable purplish-black, churning cloud that was gaining on us by the second.
Our altitude by then was perhaps two hundred feet—I never could get the hang of interpreting it—and we could quite clearly see the deathly network of coral rock beneath us, the surf breaking into a labyrinth of foam without pattern or predictability. It stretched for miles.
Kovinski spoke the question in everyone’s mind. “How long?”
I looked up at the bags of gas, visibly sagging here and there under the weight of the outer envelope. The Cyrillic lettering was buckled, making a mockery of Sokolov’s grandiose announcement.
“Once the storm hits us, we’ll go down rapidly. I’d say ten minutes at the most until that happens.”
Woodgerd stumbled up to us. “Will this thing float?”
“No, not as a boat. The wicker’s not tightly enough woven. However, now that the heavy battery and motor are off, the wood and wicker should float as debris, sort like a raft. But we’ve got to get the frame and wicker hull cut away from the rigging as we go down, or the weight of the balloons and envelope will come down and smother us. I don’t know if goldbeater’s skin will float, but I doubt it.”
Woodgerd, ever the landsman, didn’t want to hear that. “Damn it all. You mean I’m gonna end my days flopping around in the water like some squid sailor? Helluva end for a soldier.”
There wasn’t time for a witty rejoinder. I called all hands together for final orders before our collision with the sea.
“All right, I want a man at each one of these rigging points, port and starboard. Rork, you and Absalom are forward. Kovinski and Corny are aft. Woodgerd and I are midships. Cynda, you’ll be with me. Aft will cut away first, then midship, and last the bowmen. When I give the order—and only when I give the order—cut the rigging away. That’ll be just before we hit the water. I want everyone to stay in the hull. It will fill with water and get swamped, but should float. You must stay inside the hull and let it protect you from the coral. Everyone understand that?”
Heads nodded just as a roll of thunder boomed out of the cloud. Woodgerd pointed to flashes deep within the bowels of the approaching dark monolith. “Hydrogen is flammable. How close does a lightning bolt have to get to ignite this stuff?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But we don’t have that much hydrogen left, and we’ll probably be blown down as the front edge of the storm hits us anyway.”
A gust knocked the ship down lower, all aboard falling down. We were now lower than the truck of a schooner’s topmast—a hundred feet at most. I could see the individual saw-toothed points on the rocks.
“Get ready!”
“Look—deep water ahead!” cried out Absalom, just as a wall of rain closed off all visibility from us. It didn’t matter anymore, we’d run out of time. The airship wasn’t going to make it past the reefs to deep water.
Above us the dark cliff had arrived, flinging wind and rain out ahead to give us a taste of its power. The rain pelted us in horizontal sheets, every drop hitting our bodies like birdshot. The wind rose to Force 8 or more—a full gale. Thunder detonated nearby. Everyone held their breath, but the balloons above us didn’t ignite.
Cynda’s face was within inches of mine, her arms clinging to my waist. Those beautiful coquettish eyes now tragic, pleading, capturing my heart. She was saying something, but in the noise I could only make out her lips forming, “I’m so sorry, Peter.”
More than anything, I wanted to answer her tenderly, to hold her, to protect her, but the cacophony of sound and motion had dulled my capacity to communicate. I lamely nodded an acknowledgment to her and turned away, forcing my mind to focus on when to give that order.
Just how fast the aerial warship was moving, I do not know. Other than aboard a train, I’d never moved that rapidly in my life, but a rough estimate would be twenty knots below the speed of the wind, so our speed was at least twenty-five to thirty knots. The balloon envelope, and the hull suspended beneath, bucked wildly—pitching, skewing, and rolling. There was no rhythm, no way to anticipate each gyration. None of us could stand, so each knelt or sat in our position, tossed around the narrow confines, blinded by the stinging rain, holding on with both hands to the hull’s gunwale.
Six horrified faces watched my every move, waiting for the order.
I tried to calculate the force of impacting the water at that speed, but it was beyond my mental ability, which was overwhelmed by the incredible shrieking of the wind in the rigging vines and the sight of that frothing mess below. I could taste the salt spray and knew we were seconds away. I glanced quickly overboard. It was a vision of watery hell, only ten feet down. Now was time. I pointed to Corny and Kovinski.
“Now! Cut the rigging away now—aft men first!”
Kovinski’s pocket dagger sliced through his vine. Corny hacked his in two with a Bizango machete. The stern felled abruptly, as Woodgerd and I cut ours with bayonets. The stern hit the water with a tremendous thud, launching everyone several feet in the air. Absalom and Rork struggled to free the bow.
We bounced along the wave tops. Absalom’s vine severed, but Rork’s didn’t for several seconds. Suddenly, the bow section holding the remaining vine rigging tore away and we were down in the water, instantly swamping, my crew swimming within the hull.
“Grab hold and stay inside!” I cried.
Aloft, the goldbeater’s skin balloon envelope stayed put for a split second, as if astounded at its new freedom. Then it lifted up and away on the wind, no longer bound by our weight, just a broken toy for the amusement of the tempest. It went higher than we’d ever been, flying broadside to the wind, and was soon a mile or more distant.
For some inexplicable reason, in the middle of all that peril when our lives were about to be consumed in the reefs, my eyes couldn’t stop following Sokolov’s flying machine of death. I noted that, ironically, it was heading for Europe, and wondered where the giant carcass of plastered sheets of cow guts would finally end up. Rork’s beloved Ireland? Teignholder’s imperial homeland of England? Perhaps Paloma’s motherland of Spain. And what would be thought of the aerial warship when its depleted remains were discovered? Even as my mind formed the question, a flash and thunder synchronized instantaneously to provide the answer.
A momentary ball of fire lit the purple clouds, and the warship was blown quickly into nothingness. Not even smoke remained of the Rodinia Voskhod. I turned away and saw that, amidst the maelstrom, everyone had been mesmerized by the same sight.
A swell raised us up and swept the swamped hull forward. I looked around us in the water. There was no surf, no cresting waves, none of the frothing chaos I’d seen below the ship before we crashed. Why hadn’t we been crushed into the coral and ripped apart? It dawned on me just as a grinning Absalom pounded Rork on the shoulder and proclaimed the good news.
“We’re beyond the reefs. We’re in the deep water!”
That we were, without a doubt. That last gust of wind had delivered us beyond the reefs, into a lee of sorts, where the waves were gentler and allowed us a slight respite. The wind still howled, the rain still pelted, but we were relatively safe.
By now, those reading this account fully understand the certain death that awaited us within the vast maze of reefs. But they may not be aware of just how incredible was our escape. Therefore, kindly indulge a brief discourse on the geography of our location.
Within the middle of the Bahamian islands, there is a maritime anomaly. It is an area of oceanic deep water, more than a thousand fathoms deep, stretching a hundred miles long with a width of fifteen to thirty miles, all of which is surrounded by some of the most treacherous reef systems in the West Indies. It is bounded on the
west by the lengthy pastel-colored waters and reefs of Andros Island, on the south by those of the Great Bahamian Bank, with which the reader is now intimate. On the east lie the Exuma Banks, whose reef edge is just as dangerous as that we’d flown over.
This trough of royal blue water enters from the north, reaching around the island of New Providence and probing the inside of the Bahamian archipelago. In a gesture of defiance, it curls back at the southern extremity. The humorously odd shape is easily apparent on a chart, hence its name.
Looking at my bedraggled old friend as he held grimly onto the wicker, I gestured around us and laughed at the absurdity of our deliverance.
“Can you believe it, Rork? We’ve been saved by the Tongue of the Ocean . . .”
***
Further ironies were yet to unfold. The wind and waves steadily increased the farther we progressed from the maze of the Banks. With that propulsion our sluggish water-logged raft of wicker and vine made its way northwest across the Tongue of the Ocean. I estimated our drift at two knots, for it seemed we also had the assistance of an ebb tide off those wicked reefs.
Mercifully, there was no sun to broil us, nor was the water cold. Still, it was an arduous day of constant strain, holding on as our contraption slowly worked itself apart in the seas. Our cuts and bruises became inflamed by the salt water, clothing chafed our skin, and thirst dominated our thoughts. Then, in the late morning, the inevitable commenced.
First the twisted after-section, composed of balsa framing with no real hull structure, parted from us. Then the porous wicker section of the hull began to show signs of disintegration. Absalom began praying aloud again, reciting Old Testament invocations of the Hebrew slaves for Divine help. Cynda and Corny joined him, the others of us busy relashing the vines to effect a jury-rigged craft. I guessed we had perhaps another six hours left before it fragmented beyond our meager ability to repair.
***
Honor Bound Page 30
