The Animal Stars Collection

by Jackie French

  But there was none—just a blanket of mosquitoes that buzzed and sipped and sucked, a host of butterflies, humid weather and foul winds. They stayed two days nonetheless, to clean the bottom of the ship and take a break from the constant strain of the past days.

  Then north again, leaving Thirsty Sound behind them, once more into the bewildering maze of shallows and sandbars. The ship’s pace was even slower now, creeping through the green water.

  How long would this trip home take them? Would they die of thirst or hunger before they found a way out of the reef? If there was one to find? There were fish to fill their bellies, if they were lucky, and sometimes water too.

  It wasn’t enough. Men needed more than fish. They were almost out of biscuit, of oats, of pease and cheese and butter. The portable soup and sauerkraut were long gone. The sails were splitting, the ship’s planks rotting.

  They desperately needed a port with good supplies and a dockyard to fix up the ship. But was there any way to get to one in time?

  Northwards, northwards, weary hour after weary hour.

  No coconuts on Palm Island, despite the promising looking trees. Isaac had been dreaming of the sweet fresh milk of green coconuts, but it seemed New Holland had no coconuts at all. No good grass for the Goat either—though at least there was some fresh water.

  The moon rose like a fat cheese above them, sending a path of moonlight across the water. It was almost light enough to read, thought Isaac, light enough to see the way ahead as long as the depths were constantly checked. And by now they were desperate to get beyond this maze of reefs, to find plain sailing back to a port where there’d be food and water.

  Cook ordered the anchor weighed at midnight, and they sailed on. It was a calm sea, a fine breeze of wind, the surf murmuring as they went. The water grew deeper and deeper, from fourteen to twenty-one fathoms, and everyone relaxed.

  Perfect sailing.

  CHAPTER 31

  Isaac

  11th June, 1770

  Isaac was in his hammock when the alarm sounded. What had happened? He slid out of bed and ran up onto the deck. Cook was there already—he and his officers had been having supper by lantern light.

  ‘Everyone to their stations!’

  ‘Anchor’s ready!’

  ‘What’s happening?’ cried Isaac.

  ‘Twelve fathoms a few minutes ago. Eight fathoms now,’ said Jonathan briefly. His tanned face looked strangely pale in the moonlight.

  Eight fathoms was barely enough for the Endeavour to stay afloat. Were they about to run aground? Isaac felt terror seep through him. Most ships of exploration travelled in pairs, or even threes. That way if one ran aground or sank, its crew could be saved.

  But the Endeavour was alone in an unknown ocean. The nearest rescue was at Dutch Batavia, at least a thousand miles away, perhaps more, through uncharted waters and certain storms.

  Even worse, the Endeavour had only two small boats—and nearly a hundred men aboard. The officers and gentlemen would have first go at the boats. Even Mr Banks’s violin player would have more of a chance of survival than a boy who hadn’t even been made midshipman.

  There was no way there’d be room for him.

  Isaac glanced up at the Goat. There’d be no room in the boats for her, either. He wondered briefly if goats could swim, like dogs could. But even if she could paddle like a dog there was no way she’d be able to swim far enough to get to shore. Exhaustion would claim her, even if the sharks did not.

  Isaac had never learned to swim. Most sailors never did. Why bother? If storm or rocks sank your ship there was little chance there would be anywhere to swim to, anyway.

  ‘Ten fathoms!’

  Suddenly the ship was quiet, as every man listened for the next measurement.

  ‘Ten fathoms…’

  ‘Ten fathoms…’

  ‘Eleven fathoms…thirteen…sixteen…’

  Isaac felt himself breathe again.

  ‘Eighteen fathoms…twenty-one…twenty-one…twenty-one…’

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Cook to Mr Banks’s party, who were chattering nervously to each other, ‘I think we can all retire again.’ He left the gentlemen to have a quiet word with Mr Hicks. Isaac heard, ‘Inform me at once if she goes below twenty-one.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Tell the men to stand down, Mr Hicks,’ added Cook, as he strode back along the deck to the companionway.

  Isaac followed the other men back to the hammocks. It seemed an anticlimax just to go to bed again. Disaster had seemed so near.

  He lay down and waited till the hammock stopped rocking with his movement, till the snores began around him, and the sighs and farts of the rest of the watch.

  Somehow he had never thought that death might come to him. Oh, he’d known of the dangers of a life at sea. He’d even recognised the fear in his mother’s face as she said goodbye.

  But it had never seemed real. Not until now.

  He too might have been one of the countless sailors lost at sea. Lost at sea—the words had never meant anything till now.

  Lost. Lost meant his mother would never know what had happened to him. Unless some of the officers made it back to Batavia, she’d never even know where he died. Perhaps she would wait all her life, hoping against hope that one day her son would come striding down the road to tell of his adventures, that she’d hear his voice again.

  And as for him, he’d never see his home again, or the green fields in spring. Never have a wife, a family…

  Never command your own ship, said a quiet voice deep inside his mind, as you have seen the captain do, never know that the crew are yours to care for and direct.

  That was what he still wanted more than anything, he realised. Whatever the risk, the challenge, he was a sailor now.

  Somehow the thought calmed him. Whatever the danger, he was where he wanted to be. Isaac slept.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Goat

  11th June, 1770

  The Goat liked the moonlight. Moonlit nights were good for grazing animals; you could see the dangers in the moonlight, as well as smell them. A Goat could doze and wake and doze again and know that she was safe.

  But not tonight. There was something in the air.

  She sniffed the breeze: salt and damp wood, the stench of a hundred men—no matter how often the captain ordered them to fumigate below decks, they couldn’t get rid of the smell entirely.

  There was still the sharp and acrid smell of coal, too, from the days when the Endeavour had been the Earl of Pembroke and a collier. Coal dust seeped into the seams of a ship and never left it.

  There were the smells of land, too, across the waves.

  And something else.

  Danger. Danger.

  She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did.

  ‘Eeegh!’ she cried.

  There was a sudden noise of tearing, grinding, wrenching. The ship shuddered, lurched.

  And then she stuck, as the sea came flooding in.

  CHAPTER 33

  Isaac

  11th June, 1770

  There was no time to think. No time to wonder what to do.

  The captain was everywhere—still in his nightshirt, his hairy knees showing—ordering, calming the panicked gentlemen, suggesting they stay in their cabins till he knew something more.

  The deck was crowded; it was rare to have every man on board up here at once. But the ship was shuddering so hard it was difficult to keep upright. The sheep bleated in terror, clustering together in their pen.

  Isaac found himself next to Jonathan. ‘How bad is it?’ he whispered. Jonathan had been on watch on deck when the ship struck.

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘We’re still here, at least,’ he said

  ‘Then we’re safe for a while?’ How long does it take a shipwrecked ship to sink? wondered Isaac desperately.

  ‘Can’t tell. Coral reefs are as bad as anything you can run into; they’re so sharp they’ll rip a ship apart. Every wave may
be tearing us up more.’

  Isaac craned to see into the moonlit night. ‘How far to land?’

  ‘Three hours. Four, maybe. By boat, that is.’

  Both knew there would be no place in the boats for them. But maybe, thought Isaac, he could grab an oar or some other piece of buoyant wood to help him stay afloat. Maybe the wind and tides would take him to the land.

  ‘Do you think…’ he began.

  ‘Shh,’ said Jonathan. The captain was speaking.

  ‘…Furl the sails. Keep the pumps going. Lower the boats—I want a report on the damage. Mr Hicks, to me.’

  So they waited, there in the darkness on the shivering deck, its very slope showing how badly the ship had been wounded. Bits of wood floated all around them, including parts of the ship’s false keel.

  But no one panicked. It was only years later that Isaac realised quite how remarkable that was. By now their trust in their captain was absolute. If it were possible for the ship and its crew to be saved, James Cook was the man who would do it.

  Finally Mr Hicks reported, ‘She’s run aground on a shoal, sir, a deep hollow in the reef. There’s shallow water all around.’

  ‘And the ship?’ Cook’s voice was almost expressionless.

  ‘A great gaping hole, sir, and some small ones too. It’s the coral reef that’s stopping the sea from flooding us. But as soon as the ship shifts, we’re done.’

  Cook was silent a moment as he calculated.

  ‘High tide now,’ he said. ‘She’ll sink lower as the tide goes out, and that will break her further.’ His voice rose to address the assembled crew. ‘I want everybody to help lighten ship. You understand? Everything that can be spared goes overboard. We have to get her floating!’

  He gestured to the six great guns on deck. ‘These can go. Everything. See to it, Mr Hicks.’

  He strode off down below, presumably to report to Banks. Or maybe, thought Isaac, to get his logs. If the worst happened—if the ship sank—these books, with their precious information on the transit of Venus and the charts of Tahiti and New Zealand, were more valuable than any man on board.

  And so they worked, hour upon hour, the darkness thickening around them as the moon sank out of sight, then growing lighter as the dawn began to glow. Ballast was thrown overboard, barrels, rancid food kept as a last resort.

  Isaac could feel the grinding of the ship’s hull right through the ship. Every new wave made the deck shudder so hard it was almost impossible to stand. She wouldn’t hold together long. But at least she hadn’t broken up in the darkness.

  All around him men worked with the same desperate dedication. They had even stopped swearing. The sea looked cold, despite the warmth of the air, and very, very black.

  Daylight came. There was land, a dim line in the distance. Isaac had hoped there might be an island nearby—any place they could perch out of the reach of the waves. But there was nothing.

  ‘Eeegh!’

  He had forgotten the Goat. Shipwreck or storm, she still needed to be milked.

  Isaac went below—it was strange trying to clamber down the companionway at so sharp an angle—and fetched her pannikin of pease, her handful of oats and the milking bucket. At least no one had thrown that overboard.

  But the stool was gone. He squatted instead. The squirt, squirt, squirt and the familiar barnyard smell were strangely comforting. Would he ever see a barnyard again? Or smell the flowers of home?

  The wind dropped as he fetched more hay—luckily hay weighed so little that no one had tried to get rid of it too. The sea lay calm and flat around them. Now at least they had a chance. Would the Endeavour lift at the next high tide, now she was lighter?

  High tide was at eleven o’clock today. Five hours to go. Down below, the next watch manned the pumps. There was nothing the rest could do but wait, till it was their turn to pump instead. No one could pump for a full watch. Half an hour of the backbreaking work and you were too weak to stand.

  Biscuit and cheese for breakfast; no fire to cook the oatmeal today. The firewood had been tossed overboard as well. A half hour in the stinking, flooded hold, manning the pumps. The sudden glory of the sunlight on the deck, the clean fresh air as he lay feeling the strength seep back into his arms.

  The sea was sunlit now, an almost glowing green. The sky was very blue. What colour would it be under the waves? wondered Isaac. What are the last colours that a drowning man would see?

  Another spell at the pumps. The water in the hold was higher than ever now, no matter how hard they pumped.

  Ten o’clock. Ten-thirty.

  Mr Banks had given up hope and was packing his luggage into one of the boats. At least he and his specimens would be safe.

  Pump, pump, pump. No energy to think now, or even to realise how near he was to collapsing. The sailor who relieved Isaac had to shake his arm to make him understand. Isaac staggered over to the companionway. Jonathan was already there, trying to get his breath.

  ‘Isaac?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Let’s try to get an oar. An oar should keep us both afloat. It won’t be too bad if we’re together.’

  ‘What about William?’

  ‘I think they’ll take him in the boats, in case a surgeon’s needed.’

  ‘An oar, then.’ Isaac tried to concentrate. But he was too exhausted. ‘Or maybe the table from the galley. Though Cookie will get that. Jonathan…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you get home and I don’t, will you tell my mother…’ Isaac hesitated. What was there to tell her? That he loved her? That no matter what happened today, this had been the most extraordinary adventure a boy could ever have?

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Jonathan quietly.

  It was time for them to pump again.

  And the water kept on rising.

  CHAPTER 34

  Isaac

  12th June, 1770

  Eleven o’clock.

  The day was growing hotter.

  Pump, pump, pump. Time for another break.

  This time Isaac made it up to the deck. He sat there with Jonathan and the disgraced Joseph Magra. There was nothing much to say, but at least he wasn’t alone. The tension was almost unbearable, waiting, hoping, listening for the first hint of movement. On either side sailors were still dumping everything that could be spared to make the ship lighter. Old stores, stinking but kept in case the food supply was desperate, the guns well buoyed so they would float and could be brought on board again…

  ‘Should be lifting now,’ said Magra at last.

  Neither of the others said anything. Every person on board, it seemed, was listening for the faintest hint that the ship was moving. Up on the deck Cook stood with his timepiece in his hand, measuring the minutes.

  Creak…creak…

  Isaac held his breath. She was moving!

  Creak…creak…

  The ship lurched. Suddenly the slope was even worse. But surely she was higher?

  Creak…

  And then she stopped.

  Cook shut his timepiece and strode down to the main deck. ‘Well, men, that’s all that we can hope for till tonight’s high tide,’ he said. ‘We’ll try a block and tackle then to see if we can haul her off. Till then I want every pump manned around the clock.’

  It’s almost as though he’s ordering dinner, thought Isaac in admiration. No panic, not even a raised voice.

  Cook had brought them this far safely, with his pernicketiness, concern and attention to detail. If it were humanly possible he’d get them out of this.

  CHAPTER 35

  Isaac

  12th June, 1770

  Now came the nightmare time, as each man took turn and turn about with pumping. Only the pumps could keep the water from collecting in the ship and sinking her.

  It was exhausting work, there in the airless, stinking hold, the dark water lapping higher and higher still, no matter how hard each man pumped. Outside, the anchors were laid on either side of the ship, with cables a
ttached to them.

  By 2.00 p.m. the ship was listing badly.

  Pump, pump, pump, then stagger out, to lie there for a desperate break before you manned the pump handle again.

  Are we waiting for death? thought Isaac, in one of his brief moments of quiet. Would even Cook’s quiet authority keep the men under control once the ship began to break up about them? Would friend kill friend, just to have a chance of life aboard one of the boats?

  Pump, pump, pump.

  Something nagged Isaac, down in the dark hold. The Goat—it was time to milk the Goat.

  The Goat would have to wait. No matter how much she called, no matter how uncomfortable she was, there was no time for milking now.

  Pump, pump, pump.

  Darkness gathered around the ship. The exhausted men hardly noticed. The tide began to rise.

  Now Cook ordered all the men who could be spared to haul at the cables attached to the anchors. Isaac hauled with them.

  The darkness clung to his sweat. His hands ached. All of him ached. It seemed impossible that tired men could be able to lift a ship like this.

  Creak, creak, creak.

  She was moving!

  But the higher the ship rose, the more water flooded in. The men raced for the pumps again. They worked harder, faster—it was an almost impossible effort, but they kept on.

  Isaac couldn’t feel his arms now, or his hands. His legs were numb from the cold water. All he felt was pain, but there was no time to wonder where the pain was from.

  Pump, pump, pump.

  Suddenly there was a sound like ripping cloth—and the ship floated free. The men let out a gasping cheer.

  Isaac waited for the water to rush in through the hole. But no more water came than had been flowing in before. What was stopping it? There was no time to wonder now.

  Pump, pump, pump.

  They had been pumping for twenty-four hours. Even the strongest of the crew could only pump for perhaps five minutes now, before they dropped into the cold water, to be lifted by their comrades for a few brief minutes’ rest.