The devils own luck, p.21
The Devil's Own Luck, page 21
“I dare say the rest of the officers would like a tot of this, Pender.”
Pender looked meaningfully in the direction of Carter. Harry nodded. He had no intention of putting aside the differences between them. Although he could not have defined it, if asked, Harry knew the Magnanime still to be in danger. It would do no harm to behave as human beings until the weather cleared.
Pender returned with the steaming mugs. No one asked him how he had contrived hot drinks. The cook had insisted that it was too dangerous to relight the galley stove, extinguished before the battle, because of the motion of the ship. They just took the drinks carefully and gratefully, thanking whatever deity they worshipped for the warmth it spread through their bones.
Abruptly the man set to watch in the beak shouted a warning. Carter ran forward, followed by Craddock and Harry. It was hard to hear above the noise of the wind, and the thudding of the ship into the heavy waves. But it was there. The sound of water crashing against rocks. A lee shore.
“All hands, Mr Craddock,” shouted Carter, as the premier approached. “We must try to go about and claw off. If we cannot do that, we must try and anchor. Anchors on the cathead, and the hawsers bent on.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Craddock, moving away. Carter called after him.
“Mr Craddock. Put a marine guard on the spirit room. And arm the officers.”
A guard on the spirit room was a reasonable precaution, since in a situation like this, when sailors could get into their heads that all was lost, they would raid the spirit room determined that if they were going to die, they would do so drunk. The effect that drinking had on their efficiency virtually guaranteed that this wish was fulfilled. But Harry could not understand the idea of arming the officers. With what? Pistols that would be too damp to fire in this weather? It said more about Carter, and the type of captain that he was, than it did about the reliability of the crew.
Weary men were roused out from their hammocks. Word spread quickly of the danger to the ship. With much shouting and cursing, the hands were pushed and shoved to their stations. Was it weariness that made them so listless, or a hint of despair? After everything that had happened today, did they feel that this was one problem too many? It was at such moments that trust between officers and men counted.
Harry, making his way aft, was suddenly aware that he had become the object of much attention from some of the crew. Men were pointing at him, and he heard the odd curse. Before they had been openly curious. But the looks he saw now were anything but neutral. That seemed to have been replaced by something altogether more unfriendly. He caught the word “Jonah” as he passed by a group of the waisters. And the looks that accompanied that word left him in no doubt that the remark was aimed at him.
“Pender,” he called, entering the wardroom. “What’s afoot?”
“In what respect, your honour?” Pender came out of his cabin. He had a rope in his hand, which he had been using to fashion a sling for Harry’s sea-chest.
“That humorous remark you made yesterday about some of the hands thinking that there was a ‘Jonah’ aboard. Was that pure invention?”
“It was.” Pender seemed defensive, as though his honesty was being challenged. Harry looked at the rope. He was too sharp not to be aware of the danger to the ship.
“Well, I fear we may have succeeded too well. Get on deck and find out what the hands are saying. I got some very queer looks just now.”
“Your dunnage is secure. I took the liberty of putting my bits and pieces in with yours.” He looked directly at Harry. Then he smiled suddenly, as though he knew what his master was thinking. “Just looking after my own.”
“That reminds me,” said Harry, opening his oilskin and reaching into his coat. “I wrote this earlier.” He passed Pender a sealed letter. “It is instructions to my brother-in-law that you are to be afforded all the protection you need, and quite specifically entreats him to grant you that which you asked me for. I should find an oilskin package and put it about your person.”
“Are we really in that much danger, your honour?” Pender was not an experienced sailor. But he, for certain, would have asked someone who was.
“I won’t lie to you,” Harry said. “Our situation is one that sailors dread. We have a strong wind which we may not be able to sail into. That is blowing us towards a rocky shore. Mr Carter will attempt to put the ship about. If the foremast holds we can claw off.” Harry did not want to emphasize how difficult this would be, how the crew would be up all night shifting scraps of sail as the Magnanime sailed tack upon tack out of danger.
“And if it doesn’t hold?”
“Let’s hope it creaks a bit and stays where it is. But if it doesn’t, then we must run in with the tide and wind, and try to anchor the ship. That depends on the ground. If we can do that we are safe.”
“Well, if it don’t, I can’t swim.” Pender seemed calm, despite this revelation, in contrast to some of the more experienced hands.
“If we do have to abandon ship the crew will panic. Stay away from them and the boats, because that will be bedlam. If you can, stay with me. Failing that, you want to cling to something that floats. A spar.” Harry smiled suddenly. “Or an empty sea-chest. With luck that will carry you ashore. Now please be so good as to find out what the crew are about with their murmurings and black looks. Then fetch my brother on deck. Brook no argument. Just tell him that it is vital that he do so.”
Harry left the cabin and went back up to the quarterdeck. He fought his way out into the howling wind just as Craddock gave the orders to let fly the sheets. The deck and rigging were full of men. It took an intricate set of calculations to try this manoeuvre in a heaving sea. But it had to be done quickly before the shoal water started to increase the size and power of the waves. If they tried this any further in, they would be bound to broach to, and be smashed ashore sideways on. The sails flapped noisily as they were released from the strain of the ropes. The wheel spun and the Magnanime came up into the wind. Carter dare not wait for her to come round all the way. He signalled to Craddock. Men hauled on the sodden, protesting ropes, dragging the yards round to take the wind. Others fought to sheet home, lifting the bottom corners of the sails to increase their angle to the wind.
From being at a dead stop, the ship started to move slowly forward, breasting the waves. Not at any speed, but at least she wasn’t being driven backwards. Tense faces relaxed as they realized that the manoeuvre had worked. They wouldn’t make much progress, and they would have to work like Trojans just to keep this up, but just heading away from the shore, however slowly, was speed enough.
The crack of the foretopmast giving way drowned out all the other sounds. It was like a magnified pistol shot. There were still hands up there and Harry could plainly hear their screams of terror as the mast slowly parted and leant to one side. It seemed to stop there for a few seconds, a time which gave Craddock the space he needed to put the ship back on to its previous course. Again they were heading for the shore, with parties of sailors rushing to free the anchors. Then, with a final wrenching sound, the mast went overboard.
Carter ran forward calling for men and axes. Craddock, showing great presence of mind, issued the orders that would rig some sails on the remaining masts, putting the Magnanime back under some form of control. Harry knew he was useless on the quarterdeck. He raced after Carter. The mast was over the larboard side of the bowsprit, a mass of tangled rigging holding it to the ship and making all efforts to steer useless. It would have to be cut free or it would drag the ship sideways on to the swiftly running sea.
Harry grabbed a boarding axe from a stunned, stationary sailor, diving into the tangled skein of ropes, hacking at them as he did so. He could see sailors entangled in the rigging being ducked under the water, then hauled out again, flailing and gasping. If they could not free themselves they were dead men, but there was nothing he could do about that. It was imperative that the foremast be cut free. If they stayed entangled they would go to the bottom with it.
Carter was ahead of him. He had thrown off his oilskin and uniform coat. His sodden white shirt showed clearly, illuminated by the phosphorescence of the crashing water around the bows. He too was hacking away, cutting every rope before him, not knowing which ones were holding the fallen mast. He had made his way out on to the bowsprit. Harry followed him. Behind him men were hacking at the ropes they had missed. Out of the corner of his eye Harry could see that some of the topmen had got free and were crawling up the loose and dangerous rigging to get back aboard.
Suddenly Carter, standing to hack at a heavy cable, slipped and fell off the bowsprit. His foot caught in a rope and he was dangling upside down as the Magnanime dipped into the waves. He went under, with the ship, for what seemed like an age. The bows lifted and Carter came out of the water again. He still had his sword in his hand, but to slash at the rope round his foot was to invite certain death, since that was the only thing holding him to the ship.
Harry looked back at the hands still cutting away. There seemed to be very few lines still holding the foremast. They were nearly clear. He edged out as the bows went under again, clinging desperately as the freezing water came up around his chest. Up again, and Carter was there, still held by the foot. Harry lunged forward and grabbed the rope. His head was now lying on the furled-up canvas of one of the bowsprit sails. He clamped his mouth shut as the Magnanime dipped again and he was plunged into the foaming sea. As he felt the ship begin to lift itself out of the water he hauled with all his strength on the line.
By the time the Magnanime was at the height of its travel he had Carter’s foot in his hand. Then it started to dip again and Harry just held on, as best he could, while they both received another icy ducking. This time, as the ship breasted itself out of the water, he reached down and grabbed the front of Carter’s shirt, hauling furiously to bring him upright. He felt the man searching for some part of him to hold on to. Eventually their hands met and Harry had him. Under they went again, but as they resurfaced Carter was ready to throw his leg over the bowsprit and haul himself up. Harry swung his axe and cut the line that held the man’s foot.
There was a loud snapping sound as a line further up parted. A cable whistled past Harry’s head like a bullet. The mast went slowly over the side and spun clear. That danger was past. But the crashing of the waves was loud now and the water before the bows was disturbed by more than the Magnanime’s progress. Harry inched backwards off the bowsprit followed by Carter. As soon as he reached the deck, Carter staggered back towards the quarterdeck. Harry was bent double, trying to retch the water he had swallowed at the same time as he gasped for breath. He staggered as the Magnanime spun in its own length, vaguely aware that all the sails were flapping wildly. She was now stern-on to the shore, the roar of the sea outdoing the noise of the howling wind. Men fell over as the movement of the ship was checked. The anchor was over the side and, at this moment, it was holding. He could hear the shouted commands at the capstan, exhorting the hands to haul away and, by shortening the cable, pull the ship back from danger.
Short of air as he was, Harry stopped breathing now. This was the last throw. If the anchor would not hold, or the cable snapped, they were done for. The motion of the ship steadied as the strain was taken on the huge hawser. He sensed the ship moving. The cable, a twenty-three-inch diameter rope, was holding, as was the anchor. No one would want to spend the night here held by a single anchor. But if it held long enough they could pay out another cable somehow, and put down another anchor. With two they stood a real chance.
The wind was freezing for a man soaked to the skin. Harry, holding the man-ropes for support, clawed his way towards the quarterdeck.
“Mr Ludlow, quick!” It was Pender, shouting above the howling gale. Harry, exhausted after his efforts, was slow to respond.
“You must come now, sir,” said Pender. Harry felt a sword pressed into his hand. “Some of the hands are talking about slinging your brother overboard.”
“What?”
“Someone has fired them up with tales of a Jonah aboard.”
Harry was being pulled bodily towards the gangway, his mind still trying to grapple with what Pender was trying to tell him.
“Jonah?”
“Stupid bastards. Believe any old tale.”
Pender had got Harry down the first few steps. Being out of the screaming wind seemed to help clear his brain. They ran across the gundeck and down the companionway, with Pender explaining breathlessly.
“Some of the men shirked their duty, thinkin’ that the ship was done for.”
“The spirit room?”
“Drunk as lords they all are. And claimin’ that it’s all James Ludlow’s doin’.”
“Carter put a guard on there.”
“Well, God knows where he is, for the door’s wide open. There’s a party of the worst cases heading for the cable tier.”
They shot down the stairwell on to the orlop-deck. The sound of voices, raised in anger, came up towards them. As Pender reached the bottom he stopped. Harry fell on his back trying to do likewise, nearly knocking his servant over.
Half-way along the passage was a group of sailors. Two of them were holding James by the arms, pushing him along. He had the blood of fresh wounds on his face where he had tried to fight them off. They stopped as they saw Harry and Pender. Harry rushed past Pender who was still on his knees, yelling as if possessed, and waving his sword as much as he could in such a confined space. He knew that if he gave these men time to think, there would be a knife under his brother’s throat, and no chance of rescue. Pender, hauling himself up, followed on.
The sailors on either side of James, surprised at the sudden assault, halted and fell back slightly. James immediately tried to get away from his captors. His efforts distracted them long enough for Harry to get close. The temptation was to run one of them through, but angry as he was, Harry had the sense to see the dangers in such a course. Instead he aimed to wound, choosing the man that was holding his brother’s left arm. His sword took him in the shoulder, and the man swung round screaming in pain. Harry followed through by just barging the other sailor aside. Trying to ward Harry off, he had released James, who grabbed at his elder brother, arresting his forward movement before he fell into the mass of the mutinous party.
The rest of the sailors started to crowd forward, after the few seconds they needed to recover their senses. Hemmed in by the lack of space, they could not all come at the Ludlows at once, but there were still too many of them to fight. Harry, pushing James behind him, held out his sword and backed towards the stairwell. The sailors came on, emboldened by the retreat, growling and cursing, ignoring their wounded companion, and stepping on, rather than over, his prostrate form.
“James, up the stairs, while Pender and I hold them off. See if you can find an officer.”
“And leave you to the mercy of this lot?”
The sound of the gun going off beside his ear nearly deafened Harry. He ducked away from the sound, and Pender pushed past him, the other pistol held out.
“Now which one of you buggers wants a bullet in the guts, instead of over your head?”
The noise had halted the forward progress of the sailors. They stood looking at Pender, trying to decide what to do.
“The ship’s at single anchor and safe. If you lot don’t want a rope at the yard-arm for mutiny, you’d better get to where you are supposed to be, and damned quick.”
“He can only shoot one of us,” said the sailor at the front.
“You’re right, Smithy. You take the bullet and I promise that you won’t go unavenged.”
Drunken crowds are strange, being able to turn from humour to a fatal form of anger in a flash. But they can go the other way just as quickly. One of their number laughed at the absurdity of the remark made by the man urging Smithy to sacrifice himself. Another joined in. Suddenly they were all laughing, repeating the line, some of them jokingly pushing Smithy forward.
“Take my advice, lads,” said Pender. “The officers ain’t going to be busy much longer.”
The ugly mood had gone out of them, as they each began to consider their position. Harry touched James and Pender, and they moved away up the stairwell, leaving the crowd to figure out how they could get back to their proper stations without being observed.
Harry led James towards the wardroom. The acrid smell of gunpowder still permeated everything. The wardroom itself was in total disarray, as the hands who had been erecting the bulkheads, and replacing the furnishings, had been called away to attend to the more pressing duty of saving the ship. Harry righted a set of chairs.
“Water, Pender,” he said, pushing James down into a chair.
“What has been happening?” asked James. “First I am dragged from tending the wounded, and slung back in the cable tier, by one set of men. Then I am hauled out by another lot, this time as drunk as lords.”
“They were going to sling you overboard,” said Harry grimly. He had grabbed the first piece of cloth he could find and was dabbing the blood off James’s face. “I noticed some right odd looks before the mast went by the board.”
“The mast?”
“We have had an interesting time of it today, first a battle, then a full gale, the foremast threatening to broach us, and a near run thing with a lee shore. O for the life of a sailor!”
Pender came in with a jug of water. “Cold, I’m afraid, your honour.”
“I would appreciate it if you would tell me what has been happening,” said James. Harry looked at Pender.
“They’ve secured another anchor, Mr Ludlow. We should, according to them in the know, be safe enough now.”
“You saved his life?” The tone in James’s question left little doubt that he felt such an action bordered on madness.
