The Pirate. Christopher Wallace
will be one of the hands, sir; them that were responsible for stowing the cargo should also be charged with securing it when it breaks loose, that’s what the captain says.’
‘Where is he?’
‘The captain? Up on the forward hatch. That’s where it sounds as if something is happening, they will have the Devil’s job to fix that. I wouldn’t go bothering him now, and I wouldn’t go volunteering to go inside either … Unless you want to be judged a fool, or just plain impertinent, sir. Understand?’
Martin paused; he didn’t understand, but the debate hardly seemed worth entering. A fool or impertinent. Whose opinion was this meant to be, the captain’s, or his supine lackey’s? How could it be that the ship – and all aboard – were in danger, yet the situation could only be saved by those who were expendable rather than those charged with command?
The Anne rose up on another menacing swell, the surging motion passing through from side to side leaving them all clutching at the rails and each other for safety. All except Martin, who rode it in his boots, hands staying still by his side as he eyed the purser with an expression approaching distaste.
‘As long as he doesn’t take me for a coward I shall be well satisfied.’
He turned and moved forward, striding against the full force of the wind as he made his way along to join the second group of men on deck. This was much larger, over twenty gathered around the opening to the largest of the holds. As the bows were lifted by successive waves, the Anne’s prow was left high in the air, making Martin’s journey an uphill hike. He gradually edged higher, closer to the advance party clinging on near the summit. He could hear the captain’s voice as his bellowed instructions were blown down towards him.
‘No lamps … Let your damn eyes do their work!’
The tone was harsh; Captain Henry meant his men to obey. Martin saw immediately that this group had the more demanding of the deck assignments, foremost and most exposed to the elements, entrusted with the largest hold, the one that was making the most noise. Even to a novice sailor like himself, the difference between the echoes emanating from this space and the one he had just visited was distinct. Here also, the men were set about their business; desperately tying down the sails to the yards to stop them being inflated by the blasts of wind, sweeping the water from the deck that the waves sought to deposit every time they launched an assault over the bow, feeding the lengths of rope into the deep, dark, dangerous pit that was the hold where their colleagues were now surveying.
‘Captain Henry?’
The captain’s head jerked around swiftly. His mouth was drawn tight.
‘What?’ He looked at Martin with immediate distrust, as if he did not recognize him. His expression barely changed when the stranger’s identity finally registered. What use a surgeon in a crisis like this? ‘… What is it, man!’
‘I am here to let you know my services are available, sir.’
The offer seemed to leave the skipper wrongfooted.
‘Aye … Of course. We have … no need. No injuries.’
‘I will do whatever is required, please be assured of that, sir.’
The captain waved a hand, the motion almost dismissing Martin and the rain as one and the same irritant.
‘How many are down there?’
The captain ignored the question. It was left to the second mate, Gardiner, to furnish an answer. He tugged Martin to one side, perhaps fearful of being overheard by his superior.
‘Jim and Peter … the lads. It was them who was meant to have it all secured when we left port, so them ’as to sort it out, Captain says. He’s not best pleased, no, sir … Can you smell the scent of alcohol?’
Martin pushed his head directly over the hatch; a sweet odour met his nostrils, mixed in amongst the damp wood and salt spray. He nodded. Gardiner stepped closer and spoke with the voice of a man in mourning.
‘Spillage, for sure, aye. Captain Henry is not best pleased,’ he said solemnly.
The captain’s displeasure was obviously the prime concern of the ship’s senior crew, a matter more pressing than the danger of the loose cargo itself. Martin wondered how it could be that one man could impose his will so absolutely over others. Was this a hindrance or a help in this current predicament, did their fear of him lessen their fear of the storm, was that the intention of this grim leadership? Or was he a simply a latter-day Canute, trying to command the waves through the hold he had over the crew?
The Anne was gaining height suddenly, pushed upwards by a rapidly forming crest so that for a moment she was perched atop a peak within the ocean, gazing down on the waves below. Martin instinctively broke free of Gardiner’s conspiratorial embrace to survey the scene. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he scanned across the horizon towards the nearest summit. Here was another mountain, a mountain on the move towards them, built on a roaring wall of water at least forty feet high. He struggled to find the words for what seemed an eternity, eventually hearing himself screaming with all his might towards the captain.
‘Another one on the way, sir … starboard side. Haul the lads free! Get them to safety, sir!’
In reply, a flash of angry eyes, a glare to warn of future reproach. Captain Henry addressed his comments to the darkness of the chamber below.
‘Get our cargo fixed, hear me? Make it fast, damn you!’
Martin pushed Gardiner aside to gain access to the rope attached to the men in the hold. The ship was plummeting downward as he did so.
‘Pull them out!’
His hands were wrapped tight around the cord when the wave struck, his intention having been to drag the pair free singlehanded if necessary. Instead, the rope instantly became his means of staying aboard as the full might of the sea raged over and across the tossing deck. He held tight as the ship turned on its side whilst the breaking wave flooded the open hold and swept three hands over into the frothing deep. In that instant he could have been forgiven for believing that the Anne had become submerged, such was the force and volume of water that poured over her bows. Yet somehow she remained afloat, righting herself anew although rocking the stern deck free of another two crewmen in the process. No one saw them go, it was only their final cries for help that lingered.
The stinging of the sea-water acting on his raw hands brought Martin back to his senses. He felt a surge of despair as he looked into the hold, now filled to its very brim with the water that lapped at the hatch.
‘Bail! Bail out the hold!’
The shouts of the captain and ship’s mate had the rest scurrying for buckets and pails, the first of which began to dip into the watery space and relieve it of its unwelcome liquid cargo. Progress was chaotic and slow, the ship continuing to bob and pitch with such violence and unpredictability that seldom would a full bucketload leaving the hold contain more than half of that by the time it was raised clear, the rest spilling back to whence it came. Martin tugged vainly on the rope. Surely what he was watching was a demonstration of the wrong priority being exercised? He looked once more over the bow of the ship. It was now almost a minute since the giant wave had struck. In the moonlight he could see no sign of any other approaching. He would have to take his chance, and take it now. The penalty would be a lifetime of never forgiving himself for not doing otherwise.
The others, to a man, were all studying the entrance in glum silence as he stripped off his jacket. He tried to slow his breathing down, inhaling longer, fuller lungfuls as he lifted his leg on to the side of the hatch. His foot in place, a spring off the deck with the other had him skipping up and over the side and plunging into the uncertain waters of the hold. They greeted him with an icy shock. Reaching for the rope as a guide, he pulled against it to go down deeper, tentatively feeling for the top of the original cargo with his legs. He tried to open his eyes, but they were useless, blinded and stung by the sea salt. All he could do was fight his way down, groping for any kind of familiar shape in the numbing cold.