Sea Robber (5 page)

As he stood by the helm, Hector glumly set aside any hope that this was where he and his friends might be able to leave the ship.

‘Not much of a place, is it?’ observed William Dampier morosely. As navigator, he was responsible for the landfall. Hector had always liked him. Long-faced and lugubrious, Dampier had sailed on the previous South Sea raid. He’d admitted to Hector that his real reason for voyaging with the buccaneers was not to win plunder, but to have the chance to observe and record the natural world. He kept notes of whatever caught his interest, whether plants or animals or local people and their customs, tides and the weather, and wrote his observations on scraps of paper, which he kept dry in a stoppered bamboo tube. Now he had a chart in his hand and was trying to identify exactly where they were.

‘It would help if we knew our latitude more accurately,’ he muttered.

‘Little chance of that. This overcast looks set,’ Hector observed.

There was sharpness in the air, a chill that had been increasingly noticeable these past few days. Hector was wearing a thick jacket and a heavy scarf purchased from a shipmate. The sultry warmth of the Guinea coast was a distant memory. Behind them lay 4,000 sea miles from Africa, covered in little more than six weeks.

‘Our first snow,’ muttered Dampier, shaking the chart to dislodge a flake that had drifted down on it.

‘What do you think? Should we attempt the Strait?’ The question came from Cook, who had joined them by the helm.

‘We’ll be sailing into dirty weather,’ replied Dampier. Ahead of the ship, the sky was turning a menacing blue-black as if a great bruise was slowly spreading up from the horizon. Flickers of sheet lightning lit the underbelly of a cloud bank forming in the far distance. To emphasize Dampier’s warning, a sudden gust of wind made the vessel heel abruptly, causing all three men to stagger and lose their balance.

‘Are you confident this is the entrance to the Strait?’ Cook asked.

‘As sure as I can be, with such poor charts,’ answered Dampier.

Cook chewed his lip. Hector had noticed the same habit when the captain had been thinking about stealing the
Carlsborg
.

Away to the south an expanse of blue-grey water was already churning into white caps. Turning to Hector, Cook asked, ‘You’ve been the other route, around the Cape. What did you think of it?’

‘We were travelling in the opposite direction and were lucky. We had an uneventful passage.’

‘Nothing like the fierce storms we hear so much about?’

‘Fresh winds, no more than that.’

‘Our ship swims better than most.’

Hector agreed. The Danish West India-Guinea Company would find it difficult to recognize their stolen vessel. After Cook and his men had turned their prisoners loose in the
Revenge
’s longboat, the buccaneers had set to work with saws and axes and chisels. The
Carlsborg
’s high poop deck had been ripped out. Next, the forecastle was dismantled. Anything that might slow the vessel in a chase or make her cranky in bad weather was discarded. Deckhouses were knocked down, topmasts shortened, twenty of her cannon lowered from the main deck and repositioned where once there had been a half-deck for stowing slaves. Gun ports were cut. Very soon the tall, stately merchant ship was transformed into a low, lean predator. When all was ready to receive them, the stores and supplies were shifted out of the
Revenge
, and the carpenters went back aboard their former home with their mauls and axes and smashed great holes in her lower strakes. The
Revenge
sank within an hour and left no trace.

In a final flourish the buccaneers chose a new name for their ship. At Cook’s suggestion, they called her the
Bachelor’s Delight
.

‘We’ll find it hard to beat up into the Strait,’ commented Dampier. A heavier flurry of snow swept across the water towards them. Hector shivered despite his warm clothing.

Cook made up his mind. ‘Then let us trust in the
Delight
. We’ll not use the Strait, but go around the Cape. That way we avoid bad weather here, and there’s less chance the Spaniards will detect our arrival.’ He patted Hector on the shoulder. ‘And you, young man, can give us the benefit of your experience.’

Dampier handed Hector the chart. The tip of the continent, the Land of Fire, was drawn in uncertain outline. Large spaces had been left blank. Various islands and channels had been added in such a way that they looked suspiciously like guesswork. Hector placed his finger well below the final cape.

‘To be safe, we should go here, to fifty-eight degrees, before we turn to the west.’

‘But there we risk meeting ice islands.’

‘Better than running into cliffs,’ grunted Dampier.

C
OOK
’
S DECISION
appeared to be a good one. For the next ten days the skies remained cloudy and the temperature continued to fall, but the crew of the
Bachelor’s Delight
had an easy time. With a favourable breeze on her quarter, the ship pressed forward through a sea that teemed with whales, seals and penguins, and there was scarcely any need to trim the sails.

‘Not long before we are in the glorious Pacific,’ gloated Jacques. He had emerged from the galley where he had been concocting a stockfish broth. Prone to seasickness, he was relieved to have a steady deck beneath his feet.

‘We don’t know what the currents are doing. They might be pushing us off-course,’ observed Hector uneasily. The weather seemed too settled and favourable. He looked questioningly at Dan, who had been watching a small school of dolphins for the past half-hour. The animals had been cavorting energetically, close beside the ship. Now they had moved farther out and were showing themselves less often. Oddly, though, the sound they made as they emptied their lungs was just as loud.

‘They know a storm is brewing. They are warning us,’ said Dan.

‘Then they would be better off speaking with our captain,’ said Jacques, who was sceptical of sea lore. Hector, however, respected Dan’s opinion. Like many of his people, the Miskito had an uncanny ability to read sea signs.

Making his way to the quarterdeck, Hector found Cook already making preparations for heavy weather. The mast stays were to be doubled, and the anchors brought inboard to reduce the strain when the vessel pitched in a head sea. All the remaining deck cannon were to be sent down into the hold of the ship to increase stability.

Shifting the heavy guns was delicate, dangerous work and it took almost the entire day before the artillery was safely stowed and lashed, the covers over the deck hatches doubled, and the storm canvas brought up from the sail lockers. ‘Your Indian friend was right,’ said Cook. Sinister black clouds were stacking up ahead of the ship, and the sea had turned an ominous, sullen grey. A succession of steep, hollow swells was building. Each time the ship sank into a trough, Hector had the feeling that the ocean was mustering its strength, waiting to unleash its full power. ‘Tell our cook to prepare hot food while he still can,’ Cook ordered, ‘I fear we are in for a long blow.’

By nightfall the first violent squalls were striking. They came out of the south, sudden angry blasts of wind that buffeted the
Bachelor’s Delight
, sweeping away anything that hadn’t been securely fastened down. Jacques could be heard cursing in the galley, as his largest cauldron tipped, slopping out the soup and dousing the cookhouse fire. The ship’s crew were experienced mariners, and a sense of foreboding settled over them as they listened to the steadily rising sound of the wind.

By midnight it had shifted and was coming out of the west, the direction in which they had hoped to progress. It moaned ceaselessly in the rigging as it rose to a full gale. The advancing swells heaped higher until they began to break, tumbling forward in lines of broken water. Sail was reduced to a minimum as the
Delight
rode out the onslaught. It took four men to manage the helm and steer the ship so that she sidled across the ranks of waves. Soon the seas became so steep that the vessel lay back at an alarming angle as she rose, then tilted and plunged forward as the crest passed under her and the bowsprit plunged deep into the water.

‘Thank God we’re not aboard the
Revenge
now,’ Dampier shouted to Hector above the roar of the wind. ‘She would have shaken to pieces.’

The two men were on the quarterdeck at daybreak, taking turns as members of the watch and trying to shelter from the constant spray whipping into their faces. There was an unexpected curse from one of the helmsmen. ‘Spritsail’s gone. Can’t hold her steady,’ he roared. Looking forward down the length of the ship, Hector saw that the tiny sail set on its own small spar far in the bows had been torn away. It no longer served to help balance the ship’s steering.

‘Bo’sun, take two men and see what can be done,’ yelled Cook above the din as the helmsmen struggled to keep the vessel heading safely into the oncoming waves.

Moments later Hector found himself alongside Jezreel, struggling forward to reach the crippled sail. Hand over hand, he pulled himself along one of the ropes rigged for the safety of those moving about the heaving deck. A rogue wave swirled over the gunwale and he clung on tightly as the surge of water dragged at his legs, trying to sweep him overboard.

They reached the wreckage of the spritsail and its spar where they lay across the bow. The boatswain was an ex-fisherman named Evans and had a lifetime of experience in dealing with such situations. One look at the waterlogged tangle and he tugged a knife from his belt and began to cut through the ropes. Hector knelt beside him and followed his example. ‘Hang on,’ bellowed Jezreel as the ship lunged forward, driving into a roaring mass of water that submerged Hector entirely.

He held his breath and gripped tightly to the damaged sail, waiting for the ship to rise. The water poured off him, and he was free once more to saw away with his blade at the sodden cordage. Half a dozen times the bow dipped, and the sea sluiced over him, before he felt the knife cut right through and the tangle of sail and spar and rigging begin to shift. Still on his knees, he slid back out of the way to allow the wreckage to drop overboard. Beside him Jezreel gave another warning cry. But it was too late. A loose rope wrapped itself around the boatswain’s ankle and, as the ruined spritsail went over the side, it dragged the sailor with it. There was a despairing shriek, and Hector had a glimpse of Evans’ white face as he looked up towards the ship.

The
Bachelor’s Delight
was barely moving forward through the water. Her motion was only a tremendous, wild swoop and heave as she rode out the seas. Just yards away, the spar and spritsail stayed afloat. Evans swam, his head above water. His sea coat of oiled canvas had trapped the air and ballooned and was floating like a glistening bladder around his shoulders. Hector rose to his feet and fled back towards the quarterdeck. ‘Man in the water,’ he shouted, pointing. The helmsmen had already seen the accident. Several sailors were at the rail, trying to throw ropes to the floundering man. But the ropes fell short, and for the space of several minutes the wretched boatswain lay floundering in the water, one leg pinioned within the flotsam, still swimming strongly. But with each succeeding wave he gradually drifted away in the gale. The gap was growing wider and wider.

‘Can’t bring her up any more into the wind,’ bawled the chief helmsman. ‘The steering doesn’t answer.’

Appalled, the remaining members of the watch could only gaze on as Evans was swept slowly out of view. Another two or three minutes passed and he could no longer be seen among the spume and spray.

‘Even double earrings didn’t save him,’ muttered a grizzled sailor, turning away from the rail, his face hard-set. Evans had worn gold hoops in both ears in the common belief that an earring would save a sailor from drowning.

‘We still have ourselves to worry about,’ barked Dampier. ‘The wind’s picking up. The storm isn’t yet at its worst.’

As he spoke, the mizzensail shredded above his head. The canvas split into a dozen sodden rags, which thrashed back and forth, cracking like whips. Then they ripped loose and whirled away downwind. The bolt rope that had edged the sail lasted only a moment longer, before it too disintegrated and vanished. The gale increased to a hurricane. It raged out of the west, screaming through the rigging, and by mid-afternoon the seas had grown higher than anything even the most experienced sailor on board had witnessed. Solid walls of water reared up and loomed over the labouring ship. The
Bachelor’s Delight
lay under bare poles, scarcely managing to stay afloat. She rose to each wave, staggered as the crests struck her and skewed sideways. It was suicidal now to try to reach the foredeck. Again and again the sea washed over her, thundering along the deck in a swirling mass and bursting its way under the hatch covers. From there it poured below, adding to the water leaking in through the seams as the
Delight
’s hull flexed in the raging sea. Four men at a time, the crew took their turn at the wooden handle of the ship’s pump and desperately tried to stop the level of water rising in the footwell. They knew that if they failed, the
Delight
would founder.