The Devil's Own Luck (27 page)

It was full night now, which seemed to increase the sound and fury of the wind. The only light was that given off by the ship’s lanterns. Harry would have liked to ask their position, but he doubted that anyone really knew within ten miles. More important was their position when the action started. They had drifted some way to leeward during the fight, and the wind was now pushing them further in the same direction. With the sea as it was the best course was to run before it. But how far away was the Portuguese coast?

“I must run, Ludlow. I have no choice.” Harry was surprised that Carter had spoken to him, if you could call his shouted words speaking. He must badly need someone to talk to. “That foremast is badly damaged. I fear to put any strain on it.”

“How long can we run?”

“By my reckoning, not for too long. The master maintains that we have ample sea room, but he’s a fool.”

“Well, if you are right, you are going to have to try that mast some time. Would it not be better to do so in deep water?”

“A fine set of choices.”

Harry knew that Carter was not asking his advice. Perhaps he was weighing up the possibilities with the only man on board who knew something about ships yet did not expect a captain to be omniscient. Perhaps, with everyone in danger, it was no time to indulge in personal animosity.

The
Magnanime
ploughed on, her bowsprit diving deep into the angry waters before dragging itself out and up high into the air, sending a great cascade of water scudding aft. At least the spray was being blown forwards, giving them a clear view of the ship from the quarterdeck. Harry stood silently with Carter, his ears tuned to the sounds of the ship. Various officers and warrant officers came aft to report. The carpenter seemed to think that he had come upon the last of the holes, and he was busy plugging it now. Craddock reported that the pumps seemed to be gaining. Harry realized that Carter was waiting for the information to be generally favourable. As soon as it was, he would try that mast. Once again, Harry had to admit that the man was a good seaman.

His mind ran back over the recent battle. Carter could have beaten those Frenchmen. Perhaps he could not have taken both of them, but he could certainly have disabled one, and as this storm had turned out, he would have effectively sunk her. A successful action against odds of two to one! He would have been the hero of the nation, possibly knighted, and certainly voted a goodly sum by the Patriotic League. And his officers: Craddock would have gained his step, becoming at least a master and commander, with commensurate rises for the others. A good seaman, yes, but what an unimaginative fighter.

Craddock came aft to report that the pumps were now definitely gaining. Carter gave orders for all hands to come on deck to make sail. The men were weary. They had fought a hard battle, first against the French, and then against the damage and the elements. Harry would have tried to give them something hot before trying what Carter intended, something to revive their spirits, at the very least a tot of rum. But he dare not interfere. Unheard by Harry, Craddock must have suggested something similar.

“Again, Mr Craddock, you expose yourself again!” shouted Carter angrily. His voice was clearly audible above the wind. “I really cannot contend with a premier who so wants to coddle the hands. Now oblige me by giving the orders as I have outlined them.”

Craddock, his whiskers plastered to the side of his face, turned and raised his speaking trumpet. The orders roared out, men ran up the foremast shrouds, ready to drop the forecourse, reefed for the state of the weather. Some went further, above the wound in the foretopmast, now fished with the capstan bars. Others ran to bend on the spiritsail course and the flying jib, yet more to man the falls, ready to raise them to run between the bowsprit and the foremast. Everything was happening at once, for all the world as though the sea was calm and the mast intact. Again Harry felt those reservations that made him a different man from Carter. He would have taken things one at a time, exposing as few men as possible to danger. Perhaps that was what Craddock had suggested. To raise the triangular sails would give better steerage, but it would also put differing pressures on the mast. That might cause it to snap. If it did the men up there waiting to set some scraps of canvas from the foretopsail yard would be likely to go overboard with it.

The men started to haul on the lines and the spiritsail creaked up towards the foremast. The hands on deck sheeted it home. Harry realized that he was holding his breath. The mast held. Craddock ordered the forecastle cleared before shouting the orders for the topmen to let go. The hands let out one reef in the topsail, just enough to take the wind. Again everyone waited for the tearing sound of breaking wood. Again it held, and the progress of the ship was now smoother through the water, as the foretop-sails took some of the strain off the ship, driving her head forward as she emerged from the troughs in the waves and took the wind. Craddock called the hands down and issued instructions for all to be made secure.

Finally men were being sent below to get some rest. Pender again appeared silently, seeming to spring up from nowhere, this time with a mug of hot wine spiced with brandy. Harry drank it gratefully. He should go below. There was no reason for him to be on deck, let alone stay. This was not his ship. But he was apprehensive. He felt the presence of land, an instinct which many would deride. It was one common enough to seamen. Was that why Carter was still on deck. Could he feel it too?

“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.