by Meg Keneally
The sailor approached her slowly, as though she might be dangerous. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing up here, miss – some of the lads think you’re touched,’ he called above the howl of the wind. ‘But you’re to get below now. Captain’s orders!’
She stared at him, and he stared back with his head to the side, perhaps wondering if she was indeed touched. Then she nodded to him and picked her way across the tilting, rain-slick deck to the ladder below.
CHAPTER 15
The rain kept thickening, and the winds kept building, while most passengers kept to their cabins. They were accompanied, in those last days of the journey, by vast grey creatures, monstrous in their appearance but not, apparently, in their nature. They made no move to attack the boat; in fact, at times they seemed to be sporting with it, keeping pace, sometimes lurking just under the surface, testing it occasionally with their tails and slapping the water for some imagined offence. Or they would miraculously propel their vast bulks all the way out of the water so that Sarah could see their white, grooved throats.
The route of the ship was hugging the land fairly closely now, a coastline of honeyed stone, crumbled like biscuit, under continual assault from the sea. Boulders had been shaved off the cliffs and deposited into the water, some forming platforms on which seals lazed. The cliffs seemed to suffer still from their wounds, sharp and jutting in places, the litter of stone spiky and ragged along their base.
The rain had not left, nor had the wind. Sarah had grown used to crouching and extending her legs to absorb the worst of the ship’s bucking. She had even begun to enjoy it.
Earlier that day, Sarah had tempted Maisie on deck to see the whales. Maisie, never really comfortable on the sea, had given a stiff little smile and said of course she’d be delighted. Increasingly Sarah craved the girl’s company, as Maisie could usually be relied on to share Sarah’s amazement at the strange sights that greeted them on their journey. But if the whales were still accompanying them, the girls could not see through the pounding rain. ‘Do you know,’ said Maisie after a while, ‘I do think I’d be better off below. I’m afraid my stomach is not enjoying the view.’
Sarah remained there, staring into the grey until the water had seeped into her clothes.
‘They do think you’re fey, you know,’ said Coombes, coming up beside her.
‘Good. Probably keeps them away.’
‘Oh yes. Most of ’em wouldn’t be up here if they had a choice. Why don’t I take you below? If only to save the lads the embarrassment of the sight of a girl handling the ocean better than them.’
‘In a minute, perhaps. I have to see the captain.’
Coombes snorted. ‘He’s sleeping off the lunchtime rum. Don’t wake him, we’ll need him if this storm gets any worse.’
‘How long till we arrive?’
‘Tomorrow. Later tonight if the weather clears, which would be a miracle.’
‘Will you take me to him, then? I need to collect . . . some things he promised me.’
Coombes frowned. ‘Which are?’
Sarah sighed. She had not told anyone, of course, about the rifles. The information sat within her, pulsing and stretching and pushing to get out. She knew, though, that if either of the men were honest with her, it was more likely to be Coombes.
‘Rifles. I’m to deliver them where they’ll be put to use. To those who know when to use them, to best effect, to deliver the loudest possible message.’
Coombes chuckled and shook his head.
‘I wasn’t trying to amuse you,’ she snapped.
‘And you haven’t. Told you to call at the tavern, did he?’
Sarah stared at him. She was surprised that he knew, but it also showed her that she had been right to confide in him.
‘I was afraid of this,’ Coombes said. ‘Can’t help himself. He’s not what he was, our captain. Got sick of looking at those he hated riding in fine carriages that splashed him with mud. Decided if they could find profit in tyranny, he should be able to find it in rebellion.’ The first mate grasped her shoulder, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I will not have this happen. I will not see you hanged to put coins in Watkins’s pocket.’
‘Hanged?’
‘Well, the fellow at that tavern will take the arms from you and thank you kindly for them. And they will be distributed. Not to the children of freedom, though, but to landowners and smallholders and anyone else who doesn’t feel like paying duty on them. These men will pay the fellow from the tavern, and he will find a way to get the money back to Watkins. And should the local constabulary find out, our captain runs very little risk of being caught.’
Sarah clenched her teeth, then bit into her tongue as she imagined Sam might have done on the gallows, the blood trickling down her throat. Her brother had died for ideals that to Watkins simply represented a chance to earn a profit.
‘Take me to him,’ she said, resisting the temptation to scream the words.
Coombes nodded and gestured for her to follow him. As they approached Watkins’s cabin, she noticed the deck tilting a little more violently than she had ever seen before.
When Coombes rapped at the cabin door, Watkins roared, ‘Go to blazes!’
‘Would like to oblige, captain, but Miss Marin is here to see you. She seems agitated.’
There were a few thumps before the door was yanked open by Watkins, in his breeches and shod but with his white shirt loose and unlaced at the front. He looked over Combes’s shoulder. ‘Miss Marin. I do hope you understand, this is not a terribly convenient time.’
Sarah pushed past Coombes into the cabin, which was in even more disarray than usual. The small sleeping alcove off to the side, usually shielded from view by a curtain, showed signs that Watkins had only recently arisen from his bed, sheets strewn on the floor and soaking up some of the water that the rain and the movement of the ship forced in even here. Stacks of papers sat unsteadily on the green baize chart table, while others had fallen off and lay tumbled together, scrolls rolling backwards and forwards.
‘Come now, Miss Marin,’ Watkins said, ‘I’m sure Mr Coombes can assist you with whatever it is you want.’
‘I’m not sure that Coombes can,’ said the first mate.
‘He can’t, unless he has guns,’ said Sarah. ‘The ones you want me to deliver? That are to be used for an uprising?’
‘Ah, well, I rather thought that transfer might happen after we dock,’ Watkins said. ‘And really, there is quite a lot to do between now and then, so . . .’
‘The ones that were going to be sold on,’ she continued. ‘The ones I could have been arrested for in your place.’
Watkins glared at Coombes, who shrugged.
‘Someone has been making up stories, I see. Very bad for morale aboard ship. You know, Mr Coombes, how I deal with that.’
‘The sea might deal with us all before you get a chance to,’ said Coombes. ‘New parts are generally not replaced with rusted ones, especially those that fix the rudder to the stern.’
Watkins drew himself up, his nostrils flaring. ‘You, Mr Coombes, will be dealt with. You will be put ashore in Sydney, and you will not be making the return voyage with me or any other captain.’
‘I’ll be dealt with, eh? I have lied for you. Spent the coin of other people’s trust on your behalf, so you remain unsullied but everyone looks sideways at the shifty first mate. I’ve put to sea with you, knowing the ship is not as sound as it could be. But now you want to send this lass – after what she has lost – into a tavern she may never come out of! Put me ashore if you must. I could tell quite an interesting story, with all that time to myself in Sydney.’
As Watkins stepped forward, he looked as though he would attack Coombes if the ship’s movement let him.
Sarah put herself between the men. ‘I will be taking the weapons, and I will be finding another home for them.’
‘You will not, my dear,’ said Watkins. ‘I’m sorry but I cannot allow it.’
Sarah had, since girlho
od, been told what others would or would not allow. Such words only lay comfortably in the mouths of tyrants.
‘I, too, have an interesting story to tell,’ she said.
‘So interesting that it would end with your neck in a noose,’ the captain retorted. ‘And which of us will they believe – a mysterious girl no one saw until the voyage was underway, a girl of no family, a girl no one will miss, or a captain of good standing?’
‘Quite poor standing, according to the Sydney harbourmaster,’ said Coombes. ‘He’s always thought you were a bit of a loose one. Willing to take the risk?’
‘Oh, and I want my token, too.’ Sarah nodded to the seachest lying on its side on the floor, presumably flung from the table by the rocking of the ship.
Watkins barked a laugh. ‘Been meaning to throw it overboard – wouldn’t do to be caught with it. I’m sure that if you take it, you’ll soon see your brother again.’
This man was willing to twist Sam’s death into a threat. She inhaled a great gulp of air at the thought, expelling it as she lunged towards him.
Coombes drew in a sharp breath and reached out to stop her. She was quicker, though she had no thought of what she would do to Watkins. Some damage, hopefully – a punctured eye, a scratched cheek.
The ship gave a violent lurch, and she and Coombes barely kept their balance. Watkins was jolted onto his back, sliding across the floor and cracking his head against a leg of the chart table. He groaned, showing he was not completely insensible. Sarah could not quite decide whether this was good news or bad. Everyone’s survival, after all, depended on a competent captain.
When Coombes gently shoved her out the door, she needed no further urging.
CHAPTER 16
Out on the deck, those who normally stayed below in foul weather were emerging. The cabins were claustrophobic enough, and when one was being rocked about and knocked into walls they felt a little too much like coffins.
Maisie, now in her nightdress, kept wiping the water from her eyes as the rain added more. White as an apparition, wide-eyed, her hair smeared across her face, she whipped her head from one side to the other. Sarah ran up to her, taking off her sodden shawl and draping it over Maisie’s shoulders. Maisie’s soaked nightdress was revealing more than the young woman would have tolerated had her terror not choked off any rational thought.
‘Here,’ Sarah said, moving towards the port rail, ‘we’ll be safe over here. We can see what the crew is doing, and we can hang on.’
She spied Watkins stepping out of the door that led to his cabin, pulling his blue jacket over his still untucked shirt, followed by Coombes. The captain was looking about, presumably for his crew, who were scrabbling across the deck in what did not seem a coordinated fashion. His eyes skidded over her, wide in the small ration of light that the clouds let through. Then he dashed to the wheel and screamed at the two sailors trying to control it. ‘Keep your luff! Steer nearer the wind!’ Then, in a screech that exceeded that of the gale: ‘All hands square away!’
It was a language Sarah did not speak, had no hope of understanding. His howls were met, though, with immediate action from the crew.
More passengers were emerging, wrapped in cloaks or shawls or coats over their nightclothes, some men hiding their terror by demanding information from the crew.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Sarah said to Maisie. ‘Storms are like children – they make a lot of fuss then quieten down. Don’t be frightened.’
‘I’m not frightened,’ said Maisie, gripping the rail as the ship’s prow suddenly pointed upwards, climbing a wave that disappeared underneath them and sent the vessel crashing into the water. A gout of ocean spread across the deck.
The lookouts fore and aft were yelling now – not to each other but to anyone within hearing range. ‘South Head!’ they cried. ‘Can anyone see South Head?’
The dim afternoon light, whatever managed to penetrate the clouds, made it hard to see, but the shape of the cliff was still visible. Sarah had no idea what South Head was, but she squinted and hoped she would know it when she saw it.
Was that a light? She stared at it until she was sure it was there, then turned to see if anyone was close by. Figures were moving behind the rain, but she could not see their faces. She inhaled, drawing in water vapour along with air, and screamed as loud as she could. ‘A light! A light, there on the cliff!’
One of the shadows came closer, Watkins’s face emerging through the rain. He peered in the direction she was pointing. Then he whipped around, stalking back to the wheel with Sarah scrambling after him. ‘The light at South Head!’ he called as he passed groups of sailors. ‘We just have to keep off the rocks a little longer!’
‘The prisoners,’ Sarah said, ‘have they been rail-ironed for the night? Tell the soldiers not to!’
‘I have more immediate concerns!’ the captain shouted.
Another shape appeared through the rain, white hands grasping at Watkins’s sleeve. Mrs Simkin cried out, ‘Are we doomed?’
He shook off her hand. ‘Not if you allow me to attend to my duties, madam,’ he said, turning again to the wheel. ‘And I suggest you ask your husband to attend to his – a little divine assistance with the elements would be welcome.’
One of the lookouts called so loudly that he must have scalded his throat. ‘Breakers! Breakers, there!’
‘Starboard!’ screamed Watkins. ‘Breakers abeam, hard a-starboard!’
Sarah looked over the side of the ship. Lines of white foam were appearing and disappearing, keeling over onto themselves. These were not the whitecaps of the open ocean; these were the sentinels of the shore.
Another scream, broken by the wind, from the men at the wheel. ‘Won’t move . . . jammed . . . change course . . .’
Maisie gripped Sarah’s arm. ‘Can they . . . can they not steer the ship?’
‘They’ve been able to so far, I don’t see why they can’t—’
Maisie’s expression stopped her, and she turned to look.
The light she had seen was closer now, almost in front of them rather than off to the side. Then, rushing towards them, looming out of the dark, was the jagged, indifferent face of the cliff, almost close enough to touch.
The men at the wheel were trying to haul it while Watkins screamed at them as though they weren’t putting in enough effort. Sarah could see no hopeful sign of the ship’s prow thrusting towards the open ocean.
The cliff seemed to hover for an instant, perhaps deciding whether or not to take the ship. Then there came a rumbling and a screech and a crack like a cannon blast, and the mightiest of all jolts.
The impact knocked Sarah and Maisie off their feet, sending them on their backs to the starboard rail along with everyone on deck. Someone’s foot hit Sarah’s temple on the journey, and when she shook her head enough to clear it, she saw that some had travelled faster than others, nearly vaulting the rail. Maisie was lying next to her, moaning.
Sarah could hear a desperate shout, almost a screech. ‘Help! Help!’
The ship had recoiled from the cliff, landing on submerged rocks and tilting so that the starboard rail was at an angle. Dangling from the wrong side of the rail, each hand grasping the opposite wrist so his arms made a loop around it, was Coombes. ‘Help!’ he yelled again, his hands slipping, his wrists emerging from his slick grip.
Sarah manoeuvred onto her haunches and dragged herself along the diagonal uprights towards him. Before she could get there, the ship was lifted again by the ocean. As its port hull had already been breached, it didn’t float properly but pitched over, sending people hurtling towards the now-damaged rail.
Sarah was dimly aware of shapes sliding through the gap that had appeared in the rail. She whipped her head around to find that Maisie thankfully remained next to her, pale and wide-eyed and panting.
Watkins was still shouting commands at sailors who might already be dead, while he hauled on the wheel as though steering from the cliffs would make any differen
ce now.
Coombes had somehow clambered back aboard during the last lurch and was pulling people to relative safety in the middle of the deck.
Sarah heard a low groan. At first she thought it might be from a passenger, but this sound, long and undulating, was loud enough to be heard well above the wind. It was followed by a crack, and the mainmast toppled across the deck towards the bow. One of the older sailors was pinned, unmoving. The sails came down too, the first shroud for a few other bodies that had not yet been washed over.
Sarah took Maisie by the shoulders. ‘Can you swim?’
Maisie stared back with blank eyes.
‘Maisie, can you swim?!’
‘Yes, but . . . but we are safer here than in the ocean. Aren’t we?’
‘No, dear. In there, we might at least have a chance.’
Maisie looked over the rail into the churning water, then back at Sarah. Her eyes were not fixed on anything. Her mouth was slack.
Another wave hit the ship, and more people lost their footing, slipping towards the gap in the starboard rail, their hands scrabbling, using the last air in their lungs to scream, nails uselessly digging into the deck as they slid over the side.
There was, maybe, a minute until the next wave hit. Each one wrapped around more ankles, filled more mouths and noses, tugged more people into the sea.
‘You must trust me,’ Sarah told Maisie. ‘We are going over here now.’ She half helped, half dragged her friend towards the gap in the rail created by the first impact.
When Maisie saw where they were going, she began shaking her head, pulling backwards. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No-no-no-no-no.’ Each syllable was longer, more guttural than the one before, until the last came out in a moan.
It was a matter of seconds before the next wave hit. Sarah put her arms around Maisie, and Maisie put her head on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Dear heart, I am sorry, but we will die if we stay here,’ she said, and then stepped sideways into the air, taking Maisie with her.
The freezing water ripped them from each other. Sarah emerged into air so thick with vapour it hardly deserved the name. She whipped her head around looking for Maisie, wanting to tear her hair out as it slapped across her face, filling her mouth. She croaked out her friend’s name, knowing she had no hope of being heard over the gale, the crash of the waves and the screams from the ship.