Harry clung to the rigging as the mast described figures of eight across the sky. He had a sudden image in his mind of clinging to the tip of the baton wielded by the conductor of an orchestra. Despite the motion, he managed to hold the bearing of the fat merchantman, her damage still shrouded by the night. At last he heard the voice of the third Lieutenant. “We have her now, Mister Heron. You may come down.”
Gratefully, for the night cold was now striking through his uniform coat, Harry slid down to the gangway and stumbled aft to the quarterdeck. Returning the night glass to its rack, he reported to the Lieutenant.
“Well done, Harry,” said Lieutenant Beasley. “We’ll be up on them soon now. It looks as if they will require some help in making their ship seaworthy enough to reach land.”
“Aye, sir.” Harry glanced at the boat tiers where the boatswain was busy with a number of men preparing to hoist out one of the large cutters. “Will we take them off, sir?”
“Likely,” replied the Lieutenant. “Mister Bell will take the quarterboat across first to ascertain what assistance is needed.”
He walked away to confer with the sailing master and Harry turned his attention to the shadowy outline of the distressed ship.
The merchantman was very low in the water and moved sluggishly in response to the sea. He could now see that her foremast had sheered below the foretop and the main had evidently failed at the main top. The vessel’s mizzen had been lost in its entirety. As the distance closed between them, further damage became apparent with gaps in her gangway and bulwarks where the masts had torn away parts as they fell.
Harry studied the ship closely, noting her high poop and the ornate gingerbread decorating her aftercastle and the beakhead. A voice beside him made him start.
“A Dutch Indiaman,” commented Captain Blackwood. “And an old one at that. I’m surprised she is still in service.”
“Aye, sir,” said Harry, touching his hat. “I beg pardon, sir, I do not believe I have ever seen a ship of that type before.”
“Then look well, for there are not many left. Most have been rebuilt or lost—this one is well past her intended service.”
He indicated the high poop and added, “Those high sterncastles made them unhandy ships, and their draft is shallow to allow for their native waters in the Low Country. I wonder what brought her this far south.”
DAWN SPREAD ITS EARLY LIGHT SLOWLY, THE ROSY GLOW extending across the horizon and causing the master to mutter that it presaged a further blow. The light revealed the full extent of the damage to the Spartan’s companion. Not only had she had her masts carried away, but these had torn away sections of her bulwarks, and staved in her planking deep below the water.
“She’s taking water faster than the pumps can remove it,” reported the first Lieutenant on his return. “They were dismasted in the gales four days ago, and her master fears she cannot be saved.” Frowning, he added, “She has passengers aboard as well, several ladies and children who were to join their families in Java. At most, I believe she can be kept afloat for another day, no longer. Her master asks that we save his people.”
“Very well,” said Captain Blackwood. “Mister Wentworth says there is another gale coming. See to it, Thomas.”
“Very good, sir,” responded the first. “Mister Rae, take the cutters; Mister Barclay and Mister Bowles can take the smaller boats.”
Three hours later, Spartan reset her topsails and gathered way. With the pumps now idle, the Oliphant gave up her fight against the sea as they bore away to regain the convoy and resume their course to Botany Bay.
Captain Blackwood stood beside the Dutch Captain as he watched his old ship settle slowly, leaning ever closer to the water, until with a great rush of air and spray through her hatches, she rolled beneath the surface.
“Mijn oude schiff is no more,” Captain te Water said sadly. “De Oliphant was een goede Schiff. Oud, maar gesond.”
“It is a sad thing indeed to lose a ship,” agreed Captain Blackwood. “Now, sir, my first Lieutenant, Mister Bell, has made arrangements for you and your passengers. We are bound for Botany Bay, and I am sure you will find a ship to take you to your destination from there, or perhaps a return to the Cape.”
“T’ank you, Captain.” The Dutchman managed a smile. “You and your men haf been goet. Ve vill assist you vere ve can. Mijn manne vill be villing to vork if I tell zem.”
“Thank you, Captain. I am sure my officers will find tasks for them, perhaps with the assistance of your own.” He nodded. “Perhaps you will join me for some refreshment below. I’m afraid my quarters have been given over to the ladies from your ship, but the chartroom will serve us.”
IN THE GUNROOM, HARRY WAS ASSIGNED TO TAKE CARE of seven boys, all of whom were younger than his own thirteen summers. Midshipman Bowles said, “Harry, these fellows need showing how we do things; take them in hand and deal with it, there’s a good fellow.”
“Aye, aye,” Harry said agreeably. He studied the exhausted youngsters, their eyes bright with fear or excitement, and wondered how he could coax them into letting down their guard and relaxing a bit. He smiled at the eldest boy and said, “I’m Harry.” He held out his hand. “What is your name?”
For a moment, the boy stared at his hand, suspicion and incomprehension chasing each other across his face, and then he solemnly took Harry’s hand and said, “Ik is Pieterzoon.”
Harry smiled and said, “Pleased to meet you. Now I expect you are hungry and find our arrangements rather strange.” The look of incomprehension warned him that the boy did not understand, so he tried miming eating and added, “Are you hungry?”
The puzzled look was replaced by a brief smile at his comical exaggeration and a nod. “Ja, ja asteblief.”
Harry led his charges to the table. To his relief, Ferghal O’Connor hurried across and asked, “Would you like me to see if I can get something from the cook, Master Harry?”
“If you please, Ferghal, some biscuit and some lime juice perhaps, and something warm. I expect they have had a cold time of it.”
Ferghal was not long away, returning with a large steaming pannikin and several bowls. Placing these on the table he said, “I’ll fetch some biscuit, Master Harry, but Cook said to let them have this bread porridge to begin.”
“Thank you.” Harry smiled and accepted the bowls. “Please thank the cook for me.” He turned to the Dutch boys and said, “Here, Pieterzoon. Let your fellows try some of this; it is made from ship’s biscuit and is quite acceptable.” He ladled a helping into a bowl and offered it to the boy.
The other studied it with a mixture of interest and distaste. The boys accepted the offering just as Ferghal returned with a pitcher and a box of biscuits. Harry had a hard task to refrain from laughing as Pieterzoon tasted the porridge, but hunger overcame his reluctance and he nodded. “Dank Uwe wel.” He said something to the others and they accepted bowls from Ferghal and beakers of juice.
Harry noted with interest that they seemed to know how to deal with weevilled biscuits. Then it was time to find them a corner of the space he and the younger midshipmen occupied on the gundeck in which to make their beds. Reluctantly he gave up his own tiny cubbyhole and showed Pieterzoon and two of the smallest boys how to make themselves comfortable in it.
“I’ll make up a hammock for you, shall I?” asked Ferghal when he saw this. “And perhaps for these others next to your cubby?”
Pieterzoon, watching this exchange as Harry stripped his few small mementos from the cubby, suddenly said, “Ik slaap hier met Uwe—die klienes slaap binne.” He moved his own bundle to Harry’s chest and spoke to the rest of the boys in their own language.
Ferghal caught his meaning and said, “Aye, Master Harry, it makes sense. If I rig two hammocks in the cubby for them, the smallest can share them and the others on the deck. I’ll attend to it.”
Harry was in the middle of explaining this to Pieterzoon with gestures and carefully chosen word
s when Midshipman Barclay arrived.
Loudly he demanded of Ferghal, “Stop wasting time on these brats and get me some food.” He glared at Harry. “Another favoured task! I’ll change that quick enough. Peterson can deal with it, and you can take his duties while he does. Go and fetch him.”
Harry was about to protest when another voice cut in. “Stay where you are, Harry. Eamon, I told Harry to deal with this, and I see he’s given up his berth to them. More than you or Peterson would do.” Tom Bowles’s voice was as cold as ice, and Barclay flushed dangerously. “Perhaps you’d care to discuss it with Mister Bell.”
“That’s right, always stand up for your favourite,” snarled Barclay. “You can’t protect him forever.”
“If you have an accusation to make, take it to Mister Beasley or Mister Rogers. I’m sick of your insinuations and your constant bullying of our juniors.” Tom turned to Harry. “Now then, tell me what you have done.”
Harry told him.
“Good, report to Mister Bell your arrangements. O’Connor, rig a small screen for Mister Heron and,” he indicated the Dutch boy hovering at Harry’s chest, “a hammock for this young gentleman.” He seated himself and drew out his journal. “If you need anything, see the boatswain.”
On deck, Harry found the first Lieutenant engaged in conferring with one of the Dutch ship’s officers. The wind had increased in strength, and the topmen were piped aloft even as he reported his actions. Glancing aft he saw a huge bird soaring along the crest of a swell. Fascinated he followed its flight.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” said the third Lieutenant. “The great wandering albatross. Do you know that they are said never to land?”
“Aye, sir, though Mister Bentley says it is not true,” he replied. “Though no man knows where they do land.” Watching the majestic bird, he marvelled at its seeming mastery of its element.
The storm, when it broke upon them, was fierce, and the topmen struggled aloft to secure sails, replace fraying halliards or to further shorten sail, whichever was needed. Little could be seen of the other ships, and the hardship of their human cargo could only be imagined. Day followed day until a weak sun broke through the storm wrack and the winds subsided. Once the ship was restored to her usual state of order, Captain Blackwood gave permission for a make and mend.
From his favourite perch in the foretop, Harry listened to the strains of Ferghal’s fiddle along with another, a fife and a sound he had last heard in Chatham. He looked down at the fo’c’s’le and saw the small figure of Pieterzoon plying a bellows-like device that he realised must be the accordion, which Ferghal had once spoken of. Truly, Harry thought as he watched and listened, music is the one language all can understand—a language of mariners and perhaps of the very stars themselves.
Chapter 24
Tempest
Captain Blackwood gripped the nettings as the ship heeled steeply under the thrust of the howling southwesterly gale. The Spartan staggered as another gust caught the triple-reefed topsails. Topmen worked overhead to secure the maincourse, which was showing dangerous signs of working loose as the gale explored the tight holds of the furled canvas. In the mizzen rigging, other hands struggled to replace one of the topping lift tackles that had suddenly parted earlier in the predawn of this storm-wracked day. In these latitudes, the wind was typically very powerful. There was little to disturb the force of it between the shores of South America and New South Wales, but at the beginning of the summer season in the Southern Hemisphere, storms such as this were supposedly rare.
The Captain glanced around the quarterdeck, taking note of the positions of his Lieutenants as they encouraged their men at their tasks. His gaze paused for a moment on the figure of Midshipman Heron, diligently recording something on the watch keeper’s slate at the binnacle under the watchful eye of Sailing Master Josiah Wentworth. He caught the exchange of some comment between the young midshipman and the youth watching the half-hour glass. He recognised the boy as O’Connor, the Irish fiddle player who entertained them from time to time with his enthusiastic and skilful playing.
The first Lieutenant approached and touched his hat. “The wind is steady, sir, no change in either the direction or the strength in the last hour. The master thinks it has peaked.”
“Very good, Thomas. These seas are monstrous, but the distance between the waves makes it easier to rise to them. How is the helm? There is a danger of broaching as they pass.”
“Indeed, sir. Having only our fore and main topsails drawing with the headsails seems to have eased the strain on the helm.” The first Lieutenant smiled as a burst of spray rose above the nettings and slashed across the gangway, penetrating the gratings on the upper gun deck. Both he and the Captain were soaked despite their oiled coats. “It’s lively work, sir, but we have logged above ten knots on the last three casts of the logline. The ship is flying even under such reduced canvas.”
“As you say, Thomas, but I fear for some of our charges. The Maid of Selsey had unsound timbers when we inspected her in Simon’s Bay, and though they made some repairs, I do not believe she will bear too much of this.”
The Captain changed the subject. “How do our people fare, and our Dutch passengers? I do not see Mister Heron’s youthful shadow about today.”
“I believe the gunroom’s guests have been placed with the ladies in your quarters for the moment, sir. With the galley fire being dowsed, we have had no hot meal since yesterday, but the men are in good spirits. Captain Te Water and his officers have been a great help and taken care of their passengers.”
“Good.”
The Captain watched as another huge sea lifted the ship from astern, the force of the water and the increasing thrust in the sails propelling the ship forward. He caught sight of Midshipman Barclay and called, “Mister Barclay! Attend me, sir.”
“Sir.” Eamon Barclay hurried to the quarterdeck and touched his hat just as a burst of spray sailed over the nettings, driving a stinging blast into his face.
“Take a glass to the maintop and see if you can spy our convoy. I wish to know their positions relative to our own, if you please.”
Barclay’s face paled slightly under his tanned skin. He touched his hat again and said, “Aye, aye, sir.” He hated clambering about in the rigging, especially in these conditions.
The first Lieutenant watched the midshipman depart. Barclay’s bullying and inclination to shirk responsibility made him unpopular among the officers and the men. But Thomas Bell could find pity for the burly young man who did not have a good head for heights or the agility to be comfortable in the rigging.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir,” Thomas said to the Captain, “I must see the carpenter and the boatswain. We have been taking a little water, and I have several matters I want checked.” He indicated the gunner and his mates going from gun to gun, checking and sometimes securing the guns. “So far we have been lucky.”
“Lucky, Thomas?” The Captain smiled despite his fatigue. “Do you not think it owes something to the efforts you and the others have put into ensuring everything is secure? Do not think I am unappreciative.”
AT HIS POST BY THE GREAT DOUBLE WHEEL, Harry shivered in his sodden coat as another burst of spray drove across the deck. These southern seas were hardly the balmy sun-drenched paradise he had expected. Even here, partly sheltered under the break of the poop, the wind found ways to drive the stinging spray into his eyes and against every bit of exposed skin. He glanced at Ferghal, in little more than a sodden shirt and canvas trousers, as he diligently watched the half-hour glass. The ship’s stern lifted yet again as another huge sea surged beneath their keel.
“Watch your helm,” snapped Mister Wentworth, throwing his own weight on the spokes as the ship surged down the face of the swell, threatening to veer sharply from her course.
There was a moment of discomfort as the deck canted and the ship hung between plunge and roll, fighting to swing to starboard against the efforts of the helm
smen to hold her straight and on course. Cries of alarm came from the companionway behind them as the women and children found themselves flung to the deck by the violence of the motion. Harry heard the Captain call to him and hurried to where he stood.
“Sir?”
“My compliments to Captain Te Water. I believe he is aft with his people. Ask him to join me here.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Harry touched his hat, feeling the wind tugging at it as he did so.
He was about to obey when the Captain added, “You may stow your hat and mine, sir.” He smiled as he handed Harry the hat he had been clutching for the last several hours. “I fear they do nothing but distract us in these conditions.”
Harry returned the smile as he accepted the hat. “Aye, aye, sir. For a time now, I have been afraid mine would join Mister Beasley’s and provide a nest for some great bird.”
The Captain laughed at this image. “Quite so! Well, you may rest easy on that head. Now find Captain Te Water.”
Harry hurried aft, and, after delivering the Captain’s hat to his servant, knocked at the door of the great cabin. He waited a decent moment, steadying himself with a convenient handhold, and then entered a scene of chaos. Several women huddled together against the bulkhead and attempted to sooth frightened children. Two older ladies were engaged in caring for another, who seemed to have injured herself, and the group of boys had taken over the seats beneath the great stern windows. From here they were noisily watching the waves and the slashing spray through the glass. Frightened cries from the smaller children and some of the younger women lent confusion and volume to the overall hubbub of their voices. They were all speaking Dutch, which meant they were unintelligible to Harry.
He became conscious of the fact that a pool was forming at his feet, and glanced about him seeking out the Dutch officers as they attempted to maintain calm among their people. He spotted Captain Te Water even as a boy’s voice shouted, “Harry is hier!”
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 21