Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  By early evening, the sloop was ready to slip out with the land wind. Thankfully, Girard’s absence had still gone unnoticed. Jacob reckoned his mates were covering for him, thinking he must be sleeping off a drunken stupor somewhere under a tree.

  It was a good easterly that blew, and the fat, gleaming sun still had an hour to go before it turned orange and sank into the horizon. Moreover, there was naught on Cow Island that could tempt the crew to pass the night there. Truth was, nothing could compare with Port Royal, and they were all eager as hell to get there.

  Jacob, aided by Darlington, placed his effects with his medical chest into the longboat. Jacques Rouchon was there with another sailor, loading the last runlets of rum. Marianne, Madame de Fontenay, and Madame Odet were standing thirty yards up from the foreshore to see Jacob off.

  A few hours earlier, Madame de Fontenay, informed of the accident, had said to Jacob, ‘I encourage you to run with the wind and never stop till you reach your goal, Mr Delpech. We do not want to see you fall short now!’ But the thought now entered his mind that it might be premature to abandon them all to the care of Mr Darlington, whom, after all, he hardly knew.

  However, the young Englishman must have read his thoughts. Striding back with him towards the waiting women, in a confidential tone of voice, he said, ‘Fear not for the ladies, Monsieur Delpech, nor for Mademoiselle Duvivier. I shall take good care of them. You have my word, Sir.’

  ‘It heartens me to hear you say so. Thank you, Mr Darlington.’

  ‘It is I who am indebted to you, Sir, for looking after my future wife!’

  Jacob could not resist a friendly chuckle and said, ‘I am glad you have found more than what you had bargained for on this voyage.’

  Darlington said, ‘By God’s grace, I have found what I have been seeking for many a year! I have found my true love!’ As they came within hearing distance of the ladies, he handed Delpech a card. ‘Please, take this,’ he said. ‘It is my address, should one day you find yourself in New York. You never know.’

  Jacob was satisfied, his mind put at ease. He was learning to let go of his country gentleman’s reserve, and realising that here more than anywhere, it was important to quickly get the sway of a man. For in this world of pioneers, people continually resettled from place to place by trial and error, and came and went with the winds of conflict and changing frontiers.

  It was not without a pinch of sadness that Jacob bade farewell to the ladies, especially his “niece”. She had thrown a shawl over her head, to protect from the gusts of wind, but also to cover her swollen cheek.

  Teary-eyed, she thanked him for his unrelenting attentiveness and said, ‘Please do not worry on our account, nor on anyone else’s. You must concentrate your efforts on finding your family now, my dear uncle Jacob.’

  She was right; there was no time for guilt. Like her, he should put the whole tragic accident behind him. He must focus on his next goal: his return to Europe.

  Marianne was standing beside Darlington now. Jacob noted with satisfaction that they already looked like a young couple. And there was a new and profound complicity between them. They shared a terrible secret.

  EIGHTEEN

  The crossing to Jamaica usually took three days. Jacob took enough provisions for four, in case the wind fell off. Jacques Rouchon was mostly kept busy with the crew, which suited Delpech well, as he could traverse his moments of melancholy and seasickness in relative solitude.

  For the first two days, they made excellent headway under a steady easterly. But as the third night fell, the wind became more erratic, and the swell began to grow. Despite his rising nausea, Jacob had at last managed to drift off to much-needed sleep.

  His dreams weaved in and out of recent traumatic events, and he saw Private Girard’s face as the man rolled over him, driven by a desire to kill. A horrid swirl in the gut and a loud cry suddenly brought him smartly out of his fearful slumber, and into the living nightmare occurring about him.

  ‘Get the sails off her, mates!’ he heard the captain roar, as his eyes were met with a flash of lightning that lit up the sky through the hatch above. Almost instantly, it was followed by a sickening volley of thunder.

  Hand over mouth, Jacob staggered to his feet and made a dash towards the gun port. But the chaotic pitch and roll of the ship sent him tumbling backward, and he was sick over the deck. A heavy gush of cold water then burst through the hatch and washed the planks clean, leaving Jacob drenched.

  ‘Mister Rouchon, check the hold!’ he heard the captain yell out, before another wave came crashing down on the upper deck.

  Jacob was clutching the capstan as Jacques Rouchon, soaked to the skin, came sliding down the steps on his way to the cargo space below.

  ‘What can I do?’ shouted Delpech, now rid of the nauseating ball in his gut. Amid the din of booming waves, Rouchon motioned to follow him below into the hold. Already it was two feet deep in sludge and water.

  ‘Can yer man the pump?’ he shouted.

  Jacob read his lips in the dim light of a lantern and made a sign that he could if shown how. Rouchon gave a quick demonstration before letting Jacob take over the task. It stunk to high heaven of bilge, but he kept to his station and pumped unrelentingly through the darkness. It allowed more qualified hands to perform on deck, reef the mainsail, and point into the wind.

  The swell raged with fury the night through; it was worse than anything Jacob had ever experienced. Then, with the dull light of morning that began to seep through the hatch, the storm began to abate. The inpouring of sea gradually ceased. However, after such a battering, the timbers now presented a multitude of small leaks. And there was worse to come.

  *

  The storm had petered away as quickly as it had risen up, and barely left in its wake a sigh to power the sails. What was more, with a closed ceiling of dense grey cloud, it was impossible to pinpoint the sun. They were temporarily lost. Lost, with hardly enough provisions to last another day, save for the fruit in a barrel standing on deck, now full of seawater.

  By the fifth day, Jacob’s own victuals had run out. The water was rationed to just a cupful doused with a dram of rum, every three hours. ‘Barely enough to wipe the salt from your lips!’ groused Rouchon.

  On the sixth day, the biscuit ran out, and there was no more cassava bread either, most of it having been spoiled in the storm. The captain allowed a cask to be tapped to lengthen the water. So the diet was watered-down French wine, and tobacco which was chewed or smoked to deceive hunger and prevent exhaustion.

  There is nothing worse for a matelot than a stagnant sea. The crew were soon on edge. The captain had to keep the most volatile of them from each other’s throats by sending them on duties at opposite ends of the ship. One of these mates was called Harry, an English rigger with a scar from his left ear to his nose. He was short, lithe, and as nimble on the top spar as he was deft with a blade. The other was a big Dutchman by the name of Piet, who could throttle a man with just one hand.

  Jacob realised that it would not take much provocation for these men to kill, and he was all the more glad for the company of Jacques Rouchon. The tension was palpable as the two newcomers to the ship sat on the gun deck, each on a cask, smoking their clay pipes. In a low, gravelly voice, Rouchon explained a seafaring custom. ‘I think you should know, Monsieur Delpech, that in the extreme case of starvation, one man’s life can be sacrificed to save many others. Straws are drawn and the loser killed, bled like a sow, and eaten.’

  ‘My God, that is inhumane, Sir, it is criminal!’ said Jacob in an equally low voice, to quell his surprise.

  ‘It is the custom of the sea,’ said Rouchon. ‘And if it comes to it, Monsieur Delpech, be sure to keep a close watch on the straw-holder’s eyes.’

  ‘Why the eyes?’ said Jacob, who took another sip from his ration of drink.

  ‘Because this crew be thick as thieves despite appearances. They’ll not think twice about singling out the newcomer by the simple bat of an eyelid
.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jacques Rouchon blew another hoop of smoke from his pipe and said, ‘For example, three blinks from the holder could mean the third straw is the one not to take, get it? You gotta keep an eye out, Monsieur Delpech, if you don’t wanna end up their next meal!’

  ‘Unless you are the first to take the pick, which would mean better odds.’

  ‘If you say so, Sir, if you say so. Though I’d rather watch for the count. Anything else might be tempting the devil.’

  ‘Or putting your faith in God!’

  However, two hours later, the wind picked up. The stagnant cloud began to break up, revealing rags of blue sky here and there. The captain was at last able to locate their position. They had slipped off the shipping lane completely. He estimated it was another two days to the Jamaican port, God willing.

  *

  On the morning of the nineteenth of August, seven days out of Cow Island, the Sally-Ann’s sails began to lose their tautness and to flap. By three in the afternoon, the wind had volt-faced. The sky in the west began to bulge and toss and to turn an angry purple. The captain knew—they all knew—that what they saw rapidly advancing towards them was the most devastating phenomenon known to the Caribbean. The Caribs saw it as a manifestation of Maboya, the evil spirit. And they called it hurricane.

  Despite their thirst, hunger and fatigue, all hands aboard swiftly set to work preparing the sloop for the battle ahead. They fastened down gun port flaps, secured cannons, strapped down any loose gear, and prepared the longboat for quick and easy release in case an emergency launch should be required.

  Their only chance was to abandon course, again reef the mainsail, and steer as close to the eye of the wind as possible. By the time the crew had finished striking the sails, the prow had become awash with huge waves crashing down on it. The sea, cold and frothing, had begun its demoniac dance with the wind howling like hell’s hounds all around them. Then the captain gave the ultimate command to strike the reefed mainsail, and let the ship run with the wind and steer by the whipstaff. There was nothing more for most of the mariners to do than to take refuge below deck.

  Jacob read fear in their eyes, something he had not seen on the previous occasion. Some prayed in earnest, others remained silent, but all sat with the mark of dread etched into their stern expressions. One mate next to him mumbled incantations.

  ‘Course I believe in God, course, I do, course I believe in God,’ he garbled over and over again in French, so panicked he had not the presence of mind to think of anything else.

  It came to Jacob how the apostles had feared the storm on the Sea of Galilee because they too doubted their faith in Jesus. Delpech took it upon himself to help the terrified matelot by reciting the Lord’s Prayer at the top of his voice, so that anyone in any language could join in.

  The timbers now screamed with every battering as if the ship would break in half, and men were soon rolling about like skittles. Piet, the Dutchman, fell and cracked his head on the cascabel of a cannon, but there was nothing anyone could do for the big man, out cold as he was on the planks. ‘He’ll not fall any further,’ growled one mate.

  Another gigantic wall of water slammed over the ship from port side, and another smashed into the hull. And through the howling boom came the appalling sound of splitting timber.

  ‘She’s breaking up!’ shouted Rouchon from the hatch of the hold, before another great screeching of timber resounded throughout the whole ship. Every man fit to stand scrambled above deck, where the captain ordered them to the longboat on the starboard side.

  At the same time, a gigantic roller reared up and snatched three mates near the retaining cordage. Another wave wrenched away the longboat, and Jacob saw it go scudding away into the great folds of the sea.

  ‘The gig, lads, prepare the gig!’ cried the captain.

  Despite the terrible conditions, the small boat was positioned in minutes. In the short time it took to carry out the operation, the sea had ripped away planks, expanding the opening in the ship’s hull, and she was beginning to list. Great rollers now beat over the sloop from every side, like glutinous fingers trying to pull her down, trying to prevent the men from escaping.

  Another three men were swept away in one go as they were about to lower themselves into the gig. One of them was Jacques Rouchon.

  But through the roaring elements, Jacob could hear cries for help. The planter had managed to latch onto a trailing line and was hanging on for dear life over the side of the ship. Delpech pulled and heaved the rope till Rouchon was hauled back on deck.

  The timbers let out another appalling screech. Not a second was there to lose. The bosun and two other men were already aboard the gig when it came to Jacob’s turn to climb down the cordage. He hardly had the force to stand, let alone grasp the rigging, but in a last push of strength, he clambered over the side.

  ‘Hurry, man!’ shouted Rouchon behind him. But Jacob had given all he had, and he lost his grip. He slid down the side of the hull. However, by good fortune, the small boat was heaved by the swell, and Jacob was able to use the hull to throw himself aboard, narrowly missing Harry the rigger.

  The next moment, a huge mass of water clobbered the ship on her windward side and weighted her down further. There came another appalling crack—it must have been the keel. Rouchon jumped aboard the gig behind Jacob. The ship began to turn up her long bowsprit as her stern began to go under.

  ‘Cut her away, man!’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Jacob. ‘There’s still men aboard!’

  But the flash of a knife appeared before Jacob’s eyes. It belonged to Harry, the lithe Englishman, who proceeded to cut the ropes that attached the gig to the ship.

  The little craft was instantly whisked away over the waves as the 120 tonner turned up her nose, then slid downward like a giant sea monster.

  *

  Of the sixteen men who set out from Cow Island, only five had made it into the gig: the bosun, Jacob Delpech, Jacques Rouchon, Harry the rigger, and the tiller mate. Every slide into the deep trough of a wave seemed like it would be their last, and time after time, each man committed his soul to God. And indeed, had they embarked on the heavier longboat, they would certainly have gone under by now. But the gig just kept bobbing up and over the waves as good as a cork.

  By first light, the steep watery hills began to roll out into smooth undulations, and the sea became navigable once more. The five men in the boat were already half-starved; they had no rations, and just enough water to last the day at a push. But they were still alive.

  Jacob promised God that he would fight tooth and claw to survive his terrible ordeal, and live thereafter as living proof of God’s grace. But all was not written, and as Jacob well knew, mortal danger lay ahead.

  They put up the mast and opened the sail to steer the craft west by southwest, according to the reckoning of the bosun. They then sat or lay for the better part of the day, recovering from their sleepless night of bailing out the little boat.

  Come sundown, they used the sail to collect rain water that fell in light showers during the night. But it was a dismal collection, especially compared to the sea miles they had sacrificed.

  The following morning, with not a cud of tobacco left to chew on and hardly a drop left in their flasks, the question Jacob most dreaded was put forward.

  ‘Custom of the sea?’ said Harry, who then laid the only musket down on the bench beside him. His eyes blazed with the fire of desperation. ‘There’s one shot,’ he said. ‘Otherwise there’s the blade.’ He flashed his knife in the garish sunlight.

  The men looked solemnly at one another. Only Jacob was truly horrified, as much at the prospect of being slaughtered as at the thought of seeing man eat man.

  ‘No, wait,’ he said. He then pleaded on the grounds that, according to the rule, all present must give their consent, and concluded, ‘It is unchristian. It is sinful. I say we first pray to God for deliverance.’

  ‘All right
, go on then,’ said Harry in all simplicity. ‘Then we get to it. Right?’

  Jacob reached for his hessian sack, still strapped over his shoulder. It contained two precious items, his medical book and his Bible. The latter he took out, opened the damp pages, and read in French from the Gospel of Mathew that spoke of the storm. Each word grazed his parched throat, but he persisted, translating the words as best he could into English. ‘And his disciples came to him and awoke him, saying, Lord, save us, we perish. And he said to them, why fear you, you of little faith?’

  During the prayer spoken in English, Harry cut off a piece of rope and untwisted the twines, which he sliced up into different lengths. He then looked up with a sigh of impatience bordering on fury as Delpech at last concluded, ‘Dear Lord, we ask for forgiveness for our mortal sins, and we ask for forgiveness if we have lacked faith. We pray, oh Lord, for the safety of our loved ones far across the ocean sea. And for our lost brethren, so they may rest in heavenly peace. And, dear Jesus, we pray for Your grace so that we may be saved from the mortal sin of murder. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Harry, businesslike. He glared around intensely at each one of the group. ‘Now we draw straws. Right?’ he said. ‘Right?’

  The mates replied with a solemn aye, even Jacques Rouchon. While all eyes were on Jacob, the planter from Nantes discreetly motioned to Delpech with his two fingers to watch Harry’s eyes. Jacob gave a short nod.

  But Delpech did not take heed of Rouchon’s suggestion. Instead, he quickly put out his hand to take first pick. At least this way, there was no chance of being cheated.

  Jacob did not choose the shortest straw. It was poor Rouchon who, only recently freed from his indenture, was about to be bled like a sow. The thought was unbearable, but this was the custom which he had accepted.

  Jacob nevertheless tried to make a plea for Christianity, but there was nothing doing. Even the bosun, who was normally a charitable man, had the look of someone possessed by an insatiable urge, like that of Private Girard just before he fell on his own weapon. It was the look of a bloodthirsty killer.