by Lee Henschel
“What?”
“His motives are none of your concern.”
“His motives are very much my concern, sir. Our success depends on this agent, as well as the survival of my marines.”
“Very well. His wife and child are held captive in Egypt. They are safe for now but if my agent fails me—his family will suffer.”
“Do you mean they will killed?”
“Far worse. They will be sold into slavery.”
Kyle nodded, thoughtful.
“Do you have any more, Kyle?”
“Just one thing, sir. This mission is tactically no more than a cutting out operation. I’ve been on many and they are all very different except for one thing.”
“What is that?”
“None of them ever proceed according to plan. Otra Nova will be no different.”
“But we must plan, lieutenant.”
“We must indeed. However, the last point of any strategy is to be willing to forget the plan. To remain flexible for when things unravel and do not go accordingly.”
“I will make note of that, although I find it annoying to think of what not to think about. Anything more?”
“No sir. I think we’ve covered the salient points.”
“Then I accept your modifications. I wish to begin this mission with no further delay. We shall confer one last time . . . to make adjustments and final preparations. You may leave.”
Kyle made to leave but Gottlieb called to him.
“Lieutenant Kyle, the captain tells me you speak Spanish.”
“Yes.”
“Do you by any chance know pez voladar?”
“That would be flying fish.”
“Then there is such a thing?”
“There is. I saw your cook netting some just this afternoon.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Lau felt the sea change correct. The squall caught us up and the wind increased to a moderate gale. At six bells of the middle watch Eleanor came about off Cape Spartel, bearing east-northeast, to enter the Strait of Gibraltar. The squall came on boisterous, bringing much rain and lightning. The storm ran fast though, and would soon leave us behind. We carried our flying jib, foresail and spanker only, and still made near seven knots. The seas pounded Eleanor but she was tighter now, her seams closed true, and we boomed along wondrous. Although I was still over green and not at all salty, I was not so uneasy as at Ushant, and confident we’d make the easy passage. As we made Tarif Point more lightning charged the strait day bright, and the lookout on the mainmast hailed the deck.
“Ship dead ahead! Bow’s on!”
The deck officer, Lockhart, cupped his hands and barked. “How far away?”
“Five hundred yards, sir. We’re closing fast, sir. She’s dismasted!”
Captain Cedric was on the quarterdeck to observe his new fourth officer during his first deck watch, and now he stepped forward.
“I’ll assume command for now, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain checked the binnacle, then calmly issued his helm commands.
“Make north by east. Steer well clear. We’ll investigate, but from a distance.”
“Shall we offer assistance, sir?”
“No, Lieutenant. If anything we’ll sink it. It’s best for our presence to go undetected in these waters. Spill your wind a bit if you will.”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain pointed with his thumb. “Who’s your lookout on the mainmast?”
“Kilrain, sir.”
“Tell him he’s earned an extra ration of grog this Sunday.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Who’s your lookout on the foremast? He should have spotted that ship before Kilrain.”
“Dingwall, sir”
“Dingwall! Good God, man! He’s a deaf-mute.”
“I didn’t know that, sir. But . . . but his name was on the watch bill, sir.”
“Who made out that bill?”
“Mr. Pogue, sir.”
“Very well. Send up another man to relieve Dingwall.”
Eleanor lost some of her way, bearing to port as the dismasted ship loomed close, still bow on. In little time the unidentified ship rolled in the swells not a hundred yards to starboard. With no lanterns burning she was black on black against the night. Then lightning lit her up.
Mr. Lau saw enough to identify her. “She’s a dogger, sir.”
I’d seen them in Portsmouth harbour. Most were fishing vessels owned private. This one had her davits swayed out and her boat was missing. She was foundering.
Rainey spoke up. “She may be a coffin ship, sir.”
Captain Cedric responded. “Aye. It may be typhus. We’ve seen enough. We’ll resume course.” He stepped back. “You have the helm, Lieutenant Lockhart. Proceed.”
“Aye, sir.”
Just then a deep vibration rasped along the hull. The officers exchanged a look, their expressions seeming that none of them understood the sound or knew its source. Eleanor shivered and her stern jinked hard to starboard and she lost way. The double wheel spun furious, flinging aside all four helmsmen. The abrupt stop snapped the main topgallant mast and it broke away, swinging down through the rigging and Kilrain—lashed to the masthead to keep from falling—came down with the crosstrees still lashed on, smashing his head brutal hard on the mainmast. He went limp, hanging by one ankle upside down, tangled in the shrouds. Eleanor jinked once more, and the topgallant mast swung in a wide arc and came slamming once more into the mainmast. Kilrain smashed again, his head splitting open like a ripe melon.
It happened unexpected fast and McFarren reacted first, jockeying up the backstay nimble quick with a length of rope looped over one shoulder, a harness over the other. He tied off the topgallant mast to stay its wild gyrations, then secured Kilrain in the harness. But it was too late, Kilrain was most dead.
The first helmsman scrambled back to his post. His wrist was broken. Still, he seized the king post and made to steer with just one hand. The wheel spun free.
“We have no rudder, sir!
Mr. Lau pointed beyond the transom to a length of cable streaming from the dogger, drawing taut then going slack and, somehow, hooked on at our stern.
He yelled to Lockhart. “The dogger’s snagged our rudder with flotsam, sir. That vibration is the cable scraping our keel. Now it’s yanked us fast.”
Lockhart stood unresponsive, staring in horror at Kilrain being lowered through the rigging.
Captain Cedric barked a command. “Lockhart! Tend to your duties! McFarren has the situation aloft.”
“Aye sir.”
“One of your helmsmen has broken his wrist. Relieve the man and send him below.”
“Aye, sir.”
Then to the ship’s boy, Hudson. “Fetch Mr. Gleason and Mr. Starky.”
While he waited he spoke to Rainey. “Go below and inspect the tiller. Put a team in place to relay helm commands.”
Gleason hurried on the quarterdeck, panting and soaking wet. Captain Cedric brought him to the transom and pointed into the water. “Do you see that cable, Mr. Gleason?”
“Aye, sir.”
“You will put a boat in the water at once. Best crew and sharpest tools. Cut that thing away.”
“Aye, sir.”
Starky joined them.
“Starky, you will go with Gleason in the launch. While his crew cuts that cable you will inspect the rudder. Repair it in place if you can. Bring it onboard only if you must. I wish to get under way as soon as possible.”
“Aye, sir.”
“We shall have to maneuver by sail for now, Mr. Lau.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll go forward and set a jib. That will bring us into the wind, well enough for us steer while we see what’s happened to our rudder. Come along, Harriet.”
It was pitch dark along the spar deck, still awash from the passing squall and Eleanor, no longer under way, yawed and pitched in the deep swells. Mr. Lau, always in a bustle, slipped and fell at t
he foremast chains. I went to help him but he popped up spry, none the worse except his glasses had come off and one of the thick lenses had cracked. He handed them to me.
“Take these to my cabin and bring my other pair. I can’t recall where I put them. You’ll have to look.”
“Aye, sir.”
I scurried below. His door was closed but not locked. I stepped in and began to search, and heard the whisper.
“Sukiyama.”
It came faint and from a distance. I froze, not knowing what to do. Run? Hide? I listened for another warning but only heard Mr. Lau calling out commands on the spar deck, no doubt waiting for his glasses. I shivered but kept looking for his extra pair until the door slammed shut behind me. I turned quick and there stood Pogue holding a gunny sack. He looked me up and down, sneering. I felt naked, and touched my knife tucked snug under my shirt.
“You’ve been a bad ’un, cabin boy, and ’oi’ve been waitin’ for the right time to ’av us a little chat.”
I made to leave but Pogue stood firm, blocking my way.
“Me and Coutts, we figured it out. You was ’iding down there in the orlop, listenin’ to wot’s none a’ yer business.”
My mouth went dry. It was hard to swallow and my voice squeaked when I replied. “You killed Tate then tossed him over in a gunny. You know you did.”
“And you ratted . . . and thought you’d make it stick ’cause the captain’s yer uncle.”
He threw his sack aside and moved animal quick grabbing my shirt front with both hands, lifting me off the deck. He blew in my face deliberate. His breath smelled of onions and rum.
“But we ’ave got away with it, ’aven’t we. ’Oi should snap your little neck right now and stuff ya’ in me gunny.”
I slipped my hand under my shirt careful and freed the thong holding my knife.
“But ’oi won’t ’cause you ain’t no stowaway.”
I grabbed the hasp.
“You’d go reported as missin’ before I even chucked you over.”
I drew the knife careful slow.
“And that bugger Coutts, ’ee’s still ’ard on you and says I must preserve the goods. So it won’t be now, ’arriet, but this voyage is just gettin’ started and when Coutts gets tired of you, that’s when ’oi take wot’s rightful mine. Just you remember, the ones cross Billy Pogue, them’s the ones ’ooh end up in me gunny.”
He tightened his grip trembling in a rage and raised a hand to strike. I pressed the point to his breast, just under his heart. He felt the danger close and opened his eyes wide, shoving me away. I crashed hard to the deck. When I looked up he was gone, and so was his gunny. I curled in a corner, trembling, panting, weeping silent. I wanted to run and hide. To quit all. Then I recalled what Mr. Botherall told me after Reggie was blown to pieces. You must get ahold of yourself. We are all of us expected to carry on.
Chapter Fourteen
The squall blew over in the night and by the forenoon watch the sea passed quiet beneath Eleanor. We crept along in light airs, bearing east by northeast with only our course sails and spanker set. The sun rose blood red and blistering hot, steaming the spar deck—still wet from the morning’s holystone. The top men drew sea water in buckets then went aloft and wet down the sails, to better hold the wind. Starky finished his repairs to the rudder. Wat sewed Kilrain’s body into his hammock. Only then did Captain Cedric call a halt to work . . . to conduct a brief service and commit Kilrain to the deep.
Ajax fired the captain’s Prélat and the watch ended. Mr. Lau gathered the midshipmen in the waist for the noon line. I stood aside following the procedure with great difficulty, for I had no sextant. The day was blue cloudless and our co-ordinates derived expeditious, forty degrees fifty-two minutes north by three degrees eighteen minutes east. That put us about twenty-five miles south of Minorca. Mr. Lau released the midshipmen and he summoned me.
“Quite impossible, isn’t it, to resolve lambda without a doubly reflecting navigational instrument.”
“Is that a sextant, sir?”
“Aye.” He massaged his wen, then went on. “And we must thank Sir Isaac for improving upon the sextant’s original design. First the back staff. Then the quadrant.”
“Did you say the sextant resolves lambda, sir?”
“It does. And lambda is the most difficult position for a navigator to determine.”
“You said the word once before, sir. Lambda. What is it?”
“The longitude of any given location. Eleanor’s location, for instance.”
“Oh! For sure I know what longitude is, sir. That’s the degrees east or west of the prime meridian. That’s Greenwich, sir.”
“Correct, lad. Zero degrees longitude. And knowing how far east or west of zero degrees longitude you are . . . that is determined best with a sextant and a chronometer.”
“I have neither, sir.”
“Such is so. But I have an extra sextant now. It must be serviced though, so now is the time to introduce you to sextant repair and maintenance. Come.”
Mr. Lau kept a tool chest in his quarters, small tools and an assortment of tiny screws and such designed for tight places.
“A ship is doomed, lad, if her sextants won’t function properly, so to insure their accuracy they must be handled with care and inspected often.”
He took off his glasses.
“Clean these, if you will. My arthritic acts up.”
He rubbed his eyes while I wiped his glasses with a chamois then handed them back.
“Sextants aren’t difficult to maintain or repair. But the effort requires young eyes.”
He cleared a space on his desk to arrange his tools, then took a sextant from its case and set it before us.
“This is a Stanley London. Quite common in the Royal Navy. It was turned in this morning and in need of repair.” He pointed to an empty screw hole. “One of the screws holding the index mirror came loose and through negligence has fallen out. Now you shall replace it. You’ll find the proper screw in one of these trays.” He handed me a small screw driver. “And use this driver. The tip’s magnetized.”
“Magnetized? How’s that, sir?”
He leaned down to open a bulkhead cabinet. Empty but for a stone the size of walnut. Black and pitted though, and suspended in a net hung from a peg to let the stone swing free. Mr. Lau pointed to it.
“I magnetized the driver with that.”
“What is that, sir?”
“A lodestone. Magnetite. One of the first direction finders used by navigators. Rendered obsolete long ago, but sailing masters are still apt to keep one onboard to serve as a compass.”
“It’s a compass?”
“Aye.”
He brought his eyes close to observe the lodestone swinging in its net. He pointed to a brown spot on the lodestone.
“Do you observe that discolouration?”
“Aye, sir.”
“That blemish will tend north if allowed to swing free.”
“That’s most clever, sir.”
“Clever perhaps. Yet crude and to be used only as a last resort.”
“Last resort, sir?”
“When you are far at sea and with no working sextant or compass and in darkness and cloud cover . . . that is when the loadstone will provide your bearings.”
“Not having a sextant . . . does that happen over much, sir?”
“No. So I use my lodestone to magnetize tools, stroking them across it several times will impart a weak field.”
“But how does . . .”
“Enough!” He closed the cabinet. “Proceed now to your repair work. I must tend to business and try to make sense of our rubbings.”
“Oh! That’s good, sir.”
“Not good. I find these rubbings a disruption in the flow of reason and logic. The translation will take months and years, if ever. And still the effort may not lead to a full understanding.”
He removed a rubbing from its envelope and bent to his work.
I made
the repair. It didn’t take long, and waited quiet for him to finish. I wanted to ask him about the rubbing but I didn’t have to. Even though Mr. Lau’s quarters were cramped and I sat not three feet from him it seemed he’d forgotten I was there—so involved was he in his work—rubbing his eyes and leaning in and mumbling his thoughts.
“Ahh! Just as I thought, or guessed. A fragment here . . . hmmm . . . and this phrase . . . it may be a time reference.” He scribbled a calculation, then frowned. “Oh dear. Oh dear. How can that be?”
He shot his dentures unaware, then opened an overlarge log to record his notes. I listened to his quill scratching away and the sound came as a private thing, a sound of privilege, and it brought me a small satisfaction, for I was beginning to recognize the rhythm of the written word. Finally he closed with a plunk. The sound of a period! He set down his quill meticulous and blotted his entry heedful, then picked up the sextant to examine my repair.
“Very well. I will assign it to you.”
“Oh! And I shall sign for it, sir. My own name written out by me. Most certain I can do that now.”
“Aye, lad. That you can and that you will.”
He pulled down another ledger, opened it and pointed to a line. “Sign here.”
I scratched my name careful, Owen Thomas Harriet, making my very own scratching sounds, and was most proud to see my name standing there on its own line. Mr. Lau squinted, bringing his eyes near to read it.
“Not quite copperplate, is it, lad. I suppose it will do, though. Now take this instrument with you. And take you good care of it. Ask Gottlieb to stow it in the great cabin. I’m sure he’ll oblige. And beginning tomorrow you will participate in the noon sighting. Dismissed.”
“Aye, sir.”
I made to leave, then turned back.
“Sir?”
“Now what, lad?”
“This sextant, sir, who belonged to it?”
“It was assigned to Mr. Pogue.”
My loathing for Pogue rose hot and I wanted to heave the thing overboard, to be rid of anything belonging to Pogue and knowing full well I would not. For the sextant belonged to the King and never to Pogue. Now it was I who was entrusted with its keep, and with its power to navigate. I recovered swift. I don’t believe Mr. Lau noticed my disquiet, for he went on.