The War of the Four Isles

by Andrew McGahan

  Again, Dow heard a plea for support, a final plea this time – as if, with Cassandra’s backing, even against the will of all the others, Fletcher might still refuse the mission. In response, Cassandra met his eyes finally, and to Dow’s alarm, seemed to waver . . .

  Colonel Oliver forestalled her. ‘Our laundress knows, of course, what must be done. All three of us, Captain, will make the report when we return and stand before the War Master. But I know too that Damien Tender has placed his special trust in this girl – his special trust – and that she won’t want to disappoint him.’

  The look Cassandra gave the colonel in return was rich with loathing. Nevertheless, she straightened slowly, and gave a stiff nod. ‘Truly, Captain, there’s no more to be said. We have our orders, and the pilot has shown it can be done. We must go on.’

  Fletcher’s gaze went dull. ‘So be it. I won’t stand alone. We’ll set a course for the southern edge of the Banks, and attempt the pilot’s path.’ He waved a hand at them all. ‘Go on, get out. You’re dismissed.’

  And so relieved was Dow at the decision, it never occurred to him to ask – even when he spoke to Cassandra later – what the captain might have meant by the strange words, ‘purpose in full’ . . .

  *

  So now the Snout turned north-west. Wayward Reef fell behind and vanished again, and for six days they sailed cautiously across a warm, milky and ever shallower sea, without sight of ship or land.

  By the seventh morning they stood just south, according to the charts, of the Banks. Not that there was anything much to be seen of the infamous shallows. Looking out from the high deck, Dow noted only a paleness to the hue of the ocean, far off on the northern horizon; it might have been surf beating upon a distant sandbank, but it was too far away to be sure. It was almost disappointing, after coming so far, and after hearing so much of the region’s terrors. On the other hand, the longer Dow stared at that remote white blur, unmoving, the more unnatural and sinister it began to seem.

  But the Snout did not yet go any closer. They would not actually enter the Banks until they were almost directly south of Banishment, and that point lay somewhat west of them still. And so they sailed on through calm seas. Of the great opposing currents that supposedly flowed here, there was no sign; no white water rushing, no surges rising – in fact, aside from a mild chop, the sea was supine.

  The wind held fair, and evening found them – according to Emmet Bone’s best guess – in position to make the turn north. But here they hove to as night fell, pausing one last time before committing themselves; they must now wait for the tide. True, it lacked three days yet to the full moon or the equinox, but even so, with the moon waxing, tonight’s tide would be the first of the kings.

  They waited, watching the waters. There was still no sign of any currents or surges, but at eight bells, with the moon climbing amid the stars, the order was given and the Snout turned easily in a friendly breeze, and so entered the Banks at last.

  At the wheel, Emmet Bone stood with the captain, his expert eyes roaming the moonlit waters ahead, alert for subtle dangers. But in the first few hours there was scant need for his skill; the Snout cruised untroubled. Sailors with sounding lines were poised over the bow, calling back the depth, and though the sea grew steadily shallower as they moved north – fifty feet beneath the keel, came the cry from the sounders, then forty feet, then thirty-five – there was no risk yet of running aground.

  By midnight, however, it was becoming more apparent that they no longer sailed on any normal ocean. Here and there they came upon swirls of foam and wrack floating on the surface, though there had been no recent storm. Then the chop flattened out and the water took on a rippling sheen under the moon, an indication of strong currents flowing. The ship was tugged first to the west and then to the east; it seemed that invisible rivers were twisting across the drowned sandbanks.

  By then they truly were among the shallows. Ten feet beneath the keel, the sounders called alarmingly at one point, the unseen sea floor rearing up suddenly; although before anyone could react the sounders were calling thirty feet now, forty, as the ship slid across the bank unharmed.

  By the second bell of the morning, however, tensions were rising on the high deck. The moon was in the west now and the tide retreating; wayward currents surged and ebbed from every direction. Crossing one sandbank, the sounders gave no more than five feet of water beneath the keel. Five feet! Narrowed eyes turned resentfully to Emmet Bone. His plan had sounded feasible enough in the safety of the Great Cabin, but out here, with water rushing and sand close beneath, it was another story. If they didn’t find the first of the deepwater lakes soon they would be in serious jeopardy.

  But did the lakes even exist? The old map might be wrong after so many years . . .

  But then – very much where the chart said it would – the sea floor began to sink away again. The currents faded and the ocean lost its threatening aspect. By dawn and low tide, the ship was floating safe at anchor amid a sanctuary of perfect calm, with twenty feet of water between its keel and the bottom. Emmet Bone had been proved right after all.

  Nevertheless, the crew rested uneasily. As the light grew, a strange sound rose and fell across the Banks; a dim roaring, as of vast bodies of water moving far away, though nothing could be seen from horizon to horizon. Also, after a bright and promising sunrise, the day became cold, for all that it was now the eve of spring, and grey clouds slowly blotted out the sky.

  At nine bells, the tide rising, they set off once more; apprehensive, but still determined. This time, however, Emmet Bone, disturbed by the close calls of the night, sent the attack boats out ahead of the ship – much as the Chloe had done in the darkness of the north. But they searched here not for icebergs, but for sandbanks. Each boat carried a sounder with rope and weight ready, and roamed as far as a mile in front of the Snout, signalling back the depth.

  Dow and his crew took their turn. The Sponge was no more, of course, and nor was the Trivet, but every Twin Islands vessel carried one extra boat in its hold, dismantled, meant either as spare parts or as a complete replacement if need be. This new craft – assembled and launched and named, in memorial, the Franklin – brought the ship’s complement back up to three.

  They pressed on in this fashion through the middle of the day and into high tide, crossing sandbanks regularly now, most of them running east to west and seemingly many miles long, curved like the great dunes of an underwater desert. But even with the king tide rising higher than the night before, still the Snout could barely clear the largest banks. Several times they had less than five feet of grace, and once less than two, the ship throwing up a swirl of muddy sand in protest at the near miss.

  As the afternoon drew on and the tide began to withdraw, the shallows revealed more unnerving oddities. At one point a huge vortex of foam could be seen spinning no more than three miles off to the east, a maelstrom indeed, though moving too slowly to be compared to the great maelstrom of New Island, and without any inner funnel opening. An hour later, to the west this time, a strange swell seemed to rear on the horizon, surging higher and dropping down repeatedly, and yet never moving; a standing wave, thrown up by some submerged conflict of waters.

  But nothing blocked the path ahead, and late afternoon found them in another deepwater lake, at anchor once more. Evening fell, and the distant roaring sounds resumed, first from the east, then from the west. It seemed, to judge by the noises, and by the day’s sightings, that this line of lakes existed in a no-man’s-land between the two warring currents; still, it was hard to believe, as the far-off thunder rose and fell, that the battle could be avoided forever.

  Nevertheless, still with faith in Emmet Bone and his Ship Kings map, at mid-evening they set off again. Clouds hid the moon, but everyone knew that it was only a night off full, and that tomorrow the equinox would be upon them. By the chart, there were two more lakes to go, and by Emmet Bone’s reckoning they must reach the northernmost by the following noon, and then comp
lete their mission within a further day, if they were to have time to escape the Banks once more, while the king tides rose high.

  But their progress that night was slow. Without moonlight the boats had to grapple by lantern and sounding lines alone, and wayward currents assailed them constantly. Twice the ship scraped horribly on the sandy crest of banks, before riding clear. The tide was running out fast when they at last made deep water again, not long before dawn.

  It was officially the first day of spring, but the sunrise was obscured by clouds, and the day broke even colder and greyer than the day before. Off in the distance to either side exposed sand now gleamed dully, so narrow was their refuge of deep water. The sand vanished as the tide returned towards mid-morning, but it was with much trepidation that the Snout set forth on its final northern leg.

  For Dow, though, his excitement was greater than his fear. By that very night, if they held to their schedule, the attack boats could be landing on Banishment. He might see Nell again before the next sunrise. The Banks, for all their wonder and strangeness, had proved no great impediment after all.

  In retrospect, of course, after the disaster, it was easy to see what fools he and everyone else had been, to ever think it would be so easy . . .

  *

  They did get close. Very close. As noon approached they were, by the chart, only ten miles maybe from reaching their final deepwater refuge.

  But then came the initiation of calamity, and it was not by any outlandish wave or whirlpool that they were undone – rather, it all began with the most common of misfortunes at sea.

  The wind failed.

  They were by now beyond the latitude of the West Band winds; nonetheless, the breeze in the last few days had blown constant from the east. Now, over the space of an hour, it fell to nothing. The sails slackened and went limp, and the Snout – with the high tide about to turn – slowed, then drifted to a halt.

  Undaunted at first, Emmet Bone ordered lines to be paid out and attached to the boats; the ship could be towed to deep water. And for another hour, they laboured slowly forward. But then a current sprang up, stronger than any they had so far met, running towards the east. The ship began to swing off course behind the boats, and as the flow grew stronger yet, soon the boats were pointed dead west, motoring at full power, and still they and the Snout could not make any headway.

  Impassive, the pilot recalled the boats and ordered the anchor to be thrown out; there was no point wasting fuel to go nowhere, and better to stand in one place than be swept away.

  ‘But we have not yet reached deep water,’ Captain Fletcher objected. ‘Already high tide is past, and we have only a few feet beneath us.’

  But Emmet Bone remained assured. ‘As long as the anchor holds firm, we are in no great danger. When the tide runs out, the ship can settle safely on the sand. Then we need only wait for the tide and water to return. It will be no more than six hours, after all. And hopefully it will bring the wind back with it.’

  And so they held there, the anchor chain taut, the water surging along the side of the ship. But here was a mystery. They were holding in place, and yet according to the sounding ropes the water was growing deeper by the hour, not shallower, even though the tide should have been receding. It defied logic. What was happening?

  No one knew. The current grew faster still, veering from east to north-east. The sound had become a fearful roar; the sea a rushing river of impossible size.

  ‘Now what, Pilot?’ demanded the captain. He had been disappearing below decks periodically – to consult the rum bottle, Dow was sure.

  ‘We deploy more anchors,’ replied Emmet Bone. ‘Again, as long as we hold, we are not lost.’

  Two more anchors were thrown out – the Snout carried only four, and one must always be kept as spare – and for a time the ship seemed to be standing firm. But foam had begun to break white about the bow, and many of the crew were pacing the main deck, their faces drawn.

  Night fell; overcast, cold and black. For anxious watchers from the rail the ship’s lamps illuminated only the deluge rushing by, the scene all the more surreal because there was no storm or gale to drive the flood; the air was breathlessly calm – it was the ocean alone that was in tumult.

  ‘Damn you, Pilot!’ raged Fletcher, obviously drunk now, and afraid, for all his anger. ‘We never should have come here. What’s happened to your tides? They rise when they should fall!’

  Emmet Bone was stony-faced in his perplexity. ‘I knew that the tides here on the Banks were unpredictable – famously so – but I had assumed that they would at least pay heed to an equinox and full moon combined. And yet it seems not.’

  ‘Fool. We will be wrecked.’

  ‘Not if the anchors hold.’

  But would the anchors hold? For all their size and weight, they were lodged only in shifting sands, and at repeated intervals the ship lurched as one or other of them slipped in its footing before coming fast again. The anchor chains too were strained to their limit, the metal links giving off alarming pops and cracking sounds, as if about to shatter. And the water only flowed faster and roared louder as the night deepened. Sailors ran from side to side of the ship, gazing at the chains with an increasing air of panic; but there was nothing they could do.

  An hour before midnight the chain of the smallest anchor gave way with a pistol-shot and then a ringing clang, as the links slammed slack against the hull, leaving only the two larger anchors to take the strain. The mood on the main deck was one of open terror now, for there was little hope that two could hold where three had failed.

  ‘Get the sails set!’ bawled the pilot to the crew aloft, to Dow’s bafflement. There was still no wind blowing, so what use were the sails?

  Nor was it an easy task to raise canvas. So rapid and strong had the flow become, a great wave was now rearing up either side of the bow, and the Snout had begun to buck and surge against it. The crew struggled for a hold in the rigging; spray spouted up and fell like rain; and the anchor chains screeched deafeningly against their moorings, showering sparks into the sea. And all the while the pounding against the hull grew and grew, maddening – until, almost at midnight exact, the last two chains snapped as one.

  On the high deck, Dow heard a hideous crack, then felt the timbers heave beneath him. Sailors shrieked, and he was thrown to his knees. Then the ship was righting itself, and the horrible bucking and pounding was gone – but even more terribly, the ship was slewing sideways and assuming a dreadful new speed, whirling away with the flood.

  Dow found his feet again. ‘Rudder hard left,’ Emmet Bone was crying to the helmsmen. ‘Keep us bow on into the current!’ Dow only stared. What use was the wheel when there was no wind to give them leeway? But then he realised that the sails were filling – the ship’s backwards movement meant air was rushing over the stern. So that was why the sails had been set! It was no true wind, but it meant that the Snout could at least be steered minimally, even as it was carried away; a tiny concession, but something.

  Nevertheless, there was horror across the ship. They were at the mercy of the flood, careening out of control at deadly speed. Around them great waves reared over submerged sandbanks, and it was only a matter of moments surely before they ran aground on one. But for a bizarre time – it was perhaps as long as an hour, though against all custom the timekeepers had forgotten to keep watch on their hourglasses and no bell was rung – partly by steering and partly by luck, they avoided all collision.

  Did they dare to hope? No – the ship lurched sideways suddenly, grating across a hidden bank. It was pinned there a moment, the flood beating against its flank, then with a splintering cacophony from below, it tore free.

  ‘Get the pumps started!’ Agatha Harp cried above the roar, assuming command as the captain was all but insensible by this stage in his drunkenness. ‘We’ve split some planks by the sound!’

  ‘Aye,’ Emmet Bone advised, gazing up to the rigging, ‘and that won’t be the last time. We’ll hit hard and stick,
sooner or later. When we do, lower sail with all speed, Commander. We’ll have no use for it once we’re fast, and the weight aloft will make us top heavy.’

  Again, the keel grated horridly on sand, and everyone braced, certain the final impact was coming. But instead the ship swept free, and for perhaps another interminable half hour, raced on.

  Dow – with nothing else to do – crouched in what he hoped was a secure position by the mizzenmast, waiting for the crash. Never had he known such fear, or felt so helpless in the grip of the sea, not even in the maelstrom. And the waiting only made it worse. Better if the disaster was done with, and the ship grounded, rather than this nerve-rending headlong rush into the darkness.

  Unless – the thought suddenly struck him – the flood was going to wash them clean off the Banks? After all, how far north and east had they already been swept? At such terrible speed, it must be miles! He straightened from his crouch, meaning to go to the wheel to confer with the pilot—

  Then it happened. There came a jolt from the keel beneath, a slip forward, and then a violent slam. The ship heeled brutally and cries sounded from aloft as sailors were thrown free from their holds, some to fall sickeningly upon the deck, others, far worse, to plummet into the rushing water, where they were immediately swept away, wailing in terror in the night. Dow himself went sprawling and only his outflung hand catching on the shrouds stopped him flying over the rail. Timbers snapped; rope and canvas came avalanching down from above.

  The Snout was aground, pinned hard upon an unseen bank – and yet even now it was not still, for it had been wrenched side-on to the current, and the racing waters were piling up against the hull, pounding the ship relentlessly. Surges in the flood dashed over the rail like great waves, sweeping yet more hapless sailors away from the exposed main deck.

  ‘Get lifelines strung down there,’ howled Agatha Harp. ‘All hands retreat to the high deck or the forecastle! There’s nothing left to be done now but hang on and wait for the flood to pass!’