The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  In the grisly tangle of bodies which came smashing onto the deck, nothing stirred and all voices were stilled.

  Whimpering, Woodget opened his eyes, not daring to hope that his friends had survived, but to his relief he saw that they were still clutching the tarpaulin.

  Staring across at him, hanging on for dear life, Thomas managed a desperate nod. “Don’t worry!” he cried. “We’ll make it yet, Woodj!”

  At his side Dimlon stared about him with his round eyes blinking in dismay and the three cork pendants which hung about his neck swinging violently with every jerking roll of the ship, smacking him in the face until he managed to wedge them under the strap of his satchel.

  Only Mulligan appeared unafraid, yet his face was terrible to look on for it was set and grim and as he raised his eyes to the ceiling he shouted his defiance to the Green Mouse and in that hour his mood was as black and thunderous as the tempest itself.

  “This is not the end!” he bellowed. “It cannot go down to the deeps. Hear me now, I command you, spare us from this pitiless storm!”

  Then, Woodget noticed that Mulligan was only holding on with one fist—his free paw was tightly grasped about his precious bag and the fieldmouse gaped in bewilderment. Even encompassed by all this death and horror, the peg-leg was still protecting whatever secret was hidden in that pack.

  “He’s mad!” Woodget cried. “Totally crazed—it can’t possibly be worth riskin’ his life fer.”

  Outside, the typhoon screamed more viciously than ever and the Calliope floundered in the tortuous, rearing seas.

  When another fierce wave pummelled the ship and sent it wheeling through the violent, ferocious tumult, Dimlon let out a shrill yell and his fingers slipped from the tarpaulin.

  Squeaking, he tumbled down towards the mass of broken bodies but just as he thought his life was over, a rough, tattooed paw flashed out and Mulligan caught hold of him.

  “Get you back here, lad!” he snapped hoisting the spluttering mouse back to safety before returning his paw to the bag.

  Dimlon stared at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude in his wide eyes. For a brief instant he opened his mouth to thank him and then clapped it shut and turned quickly away.

  “When will it cease?” Thomas cried. “We can’t go on much longer!”

  Mulligan shook his head, “That I don’t know. But if it doesn’t blow itself out soon then we’re all done for one way or another.”

  And then, cutting through their dread and fear a clear, resonant voice rang out above the din and the ringing words shone like a ray of hope in the pits of their despair.

  Throughout everything Simoon had remained poised upon his bundle, his small seated figure never once caught off balance or off guard by any of the insane lunges of the ship. Now he lifted his head and cast back the fringed hood.

  “Hearken to me!” he cried. “There is yet a chance for us all. If you can suffer the hurts and abide your wounds but a little while more then the worst of the storm will truly have passed. Its malice is not directed towards us, yet we have dared to venture where only one vessel is permitted to voyage. Through the rim of its fury are we crossing but that will soon be past.”

  Mulligan glared at him and the jerboa’s great dark eyes gleamed back in acknowledgement.

  “So it’s nearly over!” Thomas yelled thankfully.

  “No indeed,” came Simoon’s cryptic and unpleasant reply. “For soon your troubles begin in earnest.”

  Thomas frowned but the prophet had pulled up his hood so that his face was lost in the shadows and he made no further movements nor would he answer any of the questions the survivors called to him.

  Anxiously, but with a renewed faith for their salvation, the remaining passengers held on and though the Calliope continued to tip and tilt, gradually the violence decreased and the howl of the tempest began to fade.

  “The phoney fortune teller was right,” Thomas muttered in disbelief.

  “Course he was,” Mulligan told him, “but it don’t need no magic to predict that. Storms don’t last forever, but the ship’s still being knocked about out there.”

  “But not half as bad,” Thomas answered. “Why, I could even let go now and get over to Woodget.”

  “You stay where you are!” the Irish mouse instructed. “We’re not through yet.”

  Hearing this gruff statement, Simoon raised his head again and held up his paws.

  “In that we are agreed,” he declared. “Yet to cling on like ticks to flesh or spiders to webs, will not avail you now. The host is dying and only a few tattered strands remain of our spinning. In this evil hour we must face a new peril. Leave your moorings and head for the upper deck, while there is yet time.”

  Sliding his feet from under the straps, Simoon leaped to the floor and with a small silver knife began cutting his unwieldy bundle of goods loose.

  “Flee while you may!” he warned them. “The moment of doom is nigh! Let it not override you!”

  Everyone stared at him, that strange, velvet-robed creature who darted from one rope to another—hacking them in two.

  “What’s he doing?” Thomas murmured. “What did he mean by ‘doom’?”

  “The fool’s addled,” Mulligan said. “Look at him now, he’s climbing back on top of his baggage.”

  Sure enough, once the bundle was no longer tethered to the crate, Simoon hauled himself back to his former position then folded his arms as if he were waiting for something.

  “To look at him you might think he was simply going to fly out of this calamity,” Mulligan added scornfully, “like a genie on a carpet.”

  Further along the hold, Woodget craned his neck to see what the jerboa was up to and he wondered what he should do.

  “Mister Simoon?” he cried. “What’ll happen?”

  The prophet turned his head and bowed respectfully to the fieldmouse. “Make haste,” he urged, “gain the passage, run to the upper airs—it is your only chance.”

  Such was the compelling force in his voice that Woodget let go of his rope and dropped onto the deck.

  “Tom!” he cried. “Come quick! Simoon says we must an’ I believe him.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Thomas yelled back. “Be careful, Woodj, we might be thrown about again at any time!”

  A soft, regretful sigh issued from Simoon’s fringed hood. “Alas,” he uttered. “Already it is too late. The moment has come.”

  Down the sloping passage there came the sound of running footsteps and into the hold tore Captain Gabriel Hewer. Wretchedly, he took in the awful spectacle of the squashed and broken dead, then called out at the top of his voice.

  “Abandon ship! Abandon ship! The squall’s driving her towards the rocks!”

  At first the survivors merely gawped at him, doubting that the situation could get any worse, then the full horror of his words dawned on them and they leapt from their perches and bolted towards the passage as thought all the servants of the legendary Hobb were pursuing them.

  “Don’t shove there!” boomed the captain. “Let the wives and children go first. Hoy you, belay that pushing!”

  But the passengers paid him little heed; their one consuming desire now was to gain the upper decks, to leave this appalling, grisly place where they had witnessed so many violent and needless deaths. Yet in spite of their anguish, and driven by the blindness of their terror, they ran over the fallen bodies that lay across their path, praying that there would be time to mourn for them and regret their careless tramplings later.

  Still seated upon his belongings, Simoon watched them go screaming through the hold and his sparkling eyes sought for Woodget. Swamped within that frenzied mob there briefly glimmered a patch of reddish gold fur and the jerboa’s thorny brows joined together as deep furrows scored his face.

  Poor Woodget was caught in the overpowering flow of the screaming, stampeding survivors and was swept helplessly along, his scared little face bobbing up behind taller shoulders and upraised paws.

&n
bsp; “Fare you well, Master Pipple,” Simoon breathed in a soft, sorrowful whisper. “Many are the ordeals that yet await you. May such blessing as are in mine power to grant go with you. But I dread that against the trials to come their humble strength will fail. I pray that you do not.”

  “Tom!” Woodget’s plaintive voice cried. “Tom!”

  Further back in the surging crowd, Thomas vainly tried to catch up with him but the crush was too fierce and he yelled Woodget’s name as loud as he could.

  “Wait for me!” he roared. “Wait for me, Woodj!”

  But the fieldmouse could not escape from the jostling, thrusting horde and was carried with them to the passage where they battled and kicked and forced their way in, cramming as many of their frantic, pressing bodies inside as they could.

  Suddenly a tremendous crunch reverberated throughout the fabric of the Calliope which threw everyone to the ground, and those in the darkness of the passage screeched piteously as they stumbled over one another. Then the terror-charged air was blasted by a dreadful, nerve-shredding, scraping din as the keel was driven over rock and reef.

  With its panels and timbers shuddering and groaning, the ship almost seemed to cry in agony as ugly rents were scored in her side, but still the gale slammed her to the utmost of her ruin and she was hurled against the rocks.

  Once more the Calliope lurched but this time there came a terrible splintering of wood and metal and the hull bulged and hammered inwards.

  Cracking like whips, the restraining ropes snapped around the cargo and the crates went skidding across the deck, killing all in their thunderous path. Toppling to destruction, the great wooden boxes split asunder, disgorging their contents over the floor—and then it happened.

  With a deafening, grinding rip of juddering metal the hold buckled and was torn apart. Into the ship exploded a jag of solid rock that gouged up through the shivering deck like a massive black fang, and into the ship’s flesh that tooth bit deeply.

  At once the sea came flooding in, the clamour of its spouting greed outmatched only by the screams of those still trapped in the hold.

  “Come on lads!” Mulligan bawled at Thomas and Dimlon. “Get you above. There’s lifebelts enough for all. The ship can’t help us now, she’s done her best!”

  In the passage the thick wailing current of charging creatures climbed ever upwards but the way was narrow and their progress painfully slow.

  Still caught far behind them, Thomas turned to look on the daunting sight of the deluge which was boiling and gushing its way inside. Already the stern was sinking and the wool sacks by the aft bulkhead submerged beneath a seething flood.

  “Why can’t they hurry?” he cried, desperate to follow Woodget to the upper deck. “If we don’t make a move soon the water’ll be over our heads.”

  “No, no, no,” asserted Mulligan, adding darkly, “the ship won’t stay in one piece for that long—she’ll be ripped apart.”

  Hopping up and down at their side, Dimlon abruptly leaped into the opening as the crowd in front flowed forward. “Now!” he yelled. “Hurry, get inside—we can begin the climb!”

  Mulligan lumbered after him but Thomas hesitated, for there, down the central aisle, still sitting on top of his bundle of goods, was Simoon.

  Already the water was racing up the crate-blocked thoroughfare and splashing towards him, but the prophet did not appear to care. His paws were resting lightly upon his knees and Thomas thought he heard the jerboa chanting to himself.

  “Simoon!” the mouse called. “Get over here—now!”

  Slowly the jerboa turned to him and the dark eyes glittered as he raised a puny paw.

  “Look to yourself, Master Stubbs!” he shouted back. “Fear not for Simoon! But turn if you can from the treacherous course which lies ahead of you. Disprove my words at our first meeting. Safeguard those around you; do not betray the trust of he who loves you as a brother. Farewell!”

  To Thomas’s dismay the hull shivered as the gash in the Calliope’s belly was ripped ever wider and the angry waves came rushing up to meet the waiting Simoon.

  “Tom lad!” Mulligan’s anxious voice boomed. “Get you in here!”

  Thomas turned and fled into the passage but his last glimpse of the jerboa haunted him long after. With a serene expression upon his face, Simoon gazed at the endless, roaring waters as they flushed around his goods and even as the hold split in two and a wall of frothing brine came crashing in, the bundle was lifted up and the prophet was swept into the far, murderous darkness.

  Outside, a jagged pinnacle of spiking black rock thrust from the seething fury of the waves and onto this awful, wrecking peak, the Calliope had been bitterly impaled. Now her gored, shattered bulk was plucked by the tempest and stung by the driving rain. All around, the thunder boomed and trumpeted and the blackened heavens were riven with dazzling stabs and spears of wrathful lightning.

  Into this deadly storm the remaining passengers emerged, spurting suddenly onto the upper, rain-lashed deck. Immediately a vast wave came sweeping over the side and four unwary mice were washed into the sea—their squeals lost in the raging wind.

  With his woollen hat pulled down about his ears but unprotected from the needle-sharp, biting rain, Woodget clung desperately to the deck rail as the torrential tides came blasting against the Calliope’s broken stern and everyone around him howled in terror.

  No one knew what to do. The lifeboats were gone, for the official crew had abandoned the ship before she hit the rocks. All that remained were the large cork lifebelts but what hope was there in those if the full devastating might of the violent sea was ranged against them?

  “What’ll we do?” screeched the mice. “We should have stayed below.”

  Many of them tried to fight their way back to the passage but collided with the overpowering surge of their fellow passengers who were still issuing onto the deck—wailing that the waters were rising behind them.

  They were trapped, there was nowhere else to go, but in that fearful gale they could not survive for long and beneath their very feet the ship was breaking up.

  Consumed by terror and despair, nearly all of the gibbering, tremulous rats cast themselves over the side, hoping to find sanctuary from this terrible plight upon the great rock which towered upon the left. Perhaps some crevice or shelter could be found in that monument of destruction where they could escape the brutal ravages of the savage weather. But even as they hurled themselves off the edge, the wind tore at them and the poor, puling creatures were dashed against the hard rock or flung into the churning sea.

  Abruptly, the deck splintered and buckled in two and the cries of the passengers increased. To face the sea clutching only a lifebelt was an insane prospect but to remain here was to meet certain death.

  As the waves roared over the sides, the bravest fought their way forward to where the lifebelts were stowed and yanked them free. To the mice the circles of red and white painted cork were huge, but they could bear at least thirty survivors without difficulty.

  Drenched with salt spray and beating rain but too afraid to move, Woodget could only watch as the rest of them made a dash for the seven belts and he glanced back to the passage, but Thomas and the others were still nowhere to be seen.

  Around the rapidly disintegrating carcass of the Calliope, the sea was thick with its surrendered and plundered cargo. Barrels bounced and rolled upon the ferocious waters, wooden chests rode the inflamed tide to be smashed upon the adamantine rocks and in that confused slick of crate and keg, a small round nest was carried by a crest of foam—its occupants trembling still.

  Yet upon the creaking deck, fear had bred selfishness and spite. Four of the lifebelts were already being hoisted over the deck rail, but few were those who lifted them and they would suffer no one else to join their craven crew—kicking and punching away all who tried.

  With their paws clutching at the cork and their fingers gripping the attached ropes, a group of five stoats charged over the edge and plunged down
into the wild sea. More lifebelts followed but none were sufficiently moused and soon only two were left and already they were being towed to the rail.

  “Stop right there!” bellowed a ferocious, commanding voice and there was the captain, tearing up from the flooding passage with Mulligan and the others followed close behind.

  “Tom!” Woodget squeaked. “I was so scared. I thought you was dead!”

  Thomas hurried to his friend’s side then glared across at those trying to make off with the lifebelts.

  “We’ll all be dead if we don’t put a stop to that!” he yelled.

  Over the deck the skipper ran, cuffing the heads of the mice and voles who were making off with the remaining lifebelts. After him hobbled Mulligan and the peg-leg’s stick went swiping across the fingers of those the captain missed. Even Dimlon was incensed and with an expression upon his face that startled Woodget and daunted those before him, the pale grey mouse waded into the rest of the cowardly thieves.

  “Now!” Captain Hewer bawled when the lifebelts were liberated. “Let the weaker folk come forward and take tight hold. That’s it, as many as can squeeze on.”

  In the squalling rain the passengers gripped the cork and ropes until nothing of the belt could be seen under their huddled bodies. Then they battled against the gale to the side and tumbled into the swirling waters below.

  “Right,” Mulligan shouted to Thomas and the others, “this one’s the last, so take a position, lads.”

  But there were too many for the final lifebelt to bear and to their dismay everyone realised that many would be forced to stay behind.

  “Youngest first,” the captain commanded. “You’ll have to remain here, Mulligan.”

  The Irish mouse stared at him. “I can’t!” he declared. “I’ve got to get off this ship. You don’t understand—I must be spared. I have to!”