Book 5 - Desolation Island

by Patrick O'Brian

  The bosun, a dark fellow in a perpetual ill-temper, opened his mouth: but the look on the Captain's face turned his remark to an 'Aye aye, sir,' and he plunged below, piping for his mates as he went.

  'Let us try the main topgallantsail, Mr Babbington,' said Jack, when the ship had taken the full thrust of the wind right aft and all her way was on her. The upperyardsmen lay aloft, ran out on the yard, let fall. The yard rose, the mast complained, the backstays grew tauter still; but the good canvas held and the Leopard's speed increased perceptibly. Jack looked aft, over the tearing wake: the seventy-four was a little farther off. 'So far, so good,' he said to himself, and to Babbington, 'Clew up, however: we will try again when the bosun has done his work.'

  So far so good: the Leopard was just gaining, just outrunning the Waakzaamheid with the canvas she could bear at present. She could certainly hold her own and better in this wind and in this sea. But he did not want to go any further south, where the westerlies blew harder still.

  After an hour he altered course due east. Instantly the Waakzaamheid steered to head him off, running the chord of the Leopard's arc, gaining more than Jack liked to see, and at the same time setting a curious little triangular sail like an inverted skyscraper from the yardarms of her main topgallant to the cap.

  'This is no time to jig,' reflected Jack. The Waakzaamheid had the masterhand as far as course was concerned, and he put the Leopard before the wind once more, a west-north-west wind with a distinct tendency to haul norther still. Then raising his voice to the foremast head, where Lane was toiling with his crew, clinging to what frail support there was, their pigtails streaming forward, stiff and straight, he called, 'Mr Lane, should you like your hammock sent aloft?'

  If the bosun made any reply it was drowned by the striking of eight bells in the afternoon watch, followed by all the ritual gestures. The log was heaved, as clear of the huge wake as it would go; the reel whirled; the quartermaster bawled out 'Nip!'; the midshipman reported 'Just on the twelve, sir, if you please.' The officer of the watch chalked it up on the log-board. The carpenter made his report: 'Three inches in the well, sir,' and Jack said, 'Ah, Mr Gray, I was just about to pass the word for you. Deadlights in the cabin, if you please. I do not want to get my stockings wet, if a following sea should get up tonight.'

  'Deadlights it is, sir; for nothing are so unwholesome as wet stockings.' Gray was an old old man, a master of his trade, and he might be a little chatty. 'Will it cut up rough, sir, do you reckon?' By most standards it had cut up rough long ago: the Leopard was pitching like a froward horse, white water over her bows, and although the wind was right aft, where in moderate weather it would be almost mute, they now conversed in a strong shout, while spray whipped off the rollers shot past them, to vanish forward. But they were in the forties, and in the forties this was not worth speaking of, not what would be called real weather at all.

  'I doubt it may; look at the gleam to leeward, Mr Gray.'

  The carpenter looked, and pursed his lips; glanced aft to catch the Dutchman on the rise, and pursed them again, muttering, 'What can you expect, when we got a witch aboard? Deadlights this minute, sir.'

  'And hawse-bags, of course.'

  So they ran another glass, and at the striking of the bell Jack moved to the poop: there, crouching with his telescope behind the taffrail, he inspected the Waakzaamheid. The moment he had it focused on her forecastle he had a curious shock, for there, full in his glass, was the Dutch captain, looking straight at him. There was no doubt about his tall, burly form, the distinctive carriage of his head: Jack was familiar with the enemy. But now, instead of his usual light blue, he had a black coat on. 'I wonder,' thought Jack, 'whether it is just an odd chance, or whether we killed some relative of his? His boy, perhaps, dear God forbid.'

  The seventy-four was gaining slightly now, and in the strong remaining light—for the evening was much longer down here, and the two ships had run well clear of the gloom of the north—Jack could make out the nature of those odd triangles. There was another at the foretopgallant now, and it was a storm-staysail, suspended by its tack.

  'If you please, sir,' said a midshipman, young Hillier, 'the bosun says all is stretched along, and might he have a party.'

  A tidy party it would have to be, for Jack's plan was to supplement the backstays with hawsers, no less, so that the immensely strengthened masts might bear a great press of sail with a following wind, the strain being transferred to the hull; but to bowse the massive cordage so taut that it would serve its office called for a most uncommon force. Once, when he was third of the Theseus, they had set the mainsail in a hurry to claw off the Penmarks, and a south-wester blew so hard that two hundred men were needed to haul the sheet right aft: he did not have two hundred valid men, but he did have a little more time than the captain of the Theseus, with the breakers under his lee.

  None to waste, however, with the seventy-four only three miles away, and running off the mile in just five minutes: and above all, no time to make a mistake—a mast lost in this sea was sure destruction.

  'A burton-tackle to the chess-tree,' he called, loud and clear. 'Lead aft to a snatch-block fast to the aftermost ring-bolts and forward free. Look alive, there, look alive. Light along that snatch-block, Craig.' Order came from apparent confusion in five minutes: the half-drowned bosun's party scrambled in from the chess-trees; and the whole ship's company crowded into the waist and along the gangways, standing by the cablets that were to act as horizontal falls, working with a threefold power.

  'Silence fore and aft,' cried Jack. 'Starboard, tally on. At the word, now, and all together cheerly: like a bowline. Ho, one. Ho, two. Ho, belay. Larboard, clap on. Ho, one. Ho, two. Ho, belay.'

  So it went, on either side: short sharp pulls aft from the chess-trees, forward from the snatch-blocks, and the hawsers tightened evenly, tighter and tighter yet, a most careful balancing of forces, until the wind sung the same note in each, and each pair was iron-taut, supporting its mast with extraordinary strength.

  'Belay,' cried Jack for the last time. 'Well fare ye, lads. Are you ready, Mr Lane?'

  'Ready, aye ready, sir.'

  'Cast off all. Maintopgallantsail, there.'

  The yard rose up; the mast took the strain without a groan; the Leopard's bow-wave grew higher still with her increasing speed. Now the spritsail topsail followed, while to ease her plunging they hauled up the mainsail, giving all the wind to her forecourse: she sailed easier yet, with no slackening in her pace, clearly outrunning the Dutchman, although he had shaken out his foretopsail reef.

  They raced furiously over the empty, heaving sea under a clear late evening sky, both ships driven very hard; and the first to lose an important spar or sail would lose the race that night. The sun was setting; in an hour and forty minutes the moon would rise, a little past her full. With the afterglow and then the strong moonlight, there would be small chance of jigging unperceived; yet half an hour before the moon he would bring the wind a point or so on the quarter, just so that the jibs and forward staysails would stand and give him another half knot or even more. And all things being considered, hammocks might be piped down: the larboard watch would turn in with all their clothes on in case of emergency, and there was no point in keeping them at quarters, shivering behind their tight-closed ports; the crisis, if it came to that, was some way off. Perhaps a great way to the east. He had chased forty-eight hours before this.

  In the darkened cabin he found Stephen with his 'cello between his knees and a soup-tureen at his side. 'Judas,' he said, lifting the lid and beholding emptiness.

  'Not at all, my dear. More is on the brew; but I cannot recommend it. You would be better with a glass of water, tempered with a few drops of wine, a very few drops of wine, and a piece of biscuit.'

  'What did you eat it for, then? Why did you not leave a scrap, not a single scrap?'

  'It was only that I felt my need was greater than thine, my business of greater importance than your business. For whereas yours
is concerned with death, mine is the bringing forth of life. Mrs Boswell is in labour, and some time tonight or tomorrow I think I may promise you an addition to your crew.'

  'Ten to one another—woman,' said Jack. 'Killick! Killick, there!'

  More soup appeared, chops hot and hot, a jug of coffee, and a wedge of solid duff.

  'Will this last long, do you suppose?' asked Stephen, over the booming of his 'cello.

  'A stern chase is a long chase,' said Jack.

  'And would you consider this a really stern one?'

  'It could not well be more so. The Dutchman is in our wake. He is dead astern.'

  'So that is the significance of the term. I had always supposed it to mean an eager, a grim, a most determined pursuit, inspired by inveterate animosity. Well: and so this is a stern chase. Listen till I tell you something for my part: a breech-presentation is a long, long labour too. It looks to me that the both of us have an active night ahead: you will allow me to call for another pot.'

  Stephen's was active enough, with no proper forceps and no great experience of midwifery; but after Jack had gone on deck to alter course—southwards, since the Dutchman expected him to go north—and had stared at his pursuer for a while by the light of the risen moon, he stretched out on his cot and went straight to sleep. The outer jib and the foretopmast staysail were standing well, the Leopard was steering easy, and the seventy-four was between four and five miles astern; she had not perceived Jack's smooth change of direction for some time and she had not set her own headsails until the Leopard was close on another mile ahead.

  He woke refreshed: yet his sleeping mind had recorded the crash of water against the deadlights, and coming on deck he was not surprised to find that both wind and sea had increased. The cold, brilliant moon showed an even array of tall waves sweeping eastward, wide apart, with a deep trough between; and now their heads were curling over, streaming down the leeward side in a white cascade; and the general note of the wind in the rigging had risen half an octave.

  If this grew worse, and from the look of the western sky, the feel of the air, it must grow worse, he would have to put the Leopard before the wind again; the ship could not stand a heavier sea upon her quarter without being thrown off her course. The Waakzaamheid was still at much the same distance, but that was not likely to last.

  The graveyard watch wore on, bell by bell; and still they ran, starting neither sheet nor tack, an eager, grim, and most determined pursuit. At eight bells, with both watches on deck, he took in the spritsail, got the yard fore and aft, set the inner jib, and bore up another point. It might be his last chance of doing so, for the air was now filled with flying water and the ship was tearing through the sea at a rate he never would have believed possible, a rate that in fact would have been impossible without those hawsers to the mastheads. But this was no longer the exhilarating pace of a few hours ago; now there was a nightmare, breakneck quality about it; and now the wind was blowing very hard indeed.

  Hour after hour towards the morning watch, and hour after hour the wind increased. Twice, just after seven bells, the Leopard was very nearly pooped by a freakish bursting sea: the steady progression of the rollers was losing its regularity, becoming disordered. Eight bells again, and he put the ship before the wind, taking in the staysails. It was impossible to get an accurate reading of the log, for the blast tossed the log-boat forward of her bows; and now the carpenter's mate reported two foot of water in the well. The Leopard had been working and straining so much that a good deal had come in through her sides, let alone that which made its way down from the decks in spite of the laid hatches and through the hawse-holes in spite of the bags.

  The sun rose on a sea in labour, the crests riding ahead of the swell and breaking: creaming water from horizon to horizon except in the bottom of the troughs, much deeper now; while from every height the wind tore foam, drops and solid water, driving it forward in a grey veil that darkened and filled the air. The Waakzaamheid lay within two miles. And now the extreme danger of sailing in a very heavy swell became more and more apparent; in the troughs, the valleys between the waves, the Leopard was almost becalmed, while on the crest the full force of the wind struck her, threatening to tear her sails from their boltropes or to carry away her masts: even worse, she lost some of her way at the bottom, whereas she needed all her speed to outrun the following seas, for if they were to overtake her she would be pooped, smothered in a mass of breaking water. Then ten to one she would slew round and broach to, presenting her broadside to the wind, so that the next sea would overwhelm her.

  This was by no means the worst sea Jack had known; it was still far from the total chaos of a ten-days' blow—enormous waves with a fetch of a thousand miles running into one another, rising mountain-high, breaking, tumbling and bursting with enormous force—but it looked as though it might build up into something of the same kind; and already the Waakzaamheid was showing how much the larger ship was favoured. Her higher masts, her greater mass, meant that she lost less way when partially becalmed, and she was now not much more than a mile away: yet on the other hand she had either taken in or lost her odd triangles.

  An albatross glided down the starboard side, turned on the wind and shot across the wake, picking something from the surface as it flew; and it was only when he saw the brilliant flash of its wings that he realized how yellow the foam was in fact. Even at this time of great concentration on his ship and the countless forces acting upon her he was astonished at the bird's perfect control, at the way its gleaming twelve-foot wings lifted it without the least effort and sent it flanking across the oncoming sea in an easy, unhurried curve. 'I wish Stephen could . . .' he was thinking as the Leopard climbed the crest ahead, but a crack forward and the sound of threshing canvas cut him short. The foretopsail had split. 'Clew up, clew up,' he cried—there was a chance of saving it. 'Halliards, there. Maintopsail.' He ran forward, calling for the bosun. No bosun, but Cullen, the captain of the foretop, was at the mast, and the bosun's mates; they secured the topsail, the yard lowered on the cap, while the ship plunged down the long slope among the smother of the breaking crest. The close-reefed maintopsail kept the Leopard ahead of the following seas after no more than a few minutes' hesitation, but it was too far aft for the ideal thrust—her speed was not so great, and she might steer wild.

  It was still possible to bend another foretopsail. 'Pass the word for the bosun,' he shouted, and at last the man came stumbling aft: drunk, not dead drunk, but incapable. 'Get along forward,' said Jack to him: and to his older mate, 'Arklow, carry on. Number two foretopsail, and the best robins in the store.'

  A cruel struggle out there on the yard, cruel and long, fighting with canvas animated by such a force, but they bent the sail at last and came down, hands bleeding, the men looking as though they had been flogged.

  'Go below,' said Jack. 'Get your hands bound up: tell purser's steward I say you are to have a tot apiece, and something warm.'

  Leaning over the rail, his eyes half-shut against the driving spray, he saw that the Waakzaamheid was now within a thousand yards. He shrugged: no ship, no first-rate, not even a Spanish four-decker, could show her broadside in such a sea. 'Mr Grant,' he said, 'let the pumps be rigged: we are steering rather heavy.' Then, with a look at the new foretopsail, tight as a drum, he went below for a bite himself.

  Like the Dutch captain, Killick seemed able to read his thoughts: coffee and a pile of ham sandwiches were carrying in as Jack hung his streaming sou'-wester on its peg and walked into the gloomy cabin, where he sat on a locker by the starboard gun. Not a gleam came in from the stern windows, their glass replaced by solid wood; and even the skylight had a tarpaulin over it.

  'Thankee, Killick,' he said, after a first ravenous gulp. 'Any news of the Doctor?'

  'No, your honour. Only howls, and Mr Herapath took poorly. It must be worse before it can get better; that is what I always say.'

  'No doubt, no doubt,' said Jack uneasily, and he applied himself to the sandwich
es: thick cold pancake instead of bread, but welcome. Slowly champing, he mused on women, their hard lot; on the curse of Eve; on Sophie; on his daughters, growing fast. An immense crash of splintering wood, a surge of flying spray, a flood of light, and a spent cannon-ball broke in upon his thought. He peered out through the broken deadlights and saw another flash in the Waakzaamheid's bows. No sound in this universal roar, and the smoke was swept instantly away, but it was clear that the seventy-four had opened up with her chasers, trained sharp forward from the bridle-ports in her bluff bows and that a lucky shot had struck right home, smashing his coffee-cup—a chance in a million.

  'Killick, another cup,' he called, carrying the rest of his breakfast into the dining-cabin. 'And let Chips come aft.'

  'I had never expected that today,' he said to himself. Certainly the aim of warfare was the destruction of the enemy, and he had seen French ships totally destroyed in fleet-engagements; but in single-ship actions the idea of capture usually predominated. He had expected the seventy-four to hunt him down and take him, or try to take him, when the weather moderated: in this sea there was no possibility of capture and the Dutch captain's intent could only be to kill. Any engagement must mean the total loss of the first ship to lose a mast or a vital sail and thus the control of her run: the death of every soul aboard her. 'A bloody-minded man, I see.'

  He did not spend long below, but how things had changed when he next came on deck! It was not that the wind was greater—indeed, there was a slight but certain lessening—but that the sea had grown steeper still. And the ship was labouring now, heavy on the rise, although the chain-pumps were shooting a great gush of water over her side. The storm-jib would have to come in: it was pressing her down, and in any case the boom was whipping like a bow. 'Mr Grant, we will get in the storm-jib and goose-wing the maincourse.'