I made my way for'ard along the life-nets, clinging like a spider and watching my moment as the seas burst aboard. Botany Bay was sick, lurching now like a drunk across the tops and troughs instead of riding them.
There was a small group of men at the foremast weather rigging. One glance was enough. The topgallant mast was leaning leewards and whipping. Any moment it would go overboard. It must have been a prime spar to have taken all it had.
Trap those backstays together!' I ordered. 'Slap it about, men! We'll take up the slack of the lanyards later, when the weather eases. If that mast goes, cut it adrift.'
These yachtsmen-deepwatermen certainly knew their job. They started in with no-nonsense swiftness and competency. Their lives depended on it.
The motion here in the bows was frightening. The blunt cut-water was never meant to cleave the waves but ride over them. Tumults of seething foam burst from it. Two men were trying to keep their footing in the life-nets rigged below the jib-boom while they did something about the patch in the bow.
One of them called to me, 'It's hopeless, sir! The water drives in every time she plunges. It needs to be stopped with tar…'
Because my mind was anxiously on Linn the answer clicked into my mind.
I'd melt down those waxworks figures in place of tar! 'Do your best — I've got an idea. I'm going below,' I replied. 'It could work.'
The second man had a frost-bitten face and a sense of humour. 'Make it work before we drown, sir!'
I gave him the thumbs-up sign and hurried below-decks via the entrance below the poop.
The scene that greeted me was the way I imagined an old-time warship's deck must have looked after it had been swept by a broadside. It looked like a scene from Dante's Inferno. Light came from a dim smoking oil lamp. Headless wax figures rolled, banged and thumped. The stage-props of the various tableaux swept around in utter disarray. There was water everywhere.
'Linn!' I called. 'Where are you? Are you all right?'
'John!'
I found her crouched in a cubicle. She had barricaded the entrance against debris. She had clipped a couple of pairs of exhibition handcuffs on to a hook on the wall and was using them as grab-handles.
'John! What's happening? Are we sinking…?'
Briefly I explained my plan for the bow leak.
'We've got to find some way of melting the wax and dipping the sail into it,' I added.
'What about the bath — the one they used for the convicts?'
'You're a sailor's daughter, Linn!'
'I could help,' she hurried on. 'We'd have to make a fire under it, though.'
The thought of a naked fire in a wooden ship would have sent any old shipmaster to his grave.
There are as many ways to sink a ship as to hang a cat,' I told her, thinking of the crisis on deck. 'You're wonderful. I'll send down a couple of men as soon as we've worked on the rigging.'
Then I asked, 'Where is the transmitter?'
I saw she'd taken the saddle for a pillow.
'Yes,' she smiled. 'It's not as close to me as my shirt, but it's near enough.'
'Good girl. Keep at it. We'll beat 'em yet.'
I kissed her lightly and hurried back on deck.
I life-lined along the rail to the men in the bows and gave them my orders. Then I returned to the quarterdeck.
Bent called to me from the wheel as soon as I mounted the ladder from the main deck.
'She's wild, sir. She's running away. We can't hold her — riot even three of us.'
Their faces were glistening with sweat; the cords knotted Ullmann's powerful neck every time the wheel bucked.
'I'll try and get a scrap of flying jib on her — if we can fix the foremast,' I told Bent. That will make her more manageable.'
I switched my attention to the men who were making their way cautiously down the ratlines from the upper rigging.
'Goosewing the main tops'l,' I ordered them. 'Let go the fore tops'l halyards — the mast may give at any moment.'
For four days Botany Bay fled before the gale on that goosewing.
Four days.
For four days the hill-like ridges of water chased her stern, each threatening to wipe the ocean clean of the only man-made thing in all its turbulent vastnesses.
For four days the gale held unabated from the west. For four days it raged steadily, relentlessly. My tired mind computed its average speed at 55 knots. It may have been more, — it certainly was not much less. I remembered that the record for the Prince Edward channel was 72 knots in a blow. I didn't want any records for Botany Bay.
For four days the crests of the waves — and often the body of the rollers — threw themselves over the ship's rail.
For four days Linn and her helpers melted down the waxworks, head by head, body by body, exhibit by exhibit, dipping the sails which were the precarious membrane between life and death into the wax until each was smashed into uselessness by the waves. Then a new sail would be impregnated, a new patch rigged, until it, too, went the way of the others. The naked fire was a calculated risk. Time and again the burning planks — they burned the partitions between the exhibits first, then every scrap of loose woodwork they could find — spilled from their makeshift gratings under the bath and had to be soused with fire-buckets before the long process began again from scratch.
But it was no lasting answer. The sea kept streaming in through the leak.
On the first day squads of men pumped the bilges reasonably dry in two hours of back-breaking donkey work. At that stage the crew was still relatively fresh.
On the second day the clanging of the pumps rang through the ship for five hours. Botany Bay lived again.
On the third day it took eight hours.
On the fourth we pumped all day. All the waxworks had been melted down and the sail patch was now all but useless. The men were exhausted, driving themselves to the pump handles like zombies. While they pumped, we floated. But the water was beating them, creeping slowly but inexorably up inside the hull.
Between stints of renewing the sail patch, Linn made food for the tiring crew. At first, while there was still wood for burning, she supplied them with hot coffee to supplement their chunks of bread-and-meat. Now the fuel was gone and sea water was starting to pollute the fresh water tanks. By next day I knew the water would be undrinkable.
For four days Botany Bay staggered goosewinged under a sky as unrelenting as the sea and wind. The overburden of cloud seemed never to rise much above the ship's royal yards. It was impossible to obtain a fix to establish our position. We could have been anywhere. Our only course was the gale's course.
For four nights and four days I had conned the ship from my post at the weather shrouds until my eyes and face were aflame with salt. Wegger, Ullmann and Bravold — one of them had always been on guard. Both Ullmann and Bravold had put their strength to the wheel. Without them, the game but exhausted Bent and the other pump-drunk crewmen would never have held the ship.
Now it was the dawn of the fifth day. I was at my station. I had staggered below to try and get some rest. Linn had taken me under the penguin-skin rug and pillowed my head on hers against Captain Starlight's saddle. Sometimes I had not known whether those capsuled moments of bliss and warmth were dreams or not, until some savage lurch of the ship would jerk me awake while Linn held me in her arms. Then I would kiss her, drag myself away, and stagger back to face the remorseless enemy on the quarterdeck.
Now it was the dawn of the fifth day. I was at my station. Jets of icy spray whipped into my face, scouring it down to the blood like sunburn. The bloodshot faces of the three men at the wheel were haggard in the binnacle's light. Bent was there, trying to penetrate the blackness and catch a glimpse of the goosewinged sail. A sail to steer her by, I thought light-headedly — then I realized something was amiss. It wasn't the deck under me, growing deader and deader. It wasn't the wind. Something was happening, my stunned mind registered.
The sound which had run through the ship
for days like an undertaker's hammer had gone silent.
The pumps had stopped.
I pulled myself together. Before I could put my mind to this new problem, a figure loomed up alongside me. He was gasping and his face was ghastly with fatigue.
'The water — it's beaten us, sir! Pumps are no longer drawing. Must be fouled up. She's had it.'
He stood swaying, passing the responsibility for the dying ship on to my aching shoulders.
I asked as steadily as I could, 'How much water is in her?'
'It's right up to the waxworks deck, sir.'
I'll come below.'
I felt my way. The swinging lantern seemed dimmer than before. But its light was strong enough to show me enough. The water was ankle-deep. Linn was there, dressed in weather-proofing and boots. She had the hood drawn over her hair so that her face was in deep shadow. She had the penguin-skin rug looped about her shoulders against the cold. Ashes from the fire sloshed about. The chopped partitions and air of desolation made it feel as if Botany Bay had already passed beyond man's recall.
I put my arm round her and said to the man, 'Get for'ard. There's nothing we can do here any more.' My sluggish mind was already made up. Botany Bay stood one last chance, the slenderest of chances. 'Get half a dozen axes. I want the fittest men up on deck. Have them man the weather deadeye lanyards.'
The man stared at me uncomprehendingly. 'Quick,' I said, as if that word had any meaning any more. 'Quick as you all can.'
He went.
Linn said, This is the finish, isn't it, John?'
I couldn't see into the depths of her eyes in the smoky light.
'It could be, Linn.'
'I want you to know I love you, my darling.'
'These days have been a voyage to ourselves, my love. You've given me everything I've ever wanted.'
I took her close in my arms. Immediately I felt the hard outline of the transmitter under her parka.
I smiled wryly and shook my head. 'It was a good idea, Linn darling. It could have worked except…'
'For the Southern Ocean?'
The water round our ankles sloshed alarmingly. I kissed her and said, 'I don't know whether there'll be room in the motor-launch for us all. The other boats are all stove in. I may have to stay.'
'If I stay also, there'll be room for one more man in the launch,' she replied. 'That's the way I want it, my darling.'
'Then keep very close to me, Linn.'
We went on deck. Wegger and Bravold were there, both with Scorpions. They seemed more ridiculous than ever. Ullmann was at the wheel.
'She won't last another hour,' I told Wegger. 'We can try the motor-launch. But it won't take everybody.'
'Where is Prince Edward Island from here?' he demanded.
'You must be bloody mad to ask a question like that at a time like this.'
'I haven't thrown in the sponge,' he said thickly. 'I'll make it yet. What course?'
I laughed contemptuously. 'Try east. Just due east. You may finish up in Australia.'
I turned my back on him and picked up the megaphone. I couldn't make out the crew but I knew they must be huddled somewhere up for'ard.
'One of you get below,' I ordered. 'Put a drum of oil in the for'ard lavatory so that it spills out the hawse-hole. Understood?'
'He's gone, sir,' called back a voice from the darkness.
'Stand by to wear ship,' I said. 'Men, I'm going to try and bring her head to the sea. If we can stream a sea-anchor, we might still make it. The snip's stone dead. She mayn't come round. It's just an outside chance. If she hangs in stays, chop the fore and mainmast lanyards free and send the masts overside. Clear?'
'Clear, sir,' came the muffled reply.
I paused for a moment, hoping for a smoother patch to risk the fateful manoeuvre, which is difficult enough in a storm in any sailing-ship, let alone one which is sinking under your feet.
I saw a blue, phosphorescent glow — it seemed almost tangible — to starboard, the weather side.
'Hands to wear ship!'
I do not know whether anyone got as far as his station.
The wind switched direction without warning as if it had cannoned off a solid object.
Simultaneously with a frenzied shout, 'All aback forward!' I heard a crash overhead as the single sail blew from its bolt-ropes. The wheel gave a tremendous kick out of Ullmann's hands, and the ship broached to. There was another shattering crash and the foremast went overboard! followed by the main topgallant mast. Blocks, yards, rigging came showering down on deck. Botany Bay went over on her beam ends.
There was only one order now.
'Abandon ship!' I shouted. 'All hands to abandon ship!'
Out of the darkness of the bow came a hysterical scream.
'Ship right ahead!'
I, too, saw the outline of the ship. It was the same bluish phosphorescent colour I had noted before the masts went.
It was a ship, oddly foreshortened, taller than Botany Bay along its tall cutwater.
I recognized it as I saw it.
It was a ship — and a rock. A rock shaped like a ship. Ship Rock.
Ship Rock is one of the deadly outliers of Prince Edward Island.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Botany Bay's fallen tophamper smashed and thumped against the hull. It was a better sea anchor than anything which I could have devised. It dragged the vessel's head round.
But it was too late.
It could not drag her clear of Ship Rock.
She lay beam-on for a long moment cowering away from the massive black basalt stack which rose above her. A whole ocean broke over the rail. I saw one damaged lifeboat lifted bodily and smashed to splinters on the deck.
The rope I'd used to fasten myself to the shrouds I threw round Linn so that we were lashed together.
Then Botany Bay struck.
The port beam and quarter took the blow. There was a rending, sickening crash as her timbers disintegrated.
The sea, rebounding on the return from the streaming black cliff which rose up like a skyscraper, burst over the full length of the ship.
One moment I was standing with Linn on the poop, the next I found myself against a cathead in the bow. The rope had snicked fast about it; Linn was with me still.
I pulled myself to my knees, grabbed her, and pointed. 'The jib-boom! Up! Quick! Before the next wave!'
The spar was still intact above the maelstrom sweeping aft along the main deck and poop. I half-dragged, half-hauled Linn with me until I felt the footropes under my boots. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure doubled up between the outer bobstay and footrope stirrups — whether he was alive or dead I could not tell.
Botany Bay was thrown again against the cliff, this time stern-first. The bowsprit jerked at the impact as if in agony. I saw a group of men round the motor-launch as the main deck lifted up. They seemed to be cutting it free of its skids. Then, above the general din, came the sound of shots.
There was no time to think of what was happening. The ship sheered, the jib-boom dug into the cliff, and broke off short abaft of where we were.
Linn and I were pitched into the surging water. The cold was paralysing. I felt the backwash start to draw me away from the cliff. I seemed to be caught in a spider's web of ropes, guys, chains, wires and blocks all washing and entangling themselves.
I knew that in seconds the undertow would sweep us away from Ship Rock and the icy sea would do the rest.
I held Linn under the arms and snatched at the nearest thing. It wasn't a rope, — it was thick and slippery, the thickness of a man's calf. It was a frond of kelp anchored to Ship Rock.
I hauled us in, hand over hand.
'Linn — ride in on the next wave — that ledge — there!'
The kelp seemed to originate from a ragged shelf about five metres above us.
'Use your feet!' I called, spitting out mouthfuls of water. 'Don't let the water smash you against the rock!'
There was no time for more. T
he next roller — a huge sea — picked us and Botany Bay up together and threw us against the rock. At the same instant I heaved all my weight on to the kelp, scrambling, slipping, grasping, keeping hold of Linn.
I felt the horizontal shelf — no more than a metre wide — under my clawing fingers. The water started to fall back. If I didn't hang on, there would be no second chance.
I whipped the rope linking us over a spur-like projection on the shelf and at the same time gripped the kelp frond with my knees and ankles the way I had used Botany Bay's backstay to slide down. The roller took another side-swipe at the dying ship on its return. We were left hanging like two flies against the streaming black cliff.
'John!' called Linn faintly. 'Let me go! Let me go! I can't make it any more!'
She was about a metre lower than I was, trying to find a finger-hold in the smooth rock.
'Linn! Listen! The rope's fast round a rock. I'm going to ease myself down on this piece of kelp. My weight will counter-balance you and pull you up. When you reach the shelf double-loop the rope round the projection. That'll hold it for me. Then haul yourself on to the ledge.'
'John, it's hopeless…'
'Do as I say! Quick — there's another breaker coming!', I eased my grip en the kelp. The seesaw effect of my weight was immediate. Linn went on up past me. I went down.
'John!' It was Linn above. 'I've got it!'
I knew she had, the way the rope felt. I scrabbled and clawed my way up the smooth cliff on the lifeline. It could not have been more than a couple of metres, — it felt like a thousand.
Then I was up and over on to the ledge.
I threw myself to shelter on the narrow projection just as the next roller poured over us. Half an hour of that kind of drenching and we'd simply fall off the ledge into the sea from cold.
I risked a glance over the edge. Botany Bay had turned broadside directly under me. The next breaker would give her the coup de grace. Then I spotted Wegger in the motor-launch, poised over the tiller. He was alone. He was seaman enough, and cool enough, to wait for it: he was going to float the launch off its deck skids at the next wave — if he wasn't dashed to pieces by it. Two or three men were on deck, shouting and gesticulating at him. They made a rush at the boat and I heard the sound of more shots.
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