by Tim Severin
FOUR
THE SKIN RASHES broke out a week later – dark-red blotches tinged with purple. They appeared first on the chest and then spread to the lower body, and they itched incessantly. The victims complained of muscle pains and violent, prolonged headaches. Initially there were just a handful of isolated cases, but quickly the malady spread to nearly one-third of the crew. The affected men felt lethargic and listless and could barely drag themselves about the vessel. The worst cases were too feeble even to clamber up on deck. They stayed slumped in their berths, scratching at the inflamed eruptions on their skins.
‘It’s ship fever,’ announced Cook. He had called a meeting to discuss the situation. Anyone with medical knowledge – including Hector and Dampier – had gathered in the captain’s cabin.
The quartermaster, a tight-mouthed Manxman, spoke up for the crew in general. ‘We must get ashore as soon as possible. We’ve been at sea for too long.’ A seasoned mariner, he was familiar with the dangers of ship fever. If the sickness intensified, it could reduce an entire crew to wraiths, unable to work their vessel. The only known cure was to set the invalids on land and wait until the fever disappeared.
Cook turned to his navigator. ‘Dampier, how far to the nearest refuge?’
Dampier looked even more doleful than usual. He gestured vaguely at the chart spread on the table before them. ‘I am uncertain as to our exact position. The mainland is best avoided. If we encounter the Spaniards in our weakened state . . .’ His voice trailed away.
‘Then we steer for Juan Fernandez and restore ourselves there,’ said Cook firmly. Several of those present knew the island of Juan Fernandez from their previous venture in the Pacific. Uninhabited and 400 miles off the coast of South America, it was seldom visited by Spanish patrols.
‘Juan Fernandez is at least three weeks away,’ warned Dampier.
‘So we must hope the fever does not take a stronger grip,’ replied Cook brusquely.
Hector intervened, ‘If I may make a suggestion . . .’
‘Yes, what is it?’ Cook snapped. He had been made irritable by the run of bad luck – heavy weather and now an outbreak of sickness.
‘My friend Jacques tells me he observed the same illness in the Paris prisons.’
‘And, as an ex-gaolbird, what does he suggest?’ Cook allowed a sarcastic edge to creep into his voice.
‘The prison doctors ordered all the cells washed with vinegar and the convicts’ bedding to be aired. I’ve noticed most of our fever cases are among those who sleep in the forward hold, where it’s airless and full of lice and vermin. Could we not allow in additional light and air to that area of the vessel?’
The quartermaster was adamantly opposed. ‘It’s warm down there and the rats aren’t no trouble at all. We’d block up any openings the moment they were made.’
‘I have a better solution,’ said Cook tartly. ‘Issue three pints of burned rum for every man who presents himself for work. That should get them out on deck.’
It was an effective solution, even if it failed to cure the sickness. The Bachelor’s Delight slowly clawed her way north, with her depleted crew often half-fuddled. Hector, however, heeded Jacques’ experience, and the four friends brought their own bedding up on deck. Despite the cold, drizzly weather they were anxious to spend as little time as possible in the stuffy, noxious accommodation. They were witnesses, therefore, to an event that no man aboard could have foreseen, though many had heard it rumoured.
It happened shortly after midnight on the sixty-eighth day of their voyage. The Delight was making steady progress with a moderate breeze. The faint light of a new moon showed the small regular whitecaps covering the sea around her. Earlier in the day Dan had declared this was a sign that the vessel was finally moving out into the open ocean.
‘Seems we’re due for a drenching,’ observed Jezreel, looking to windward. A line of thick, black clouds was beginning to blot out the stars in that quarter, and there was an occasional faint rumble of thunder.
‘Mon Dieu, not another storm. We’ve had more than our share,’ said Jacques with a groan.
‘No,’ Dan assured him. ‘If that was an approaching storm, we’d be feeling the swells already. It’s no more than a patch of bad weather and should pass over quickly.’
The black line advanced rapidly and, with the Delight already under reduced sail, there was nothing to be done but wait for the deluge. Hector and his friends gathered up their blankets and retreated to the shelter of the small overhang under the break of the quarterdeck.
They did not have long to wait. All of a sudden a broad sheet of lightning lit up the sea about half a mile ahead. This was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Moments later the downpour rushed upon them. It was a wild torrent, the raindrops bouncing off the planks to a height of several inches. At times the rainfall was so intense Hector felt it was becoming difficult to breathe. Dazzled by the lightning, he could barely see a couple of yards in any direction. Again and again the lightning flashed through the deluge, and the thunder was so loud that it seemed to vibrate the deck beneath his feet. The intervals between flash and sound became shorter and shorter until the centre of the storm was directly overhead. In the brief moments when the sky lit up, Hector could see that the surface of the sea was beaten flat by the strength of the downpour. The tops of the waves were gone. Instead the ocean looked like a vast river, speckled and glistening and flowing by as the ship moved forward.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the deluge stopped.
Jacques sucked in his breath in surprise and seized Hector by the elbow.
‘Corposants,’ he exclaimed, pointing upwards.
A ghostly blue-white light had appeared at the mastheads. A pale luminous spike, as long as a man’s arm, was extending straight into the black sky from the tip of each spar. These spikes of light gave off an unearthly glow, which pulsated erratically – now bright, now fading and growing dim, only to become bright once again. After about a minute of this eerie display, Hector felt Jacques’ grip on his elbow tighten. The Frenchman indicated away to one side. Dozens more points of light had begun to spring up. This time they were growing from the ends of all the cross-spars, parallel to the sea. They too varied in intensity. Finally, in concert with what had gone before, strands of the same spectral light began to glow along the rigging, flickering and dancing in an unearthly rhythm.
‘What in God’s name causes that?’ demanded one of the helmsmen in a hushed voice.
No one answered. Everyone on deck was gazing upwards, their awestruck faces strangely illuminated.
The Delight sailed forward, seemingly suspended on the ink-black sea and outlined in a nimbus of unnatural fires. The phantom lights were miraculous. They burned, but consumed nothing. For perhaps five minutes the eerie display continued until, for no apparent reason, the ethereal signs began to diminish. They sank lower and lower until they were barely visible. Then they vanished.
‘I thought I heard a hissing sound,’ said Jezreel. He stepped out from shelter and peered up at the masts, as if expecting to find something burned or blackened.
At that instant there was an enormous, deafening bang, far louder than anything that had gone before. From ahead, out of the darkness, flew a series of bright, blazing projectiles. Yellow and white, they were like huge sparks thrown out by some enormous log that had split in the hearth. They came whizzing through the air, straight at the ship. Hector, too astonished to react, could only gape as they hurtled past. Later he would swear that he felt the wind of their passage. The air was filled with a sharp, burning smell and he recognized the stench of sulphur. He was still recovering from his astonishment when a second massive thunderclap seemed to take the air from his lungs. Again the blazing projectiles shot towards him out of the black night like a salvo of deadly fireworks. Forewarned this time, he ducked down, his ears ringing from the explosion.
There was the shortest pause, a moment’s calm and, as he straightened up and looked forward agai
n, a dozen or so large globes of light came hurtling silently through the air. Each light ball was about the size of a man’s head. This time their colour was a peculiar deep blue, which changed to violet as the globes came closer. They were moving at an unnatural speed and yet Hector had time to track their progress. Most passed harmlessly on either side of the ship, safely out over the water. But four or five of them came aboard. The first skimmed along the windward rail, then vanished over the stern. Another blinked out the moment it collided with the foremast. But two of the blazing fireballs appeared to drop downwards, land on the deck and roll along its length.
Hector and his friends stood rooted to the spot as the apparitions skittered towards them. Hector felt a tingling sensation all over his body, a massive jolt, and then the fireballs were gone. Once again the air smelled of sulphur and this time there was a sharp taste on his tongue. It was as though he had licked a tarnished spoon.
‘God’s cannon fire,’ said a deep voice. It was Jezreel. He had described it very well. A battery of heavy artillery fired at close range and directly at them could not have equalled the assault of sound. The blazing sparks were like fragments of burning wads shot from the muzzles of huge cannon. Hector realized that he was shaking.
‘Is everyone all right?’ he asked into the darkness.
‘I think so,’ said Jacques. ‘I’ve heard of corposants and St Elmo’s fire. But no one warned me about balls of lightning.’
Hector’s sight had yet to recover from the dazzling flashes. He squeezed his eyelids tight shut, then opened them, hoping to clear his vision. Something dark, little more than a shadow, was rising from the deck. He recognized Dan getting back on his feet.
‘Are you hurt, Dan?’ he asked.
There was a short pause before the Miskito replied. ‘One of those fireballs knocked me down.’ There was a moment’s silence, and then he added, ‘I don’t seem to be seeing so well.’
‘That blaze was enough to blind anyone . . .’ began Hector before he realized that in all the time Dan had been his friend, he had never known the Miskito striker voice any sort of complaint. He stepped across to where his companion was standing. In the dim light he could just make out that Dan was gently rubbing both his eyes. ‘What do you think is the trouble?’
‘Everything is dark and blurred.’
Hector reached out and gently pulled his friend’s hands away. ‘Let me check. Maybe you need time to recover from the glare of the lightning.’
It was too dark to discern very much. Hector could only distinguish the contours of the Miskito’s face, the shadowed hollows of his eye sockets. ‘Better wait until dawn. Then we’ll be able to judge.’
IT WAS AN ANXIOUS few hours. Dan sat quietly on the deck, his head leaning back against the rail and his eyes closed. He said not a word, and it was left to Hector to worry what might have happened to his friend. The Miskito possessed the keenest eyesight of anyone he had ever known. At sea he was always the first to pick out the tiniest speck on the horizon, whether it proved to be a sail or a landfall. On land he noticed tiny changes in detail and identified objects that others failed to see. It was a gift that made his friend such an acute observer and was the foundation of his skill in painting and drawing. The thought that Dan had now lost his sight, and would no longer be able to hunt with gun or harpoon, was too gloomy to contemplate.
Gradually the sky lightened and the tracery of the rigging of the ship took shape. ‘Dan, what can you see now?’ he asked.
The Miskito, his head still leaning back, might have been asleep. He opened his eyes and gazed up. There was a long silence. Then he said quietly, ‘Everything is still blurred.’
Hector’s spirits sank. Crouching down beside his friend, he said, ‘Dan, look straight at me.’
The Miskito, his face expressionless, opened his eyes so that Hector could stare into them. The black pupils and the dark-brown irises appeared normal. ‘I can see nothing wrong. But you have to rest your eyes. I’ll fetch a bandage.’
As Hector went below to bring a strip of cloth from his seaman’s chest, he noticed a new atmosphere among the men. They were more cheerful, exchanging jokes and banter. Even the fever invalids were more animated than before.
‘You’d have thought they might feel some sympathy for your misfortune,’ he commented to Dan as he returned and prepared to wind the bandage around his friend’s head.
As usual, the Miskito took the situation calmly. ‘Why should they have much care for us? We are still outsiders. Latecomers who joined in Guinea. They’ll be more pleased that the appearance of St Elmo’s fire is a sign of good luck.’
‘It didn’t bring you much good luck . . .’ Hector broke off. Dampier had appeared on deck and was walking across to join them.
‘What’s the trouble?’ the navigator asked. There was concern in his voice.
‘Dan was laid low by one of those fireballs last night. It seems to have damaged his sight,’ Hector explained.
‘In both eyes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there’s a good chance he’ll recover. I’ve known men who received a sudden blow on the head, and went blind. They got their eyesight back in a short while. Not like those blockhead sea captains who go blind in one eye from staring at the sun too long whenever they take a sight.’
A hail from the masthead interrupted him. The lookout was shouting down excitedly that there was a sail in the distance, off the port bow. There was a rush to the rail as the crew tried to get a glimpse of the stranger. Those invalids who could manage to stand upright staggered to where they could hang on to the lower shrouds and look towards the distant speck of sail. One hopeful blackguard gave a great whoop. ‘Let’s catch that ship and see what she’s worth,’ he roared.
‘Now they’re sure that St Elmo’s fire brings good fortune,’ said Dan wryly.
Above them, Cook was at the quarterdeck rail, calmly directing the deck watch to trim the sails.
‘What about our cannon? Do we bring them up from the hold?’ called a voice.
‘There’s not enough time and we are short-handed as it is,’ Cook snapped. ‘We leave the cannon where they are, and make out that we are a peaceful merchant ship seeking to exchange news. No one yet knows we are in the Pacific.’
‘The prospect of plunder is even better than burned rum for inspiring a crew,’ muttered Dan. ‘Hector, if I’m to wear this bandage, you’ll have to tell me what is going on.’
Men were scurrying down to their berths and bringing up their weapons, hastily unwrapping pistols and cutlasses from the oiled cloths in which they had been stored for the passage round the Cape. There was much clicking and snapping as the buccaneers checked their musket flints were throwing off sparks.
‘Vessel’s turning towards us. Seems to want a meeting,’ shouted down the lookout.
‘Sailing right into our jaws,’ exulted a buccaneer as he scrabbled among the contents of his cartridge box.
‘Tell me what the newcomer is like?’ Dan asked Hector quietly.
‘Looks to be some sort of merchant ship. Maybe a trifle smaller than us. I think I see some deck armament. At a guess, sixteen guns . . .’
‘What’s his flag?’
‘Can’t see. He’s sailing straight towards us,’ Hector answered. He glanced aft. From the Delight’s mizzen now flew a huge yellow and red flag. ‘We’ve hoisted Spanish colours,’ he told Dan.
The quartermaster was cursing and chivvying a number of the invalids, telling them they were too sick for action and he wanted as few people as possible to be visible on deck so as not to arouse the stranger’s suspicions.
‘You there,’ he said to Dan. ‘Get below. A blind man is no use to us.’
‘If Dan goes below, so do I,’ Jezreel growled. ‘There’s more risk in that stinking space than out here on deck.’
The quartermaster glared angrily at the big man, then turned away. Jezreel was known to be good in a fight.
Some time later Dan asked, ‘How close is th
e stranger now?’
‘About half a mile,’ Hector answered. ‘And eager to speak with us. He hasn’t run out his guns.’
There was an air of suppressed excitement as men from the Delight’s crew crept to their positions. They crouched behind the bulwarks with their muskets, grapnels and boarding axes. Hector was reminded of the day Cook’s buccaneers had taken the Carlsborg by surprise.
Cook called out his final instructions. ‘We’ll get only one chance. The moment we are alongside, you board and take that ship before they realize we are sickly and short-handed.’ He looked down at where Hector was standing.
‘Lynch, come up here,’ he called.
‘I would prefer to stay beside my friend if there’s to be any fighting,’ said Hector.
‘Then bring him up with you.’
Hector took Dan by the arm and led him up the companion ladder to the quarterdeck, where they joined Dampier and Cook. The captain was rubbing his hands together in anticipation and looking pleased with himself. ‘I doubt the stranger suspects anything. He takes us for a Spaniard. He’s due for a surprise.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I believe you speak fluent Spanish.’
‘My mother was from Galicia.’ Hector wondered how much Cook remembered from the last South Sea raid, when the young man had often acted as interpreter.
‘I want you to play the captain for a few minutes. When we get within speaking range, tell the stranger we’re newly arrived from Spain and looking for a pilot.’
‘And what if I’m asked about our intended destination?’
‘Say that we’re on our way to join the Armada del Sur, the South Sea Fleet. That will account for the fact that we look more like a warship than a merchantman.’
By now the other ship was barely a hundred paces away, and had still not shown a flag. A man whom Hector took to be her captain was standing at the rail with a speaking trumpet in his hand.