by Peter Greene
“How many are left?” asked Gray as he stared out into the cove. It had been two weeks of fog and chill, enough to sour any mood. Each day, including this one, was dreary and overcast, drizzling rain almost constantly. But the continued loss of men, mostly due to their injuries and lack of even the most rudimentary of medical supplies, almost drove Gray to complete depression. Losing the Echo was unimaginable, and losing his crew to slow death was unbearable.
“Seven, including us, sir.”
Gray surveyed the small piece of beach and reviewed their resources. There were clothes, now trying to dry in the few minutes of sun that reached the cove. They came from the men who had perished, and as unholy as it was, they had been stripped and buried ashore in a single grave, covered with sand and as many loose rocks as could be found. Certainly this was unfitting; however, their clothes could be used, if they ever could get dry, to protect the survivors from the cold that was surely to come if they remained even a few days longer.
In their possession was also some ten-odd feet of fishing line they had gladly accepted from young Ike Williams, who had taken it in his personal effects before he left the Echo. A single fishing hook was crafted from the pin of Commander Gray’s Order of the Bath medallion he had received for his participation in the Battle of Fire. A few pilchards and anchovies had been caught and eaten raw, while a few others were drying in the sun, watched over by Marine Private Hill, whose sole job was to keep the small, stinging flies off the food.
Gray had his pistols but no ball or powder. Hayes had two small knives, and Sherland, the assistant armorer, had found a few planks and poles that must have fallen overboard when the men abandoned the Echo to Aggar.
The ropes that Aggar’s crew had used to rappel down the face of the cliffs had been taken away as Aggar’s men departed. Those, thought Gray, would have been more than handy.
As for natural supplies, they had no fresh water, no food besides the fish they caught, and no shelter due to the rocky terrain and lack of trees. They did obtain a few dried sticks taken from the bushes growing out of the steep, tall cliffs that kept them in their prison on three sides, the ocean acting as the remaining wall. The tinder sources were now few within reach, and at one point, the men stood on each other’s shoulders to reach and gather firewood from higher-growing plants. At least for an hour or so each night, they could afford a small fire for cooking and warmth. Gray and the survivors knew that this fuel would run out shortly, the weather would cool, and most likely, they would starve or freeze to death.
He and Hayes had both tried swimming to the mouth of the inlet, and a bit further into the ocean itself, to see if there was any way around the shoreline. They had hoped to find a steep path up to the top of the cliffs or some other way to escape, but it was not to be. They reasoned that they would all drown if they attempted to swim to their freedom.
The only solace Gray could take was that, since their current situation was so dire, the fact that his ship had been taken was the least of his worries. He could put it out of his mind for now.
“Any idea of a plan, Commander Gray?” asked Hayes as he began to start a fire with his bare hands and two of the driest sticks.
“Plan? No, but a goal: to get back to England, of course. We are on the island of Dugi Otok, and most settlements are on the eastern shore.”
“And we are on the west,” said Hayes.
“If we can somehow escape this bowl we are in, I would think we are only a few days’ hike from Sali, and then we could take a boat to Zadar and civilization. We could then arrange for transport back to London or steal a ship if necessary. However, our current predicament remains the same, Mister Hayes. These walls are sheer enough to keep us here forever. The ropes used by Aggar’s men are either taken, or they remain above the cliffs—no use to us. The sea, though shallow, is still fathoms over our heads and the distance to anywhere else is unknown. There is no way out, except as angels.”
Hayes shook his head and managed a smile. “Well, if it comes to that, we can fly out.”
Gray looked up at the darkening sky. It looked like some weather would roll in, and that would make for a wet evening. Thunder boomed somewhere off over the ocean. Ah, to be onboard a ship, Gray thought, with all the comforts and abundant supplies: food, blankets, lumber if you needed it, and miles of rope, glorious rope. We have none. Otherwise we could have somehow climbed out of this godforsaken place, he thought. Rope was handy for a number of things aboard a sailing ship: binding barrels together, lashing boats and supplies to the deck and inside holds, tightening masts, creating hammocks, and even managing the deployment of anchors.
“I would give my left arm for some lengths of rope,” Gray muttered.
Hayes nodded again as his sticks began to smoke. It would be a few more seconds of rigorous work before the fire started; however, he stopped.
“What did you say, Mister Gray?”
“I said I would give my…Oh! Oh, Mister Hayes! We do have rope!” Gray said, as he quickly sat up on the sandy beach and began to take off his shoes.
“Are you game for another swim?” said Hayes as he joined his captain in disrobing, having realized the same possibility.
“We shall soon see!” came Gray’s reply. “Sherland! Hill! Neil! Wilson! Lend a hand! Williams! Get this fire roaring! Mister Hayes and I are going for a dip!”
“But, sir!” said Sherland as he stood, “we will run out o’ firewood if we build a large fire. We can’t reach the other bushes! They’re too ’igh!”
“No, no, we won’t!” said Gray, laughing. “We will climb up for more in a few moments, and then climb out of this hellish bowl!”
Neil leaned over to Hill and whispered, “’Ave they been drinkin’ seawater? Is it madness?”
The men watched as the two officers dove into the murky water and swam out to the center of the bay. They seemed to be having a small discussion as they treaded water, then both took deep breaths and dove straight down, their feet breaking the surface momentarily. Then they were gone.
“What are they diving for, oysters?” asked Sherland.
“Don’t like ’em much” said Neil.
“Looks like thar diving deep,” said Hill. “All the way ta the bottom. Don’t know what’s down thar that would ’elp us climb out o’ here.”
“Oysters can’t ’elp ya climb. Ya need rope fer that!” said Wilson with a laugh.
“No rope on the bottom of the ocean,” added Sherland.
The men watched, imagining what in the name of the saints Gray and Hayes were doing. They were swimming deep, popping up for air as needed, then plunging down time and again.
“Ya know,” said Neil as a ray of clarity struck him in the head. “The only thing that could be on the bottom besides muck and goo would be…the anchors of the Echo. Remember?”
“Sure,” said Hill. “The hawsers were cut on bow and stern to push the Echo out of the bay. I saw Hayes axe the stern line myself—sploosh, right into the water.”
“Yup, rope and all,” added Sherland. “Cap’n Gray shot the bow line clean in ’alf with ’is last pistol round. I saw it myself. Prob’ly ’bout fifty feet o’ rope on each anchor if an inch.”
“But ya can’t use an anchor ta climb a cliff, can ya?” asked Wilson.
They stared at the captain and Hayes as they excitedly dove once again, this time with knives in their teeth.
“Ya think…” said Neil.
“…that they are gettin’ something else?” asked Hill.
“The anchor rope!” Williams said. “They’ll go fer it!”
They all finally realized that the ropes, attached to the two anchors, were the prize.
Immediately the men began rounding up all the sticks, branches, and twigs available, and worked feverishly to build a roaring fire for both their cold and wet captain and his first lieutenant, Mister Hayes.
Within a few minutes, Gray and Hayes returned, dragging fifty feet of thick, strong rope each. The men cheered them, slapped t
heir backs, and hugged them to keep their officers warm. All stood by the fire and laughed.
The next morning, the men had dry clothes that had been heated by the wonderfully strong fire made from the many bushes they had taken from the cliff walls. Then they set to tasks. It was easy enough to separate the thick hawser lines into thinner ropes, thereby making them easier to throw and gaining additional length. Tying an oblong stone to the end of a length, Hill was able to use it like a grapple and set it around an outcropping of boulders jetting out from the cliff wall. Sherland, the thinnest of them all and most agile—besides the youngster Williams—had no trouble shimmying up the rope and tearing out bush after bush. Hayes had easily made warm food for the first time in days. Yes, it rained that evening, and even that was welcome as the crew devised a hastily made catch out of a spare coat, and now drank wooly yet fresh water, with fresh-cooked fish made over a fire.
“Cap’n?” asked Sherland. “I believe I could easily climb out o’ this place with the lengths o’ rope Hill is making, but they’ll be heavy! I don’t think I can carry ’em up with me.”
“A fine observation, Sherland,” said Gray. “Let us think about this. Hill? How much rope do we now have from the hawsers?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hill. “Each of the two hawsers was fifty-feet ’er so, and quadruple wound as I like ta say, so Wilson and I unwound ’em. We was able to get almost two ’undred feet from each. We ’ave almost four ’undred feet o’ rope.”
“Good! Very good,” said Gray.
“Those cliffs are about a hundred feet or so,” said Hayes. “We can have Hill toss the lines as high as he can and somehow attach it to those boulders there. They are about twenty-five feet up. Sherland can then shimmy on up and carry some rope with him!”
“Sure I can, sirs!” said Sherland, assessing the climb. “I could then toss a few fathom o’ rope ta those bushes—and again to the others. Soon I’ll be almost to the top. Then, I’ll shimmy some more, and I could make my way up without any more rope from there. It looks pretty rocky all the way. I just know I can climb the rest, easy!”
“I see,” said Wilson. “But ’ow do the rest o’ us get up? Is Sherland goin’ ta carry a rope with ’im to let down, like Rapunzel’s hair? It will be mighty heavy.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” said Hill. “Sherland won’t need to carry rope. I believe I can toss the line to the top from here.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Gray.
With that, the men began to gather their meager belongings, including a string of dried fish and their fishing line and hook. Hayes pinned the “hook” back on Gray’s lapel in a small and short ceremony.
“I award you this medal of honor, Captain and Commander Gray of the HMS Echo,” he said.
Gray bowed slightly, then a look of sadness came over his face as he stood erect.
“I am not captain, for I have no ship. Probably never will again. So I am simply Lieutenant Gray. We must make our way home to tell our tale and find those responsible. Additionally,” he said, swallowing hard, “I will need to answer for the loss of one of His Majesty’s vessels.”
“Captain,” said Hayes, “we will stand with you. Something was not right from the beginning of this mission, orders being changed and all. I can’t help but think that someone high up in the Admiralty is, well…”
“A traitor?” asked Gray. “Yes. I agree. It is clear now that our orders were changed, and the entire prisoner exchange was a ruse to deliver the Echo into enemy hands.”
“And they were most definitely speaking a Slavic language. They could be Germans or Poles, even Russians,” added Hayes.
“But Russians? Aren’t they our allies?” asked Hill.
“They were when we sailed from Chatham,” said Gray. “However, Aggar could be acting on his own. There are many privateers—legal pirates, one could say—performing under the permission and direction of their government. They would certainly desire a ship like the Echo. You may be correct, Lieutenant Hayes. There is one thing we know: someone who changed our orders is dirty, and we can never know whom to trust.”
“Therefore, we don’t know who we can turn to if we get back to London,” added Hayes.
Gray stood and took a deep breath.
“Let us concentrate on getting back, Mister Hayes. We will worry about the rest once we are home.”
After Hill had tossed the rope to the boulder outcropping, Sherland had little trouble scaling the cliff to that point. Once he cleared the boulders, however, he had some difficulty swinging the rope to the next set of bushes some twelve feet above his head. After a few tries, he finally had what looked like a decent grip, as the stone on the end of the rope seemed to wrap two times around a scraggly tree trunk. He pulled himself upward. This process was repeated several times until he had almost reached the last set of bushes.
The men below had positioned themselves to break his fall if he should slip, and, he did slip once, dangling from the rope for a few seconds before finally finding his footing.
“Almost there,” he called down to the men who stood under him.
Sherland now would attempt the most difficult portion: scrambling, free of the rope, the last several feet to the top. He loosened the line and let it fall to the ground.
All watched as Sherland scrambled up the remaining twelve or so feet. A small slip here and there, but actually, an easy climb at the end, and the men cheered and gave a joyous “Huzzah!” as Sherland smiled and bowed.
“Like a spider monkey he is!” said little Ike.
“Excellent job, Sherland!” called Gray. “And now the easy part!”
Hill took the end of the long rope with the stone attached and began swinging it around his head, over and over, glancing upward now and again, gauging the distance and his timing. The others had made sure the rope was untangled, and laying just right so as not to catch on anything. There was to be no impediment to its flight to the top.
“Let ’er go, Hill!” called Sherland from the top.
“Don’t try to catch it,” warned Gray. “Just let it sail past and then grasp it after it has come to rest!”
“Aye, sir,” answered Sherland.
Hill made a few more swings about his head, and then, with great effort, he threw the line heavenward. It sailed clear for almost one hundred feet—far enough; however, the stone struck a few bushes and rocks, slid a few feet more, then came bouncing down.
“Hell and smoke!” called Hill. “Beggin’ the captain’s pardon.”
“No pardon necessary, Hill. Again, if you please! I have full faith in your abilities,” Gray encouraged.
It took three more tries before Hill succeeded in tossing the line all the way to the top, where Sherland grabbed the rope and attached it to a nearby tree, sturdy and close to the edge. Neil, being the largest of all, stayed to steady the line as the others prepared to scale the cliff. They would all assist in pulling him up in the end.
“Onward and upward!” Gray called, and they began their way back to London.
7
A Change of Orders
In the very early morning of April the fourth, Nathaniel Moore stood in the cold but dry air outside of Captain Walker’s home in Golden Square with none other than Patrick Jenkins, newly assigned hand of His Majesty’s Ship Paladin. Earlier, at the admiral’s home in Charing Cross, they had loaded the carriage with the seamen’s lockers of both Jonathan Moore and Sean Flagon. Miss Barbara Thompson, who had been added to their small group only moments before, was now in the carriage, sleeping along with her two boys.
“Lookin’ right as rain, Adm’ral,” said Jenkins as he lashed the last of the luggage to the top. “Sun might be up soon. I’ll be drivin’ ya as well.”
“Yes,” said Nathaniel, “and I am quite thankful to you, Jenkins.”
“No trouble at all, Adm’ral,” he said, now done securing all items up top and hopping down to the street. “As I am on the Paladin now, I could use a ride to Wapping. I’ve a few tas
ks before we sail!”
“A word with you, Jenkins?” asked Nathaniel. Looking into the admiral’s eyes, Jenkins could see he was concerned deeply about something. It was an odd expression, he thought.
“Of course, sir,” said Jenkins.
“You know how precious my son is to me, Jenkins. If anything should happen to him, or to Sean…well, I could not go on. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jenkins softly. “I think we all would simply perish from grief. We ’ave grown to love the lads.”
“Yes, and of that I am grateful,” added Nathaniel. “I feel most fortunate to have you along on this cruise, and I am certain you know that I personally assured your assignment aboard Paladin.”
A look of mild puzzlement appeared on Jenkins’s face. “I didn’t realize, Admiral, but I thank you.”
“And I thank you, Patrick. Please give an extra eye and ear to Jonathan and Sean. Watch over them, as if they were your own. Can you manage that?”
“Aye, sir,” said Jenkins. “Of course I will, and I look forward to it. Rest assured: nothing will ’appen to them under my watch.”
“Thank you,” Nathaniel said, now relaxing visibly. He extended his hand to the old sailor, who took it, and they shook firmly.
“I will, sir, you can count on it. I would give my life for either of them, gladly,” the man said.
“Again, I am deeply in your debt, Jenkins.”
The short ride to the pier where the Paladin was moored was concluded by eight o’clock. Even at this early hour, the dockyard was full of activity: ships being loaded with supplies, men rushing from ship to shore, repairs being made, and newly pressed crewmen being unloaded from carts.
The inhabitants of the carriage slowly woke, and with the help of Jenkins, stepped into the light. Before them waited the Paladin, tied to the quay, the sun now lighting the sloop.
“Ah,” said Admiral Moore. “She looks fast just sitting still. The Paladin is a fine ship, and she will keep you safe.”