The Rape of Venice

by Dennis Wheatley

  After a few days, life on shipboard settled down to normal. Clarissa’s old admirers soon got over the shock they had sustained by their divinity’s strange choice of a husband, and once more clustered around, discreetly flirting with her as they would have with any other pretty young married woman. Winters looked on, beaming with self-satisfaction and the pride of ownership. Roger, too, frequently joined the group. Previously he had been ultra cautious from fear that an unguarded word or glance might arouse suspicions that he and Clarissa had some secret understanding; but now she was just married such an idea would have been so preposterous that he felt it safe to spend much more time in her company.

  Having rounded the Cape, the Minerva spent close on a fortnight beating up the east coast of Africa and through the Mozambique Channel. After clearing the northern tip of Madagascar she altered course to north-east, in order to pick up the favourable south-west winds that would carry her in the direction of Ceylon; but now, for the first time during the voyage, she met with really rough weather.

  For two days she battled against a heavy cross-sea. The buffet of each great wave made her shudder from stem to stern, and she rolled atrociously so that any article left unsecured, even for a few moments, fell and smashed, or was flung across the cabins. At times there were downpours of torrential rain, which blotted out from view the other heaving ships in the convoy. Captain Finch took charge himself and was almost permanently up on the poop. The food at his table deteriorated sadly to snacks of cold meat and ship’s biscuits, for those who could still keep food down.

  Roger was not among them. Quite early in the storm, seasickness overcame him and for the next few days he lay wretchedly ill in his bunk. On the second day most of the passengers, including Winters, who had stuck out the first night also succumbed. Clarissa was one of the few who remained unaffected. She was something more than a splendid sailor, she actually enjoyed a storm at sea. During a hurricane on the way to the West Indies, she had had herself lashed to a stanchion on deck, so that she could feel the wind tearing at her hair and the rain driving into her face. Now, she staggered from cabin to cabin, doing what she could to look after her husband, Roger, the Beaumonts, the Armitages and one of the sailors who had missed his footing on a ladder, fallen and broken his leg.

  It was on the third day that tragedy overtook them. In mid-morning a sudden squall, more violent than any they had yet encountered, snapped off the main top-gallant and it came crashing down on the poop. By the most evil chance it smashed in the left side of the Wheel House, demolishing the wheel, injuring the Quartermaster and killing Captain Finch. Thus, at one stroke, the ship was put temporarily out of control and deprived of her most capable officer.

  Immediately, she began to veer round sideways on to the great white-crested waves. It was the watch of the First Mate, Mr Evans. In a gallant attempt to save the situation he ran towards the emergency steering wheel at the stern of the vessel. For many hours no one had been able to move about the deck without using a succession of hand-holds. Evans paid the penalty of his rashness. He was flung off his feet and fractured his skull against a chicken coop.

  The Third Mate then took charge. Having sent another Quartermaster to the stern, he had all hands piped on deck and ordered the taking in of the remaining sails with which the ship had been fighting the storm. But by now the Minerva had swung right round; the sails went slack then suddenly billowed out again with reports like cannon. Two of them were rent from top to bottom and their canvas flapped wildly on either side like streaming banners in the howling wind.

  A moment later there came an awful rending sound. The foremast had snapped off low down. It fell across the fo’c’s’le, its yards, spars and rigging forming an incredible tangle, and killing or injuring another half-dozen sailors.

  A part of the crew managed to haul in the mainsail, while the rest strove to clear the fallen mast. Its upper part dragged in the water, giving the ship a terrifying list to port; but the troops were called up to help. Under the direction of the Second Mate, Mr. Garner, who had now come on deck, and the boatswain, a hundred desperate hands wielding axes, cutlasses and knives managed to hack through scores of ropes. The huge broken column of timber slid overboard and the ship righted herself.

  She was now running before the storm under bare, broken masts, and soon all the other ships in the convoy were lost to view. Her emergency wheel in the stern was manned, but no use could be made of it until the storm lessened and it was safe to attempt to turn her back onto her course by hoisting sail again. There were now a dozen casualties in the sick-bay and wreckage still littered all the fore part of the deck. During the afternoon it was gradually cleared, but the tempest showed no sign of abating and the weighty foretop had stove in the port side of the fo’c’s’le. From time to time waves broke over the bow and the water rushed down the gaping hole, rendering the crew’s quarters untenable, and necessitating the manning of the pumps.

  That night Mr. Garner, who was now acting Commander, told the army officers and the few civilian passengers who were not helpless in their cabins from seasickness, that the position was dangerous but not desperate. The ship was being driven at great speed north-westwards, back towards the coast of Africa, but it was still several hundred miles distant, so there was no risk of her being driven ashore. Efforts to get a sail over the wrecked section of the fo’c’s’le had failed, so water was gaining in the fore hold, but not to an alarming degree. He had hopes that the storm would have blown itself out by morning, and, if so, all would be well.

  But as the hours wore on, it increased in fury. All through the night the helpless ship was rushed up mountainous waves to crash through their tops and come slithering down into seemingly bottomless gulfs. Each time she breasted one its spume hissed through her rigging, and now and then a following sea curled right up over her poop to come cascading down into her well, filling it for some moments waist high with water. Her timbers groaned, her rigging screamed, the hundreds of tons of water hit her decks with a boom like thunder. It seemed to all the passengers, and the wretched troops crowded vomiting on the lower deck, that every time the ship plunged downward would be the last, and that she could not possibly survive till morning.

  Yet, when morning came, she was still afloat and the tempest had perceptibly moderated. The waves were no longer white-crested; a heavy swell now made them look like vast rolling downs, with a blue-green glassy surface; the wind had ceased to tear wildly at severed ropes and the remnants of torn sails. But things were far from well with the Minerva.

  During the night she had shipped a great deal of water, three of her boats had been stove in and some of her cargo had shifted. She was much lower in the water than she should have been, again had a list to port, and was down at the head. All through the forenoon, relays of men worked frantically at the pumps while others laboured feverishly lashing together gratings and spars to form rafts. Despite all efforts, the level of the water in the holds rose steadily.

  The officers came to the conclusion that the cargo which had come adrift must have struck the ship’s side with such force that she had sprung a leak, but the water had now risen in the holds to a height that made it impossible for the carpenters to get at the seat of the trouble.

  It was shortly after one o’clock that the Minerva gave a sudden lurch. More of the cargo had shifted, and increased her list to port by several degrees. Mr. Garner realised that the position was now critical and that with little warning she might dive bows first to the bottom. Calling his officers together, he told them to pass the word that he intended shortly to give the order to abandon ship.

  When Clarissa heard the news, she was with the Captain’s cook collecting packets of cold meat and biscuits to take down to her invalids who, with the abating of the tempest, were beginning to show signs of recovery. Stuffing all the packets of food into the capacious pockets of her cape, she ran along to Roger’s cabin. Throwing open the door, she cried:

  ‘Get up! Get your clothes on! The sh
ip may go down at any moment!’

  Roger tumbled from his bunk, staggered slightly owing to weakness from his three days of sickness, then pulled himself together and muttered: ‘So it’s come to that, eh? Last night I would have been pleased rather than otherwise at the idea of being swiftly carried down to Davy Jones’s Locker. But now I feel better, I’ve no mind for a watery grave. How is Winters showing in this emergency?’

  ‘He’s been near as ill as you,’ she replied quickly. ‘I haven’t told him yet, and I’ve no need to. The stewards are knocking on every cabin door warning people to get ready. Whatever may betide I’ll not now risk being separated from you for a moment.’

  ‘I’ll not let you be until I’ve got you into a boat. With Captain Finch gone there may be panic and fighting up on deck. Mr. Cruishank told me that with troops aboard there are never enough boats to take off everybody. The ships haven’t the space to carry them.’

  ‘Three have been smashed by the waves last night; but the men have been making rafts this morning.’

  ‘It takes a lot of rafts to make up for a boat. Unless the discipline proves better than one can expect, there will be a horrible scrimmage for a chance of survival. As a woman you are entitled to a first place in a boat; but if there is a panic the rush may deprive you of it.’

  ‘In any case, I’d not take it unless you could come with me.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘There are few women aboard; so I’d have as much right to a place beside you as any other man. But in such circumstances, boats are liable to become dangerously overcrowded. I believe we’d stand a better chance on a raft, especially if we could get one to ourselves.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you think best; but hurry! Hurry!’

  He had been swiftly pulling his clothes on. Having buckled on his sword, he snatched his pistols from a drawer and thrust them into the pockets of his coat. As he did so he muttered, ‘At least, being in tropical waters we’ll be in no danger from the cold.’ But, all the same, he swung his heavy cloak round his shoulders. Quickly, he collected all his papers, put them into a large waterproof wallet made of fish-skin, with which he travelled in case of emergencies, and strapped it round his waist. Lastly he grabbed a flask of cognac, and another of powder for his pistols; then they ran from the cabin and up to the upper deck.

  Already, although no panic showed, it was a seething mass of people, many of whom were working on rafts with desperate haste, while others, whose faces showed them to be half-stunned with fear, stood staring in horrified silence at the fo’c’s’le, which was now awash with water.

  A boat towards the stern on the port side was being lowered. Lady Beaumont was in it. Catching sight of Clarissa she shouted and beckoned, but her voice was drowned by the din; next moment the falls were let go and the boatload of people disappeared from view.

  Another boat on the starboard side was being manned. A midshipman ran up to Clarissa, seized her by the arm and tried to drag her towards it. She shook him off and refused to go. It was as well. A few minutes later, as the boat, now crammed with people, was lowered, the after fall jammed; its bows went down with a rush, precipitating everyone in it into the heaving sea.

  Some rafts, heavily loaded, mostly with soldiers, were already floating off from the half-submerged fo’c’s’le. Groups of men, odd passengers and officers, either squatted on, or stood near, all the others. Desperately Roger looked round for something buoyant which would support Clarissa and himself. Suddenly his eye lit on a stack of deck chairs which had already been firmly lashed together to prevent their being swept overboard.

  Pieces of torn sail and lengths of severed rope littered the deck about them. Snatching up one of the pieces of rope, Roger set frantically to work. With Clarissa’s help he threaded it twice through the chairs and twice right round the stack. Next he tied one end of the rope round Clarissa’s waist and the other end round his own. Then he cut the cords that held the stack of chairs to the deck.

  They had hardly done, and climbed on to the stack, when the squat figure of Winters came blundering through the crowd towards them.

  ‘Clarissa!’ he cried. ‘Clarissa! I have been searching for you everywhere! Why did you not seek a place in one of the boats?’

  ‘Because they are too heavy laden,’ Roger replied tersely for her. ‘If the wind gets up again the water will wash over their gunwales; they’ll be swamped and everyone in them drowned.’

  ‘Then … then …’ Winters stammered, ‘you’ll be safer using these chairs as a raft. Make room for me, I implore you.’

  In this crisis, which might so soon lead to their deaths, the last thing that either Roger or Clarissa wanted was to have Winters with them; yet they could hardly refuse. The whole of the front half of the ship was now under water. A wavelet lapped at the chairs on which they were sitting. Although there was barely room Winters, without waiting for a reply, scrambled up beside Clarissa.

  A moment later the deck suddenly tilted, launching the stack of chairs onto the water. Above them the tip of the mainmast seemed to sweep forward. The stern of the ship rose up against the sky. There were shrieks, cries and imprecations. As the sea surged across the deck, the rafts were thrown one against another; many of the occupants were pitched into the water Shouts, prayers and a great roar of rushing waters filled the air.

  Through the babbling water, Roger caught a glimpse of the deck, now sliding swiftly away twelve feet below them. A wave swept several of the rafts, and the stack of chairs, just clear of the bulwark. The Minerva, only a few feet from them, was now standing on end, her bowsprit ten fathoms down, her poop reared up towards the sky. A cluster of men dived from it; without a sound it slid swiftly downwards. With the rush of waters, the windows of the stern cabin shattered and through them fountains of foam spurted into the air. In a matter of moments, it was all over. The fine ship had totally disappeared.

  Some of the crowded rafts had already overturned and the men from them were fighting in the water. The men on the others were awed into silence. Suddenly there was a shout:

  ‘The whirlpool! The whirlpool!’

  The cluster of rafts began to circle. A hideous conical pit had formed at the spot where the Minerva had gone down. Raft after raft was drawn into it and sucked under. The chairs, in turn, raced round it for a moment then the stack tilted and was engulfed. Roger threw an arm round Clarissa. Next second they were plunged beneath the surface; blinded, their mouths full of water, they felt themselves rushing downwards to die with the ship from which they thought they had escaped.

  11

  Death Reaches Out

  Although they were within a few degrees of the equator the water had struck chill as it surged-over them. But in a moment all sensation was forgotten, except the pain and terror of suffocation. They had been drawn into the whirlpool so swiftly that they had not even had time to gulp in a deep breath. The sea had slapped into their partly open mouths, blinded their eyes and rushed up their nostrils.

  The Minerva, plunging to the depths, dragged them after her—down, down, down. It seemed that, like stones cast into a pond, they would never stop until they reached bottom. With every intant, greater pressure upon their chests and backs threatened to force out the air remaining in their lungs. The blood throbbed madly in their temples and their eyes started from their sockets.

  Suddenly the water below them seemed to open. They shot down at still greater speed, were flung head over heels, whirled round, then felt themselves being carried swiftly upwards. Another few awful moments and they were catapulted several feet above the surface of the sea. Then they splashed into and under it. Temporarily, they had been saved from drowning by the final death throe of the Minerva. The increasing pressure on the air caught in her between decks had caused it to burst out in a great bubble; like rocks caught up in a volcanic eruption, they had been hurled by it right out of the water.

  Flailing his arms wildly, Roger came to the surface again. He was still tied by the rope’s end to the stack of chairs, and
it bobbed up beside him. Gasping in breath and dashing the water from his eyes, he looked round for Clarissa, but could not see her. The chairs were riding some three feet out of the water, so the level of the uppermost one was well above his head. The rope by which he was tied to them was too short to allow of his swimming round the chairs, so he grasped the top one and strove to haul himself up onto the top of the stack.

  Under his weight the stack tipped sharply but did not turn over, as he feared it would. When he had struggled onto it he saw the reason. To his immense relief Clarissa was on its far side and it was her weight which had kept the stack steady enough for him to get up on it.

  An instant later his relief at seeing her was submerged in a wave of fury. The tipping of the stack had brought her up, but as it rolled back her head went under water. At the first glance he had taken in only the fact that Winters was beside and just below her. Now he realised that her husband, not being roped to the stack, had evidently been swept from it as it went down, and had saved himself by clinging to her.

  Winters’s upturned face showed that he was half mad from terror. With his right hand he was striving frantically but unsuccessfully to grab the nearest chair strut; his left was clasped firmly on the collar of Clarissa’s cape. But for the rope round her waist they would both have gone under. As it was, the rope was taut, and his pull on her had dragged her backwards. Each time he heaved himself up in an attempt to get a hold on the chairs, his weight forced her head below the water. She writhed and struggled, but as he was behind her she could do nothing to free herself.

  ‘Let go!’ snarled Roger, his eyes blazing. ‘Let go, God damn you!’

  ‘Help!’ gasped Winters. ‘Help!’

  At that moment, by a great effort, Clarissa managed to get her head right round. Baring her teeth she bit savagely into the hand that threatened to drown her. With a yelp of pain Winters let go his hold, but at once he made another grab at her. Kicking out she eluded his clutch, then struck him in the face with her clenched fist. His hands shot up, clawing at the air, then he sank from sight.