by M. C. Muir
Not a soul on Elusive saw them run.
‘Are you certain only one crate has been opened?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Get Bungs and the carpenter down here! Secure that crate and check the others. And double the guard. You, Mr Hazzlewood, go though the muster book. I want every Deal man on the ship taken below and held until we reach the Thames. Do you understand? And I want no lights or signals and no more men going over the side.’ He shook his head and turned to his first lieutenant. ‘You realise, Mr Parry, that within a few hours all this coast will know what we are carrying. And here we are stuck in the Foreland Passage waiting for a favourable wind to carry us out. Sitting ducks we are.’ Damn the Admiralty! he said, to himself. ‘Damn! Damn! Pray the Lord we do not founder or we will be stripped as clean as a piranha peels meat from a man’s bones – and twice as quickly.’
Chapter 24
The Downs
Eight bells was struck announcing the last dog watch and at the sound of the bosun’s pipe the deck came alive, the entire ship’s company scrambling to collect their hammocks and take them below. Lookouts were changed and the starboard crew took its positions. The well-practiced sea-going ritual was preformed without fuss or question. Only one change was made to the standard events. Instead of dousing all lanterns at this time, the marine on duty was ordered to light additional ones. The captain knew it was going to be a long night and he was uneasy.
Having remained on deck for the past two hours, he had taken Mr Nightingale’s watch and encouraged Mr Parry to go below to get a little rest, though he doubted his lieutenant would sleep. Scouring the sea and the empty expanse of moonlit beach till his eyes had grown sore, Oliver had tried to convince himself that his concerns were unfounded. Perhaps all the months at sea had warped his thinking. He had brought his ship to the safety of the Downs and was now anchored off an English port little more than two cable’s length from shore. A short distance away, rising almost from the beach was the turreted circular keep of Deal Castle which, surrounded by its six petal-shaped bastions, housed up to two hundred guns. It was a fortification which had protected England since the days of Henry VIII.
Apart from the security offered by the fortress, anchored in the roadstead were scores of English ships with a collective armament of over a thousand guns. What situation could have been safer?
But Oliver’s instinct told him his enemy would come from the land and not from the water and it would present as an insidious invasion, not heralded by a flash of light and complimented by the crashing of splintered timber. It was an unsettling feeling and as the sand slipped from the hour-glass and he witnessed it being turned, and turned, and turned again, his feelings were magnified by the clouds forming over the Kent countryside forecasting an approaching storm.
As night thickened, the stars disappeared. The moon followed shortly after leaving only the meagre light from the swaying lanterns and casting curling shadows on the ship immediately beneath them. Like the frustrations of a newly blinded man, Oliver lashed out. He growled at a sailor sprawling on the deck even though it was night and they were at anchor. But anchor watch had never been called and according to the log-board the full starboard watch was still on duty.
As tiredness swept through him he knew it was not the physical exhaustion of a day which had begun at four in the morning. His weariness was rooted in frustrations provided by the latter part of the journey. He had brought Elusive home, safe and fairly sound, but no thanks to being tied to the apron strings of a trio of naval nursemaids. The subservience he was obliged to pay to the commodore of the escort fleet incensed him. This captain was younger than himself by several years – a post captain who had seen little action but had been elevated via the untrammelled path of aristocratic patronage.
He recollected the orders he had received: Close up. Make haste. Bear away. He had conformed to each one and followed his orders to the letter. The last signal he received was to proceed to the Downs. Now in his present state of vulnerability, at a time when he needed support, the Admiralty’s escort was nowhere to be seen. This further exacerbated his frustrations. Having expected the three escort ships to follow him to the roadstead, he could only assume the commodore had signalled the frigates to peel back and engage the French fleet. In his opinion, if such a course was taken, it would have been foolish in the extreme. To engage a 98-gun ship with a pair of corvettes in attendance, and within shouting distance of the French coast, was madness. And to instigate such an action was even worse. It could be seen as a provocation of war.
But his biggest source of aggravation was the incident with the two Deal men. That was something he had not foreseen and he reprimanded himself severely for not considering the possibility. The loss of a quantity of ambergris was a responsibility he must accept, but he had no intention of sending men ashore to search for the thieves or their booty. At least he had their names from the muster book.
‘They will be found.’ Oliver said to Mr Smith, the officer of the watch, who did not know what his captain was referring to. ‘And they will face charges of theft, desertion and damaging a king’s ship plus attempting to incite mutiny. I have not yet calculated how many Articles of War they have contravened. But they will hang.’ He paused and added, ‘It is a shame we can only hang them once for their crimes, don’t you agree?’
Oliver knew that in no time word from the two deserters would spread like wild-fire to the local ports. By now it was likely all Deal knew what the frigate was carrying. And if word had not already filtered along the Kent coast, by morning any onshore breezes would deliver the aromatic news as effectively as if it was shouted from the topsail yard. It had quite amazed him that neither he nor his officers had noticed the sweet scent which had been released in the hold when one of the great lumps of ambergris had been broken apart.
For the present nothing could be done save remaining alert. There was no wind to carry them out. No chance of escaping the Downs. The tide was low. It was dark as pitch and from the deck the steep beach was no longer visible, but the sound of water hissing as it was sucked through the shingles was relentless. The port town, half a mile away, was a haven for hovellers and luggers and the men who had grown up on this stretch of coast which was as infamous as that of Cornwall.
From a ship anchored nearby came a plaintive string melody played remarkably well, the accompaniment of voices spoiling an otherwise tolerable performance. For a few moments the music occupied the captain’s thoughts.
Not a great distance away was a large Indiaman. He had watched it sail in earlier, drop anchor, attend to its regular harbour duties, douse its lanterns and settle down for the night. Like Elusive it had, no doubt, made a run for the Downs and its captain would be relieved to have secured a safe anchorage. It was likely though, the merchant’s master would be frustrated at being delayed so near to home after a journey lasting many months.
‘I shall go to my cot, Mr Smith. Wake me immediately should the slightest thing disturb you. And pass that message to Mr Parry when he comes on deck.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’
As he turned to go below, he felt a breath of wind. It teased his face as coquettishly as the flick from a lady’s fan. It slid across his twisted hand with the smoothness of a gossamer silk gown. But these gentle allusions brought nothing but feelings of foreboding. They were dangerous in the extreme if roused by association with any other woman than a man’s wife.
Oliver shook his head. The frigate would ride out the night and hopefully in the morning there would be sufficient wind to carry them around the North Foreland. If so, they would weigh anchor early and slide out of this maritime bottleneck and head for The Thames. He did not intend to wait for his escort.
As he left the deck, the young midshipman raised his hat. Oliver Quintrell was aware he was leaving the care of his ship in the hands of a pair of midshipmen – one being a fourteen year old lad.
The urgent knocking woke him. He recognised the voice. It only seemed
a matter of minutes since he had swung his legs into his cot and listened to the creak of footsteps on the deck above his head. He was sure he had not slept, yet the motion of the ship had changed considerably. No longer was he being lulled by the gentle lapping of the waves. Now the ship was pitching and rearing like a startled stallion.
‘Didn’t I say to tell me of any change?’
‘It blew up all of a sudden sir, and Mr Mundy thinks we’re dragging the anchor.’
‘Damn!’ he cried, fighting to find the armhole in his coat. ‘Wake Mr Parry!’
‘I’m here, sir.’ Parry said, from the shadows, moving closer while Oliver adjusted his eyes to the darkness. ‘I’m afraid it’s as Mr Smith said. That blast hit us just a few minutes ago. It almost threw me from my bunk. The wind has turned right about. It’s a westerly coming off the land and it gave no warning. I’ve got men on the staysails and the yards.’
Oliver looked through the rattling rigging to the lights of the other ships moored along the coast. ‘We’re drifting!’
Mr Mundy’s voice bellowed from the darkness. ‘The cables have been cut, Capt’n. Both anchors have gone!’
‘Someone will answer for this!’ but the clap of thunder deafened the crew to his voice. ‘Get the helm over! Staysail haul! Man the braces! We must get her around. Mr Mundy, see to it the marines check for boarders and tell the lookout to watch for any luggers nearby.’ He turned to his lieutenant, tilting his head slightly as lightening flashed brighter than any broadside from a triple-decker.
‘Over there!’ Simon pointed ‘Breakers!’
‘I see them. How close are we?’
The first lieutenant was about to answer when the sky burst forth in a majestic performance, peel upon peel of thunder was accompanied by flashes of searing white light. What they saw on the stage before them was the subtle horror of the Goodwin Sands. Not the black angry needle-sharp rocky protuberances which rose from the disfigured body of an active volcano but soft mounds of sand dunes laying as still as a sleeping woman covered by a silken sheet. This was surely Neptune’s Temptress who for centuries had lured sailors into her open arms. Now she was preparing for her next victim.
‘Beg pardon, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘There’s nine inches of water in the well!’ Will Ethridge advised apologetically.
‘Since when?’
‘Since noon. We had only five inches.’
‘Get below and find out where it’s coming from.’
‘Aye aye.’
‘If she doesn’t respond soon we’ll be aground!’
Turned and tossed like washing in a tub, the officer on deck shouted the orders but could do little more than watch and wait as a dozen men hauled on each of the starboard braces. The sound of the wind was threatening as it whipped the waves higher with every thrust. Across the expanse of sands they could see the waves slithering further and further over the gentle contours, filling the dips and valleys with swirling foam, sucking away its dryness till the shifting sands melted and succumbed to liquid form.
‘I swear, I am not going to lose my cargo now,’ the captain shouted. ‘Nor my ship. Mr Parry, I need your advice. You have been in this situation before. Give me the benefit of your knowledge.’
‘How can I help? I lost my ship.’
‘Facts, Simon. You must have learned something from that experience.’
‘I know there are two channels,’ he yelled, ‘the Gull Stream is the main one through to the North Foreland. Then there’s Kellet Gut. It’s a narrower channel midway separating the North from the South Sands.
‘Could we get through this middle passage?’
‘I didn’t, and I don’t know that it remains in a fixed position. I do know that at low tide the sands sit thirteen feet above the sea, but I’ve also heard that like the islands of ice in the Southern Ocean, it’s likely that only a tenth of the area is visible. The Goodwin Sands are like serpents. They heave and twist and shift and no one can guarantee from one night to the next where the channel will be the following day.’
‘I don’t want an oration on oceanography,’ Oliver said. ‘What I asked is – can we get through it?’
‘With a pilot, perhaps.’
‘You mean a Deal man?’
‘Yes,’ he said flatly. He had no other answer or suggestion. The only thing imprinted in Simon Parry’s mind was the longest night he had ever experienced – the night he spent clinging to the main mast as his ship and his men were swallowed by the shifting sands – the night he had prayed like he had never prayed before. The night he had been granted a miracle. But Simon Parry knew he could not expect to receive another.
‘Tom Wotton my coxswain and Jo Foss, one of the boat crew are Deal men are they not?
‘Aye, sir,’ Mr Mundy answered. ‘But they’re locked up below to stop them running like you ordered.’
‘Bring them up here, and quickly.’
The word was passed and the bosun dived down the forward hatchway. But his hands were greasy and, as the ship heeled, he slipped landing heavily on the deck below.
The storm was intensifying and the wind strengthening swinging the other ships on their anchor chains in a perilous fashion.
‘Keep clear of that Indiaman. I don’t want her hitting us if she drags.’
‘See over there, sir,’ Mr Parry shouted. ‘Skulking in her lee. There’s a light and it’s moving. A lugger maybe.’
‘Keep an eye on it. What I would give to put a twenty-four pound ball through her hull!’
‘I hope he’s not intent on cutting her cable also. Are there not enough wrecks on these sands without the men deliberately setting out to create them?’
‘All hands on deck, Mr Parry.’
As the larboard watch spewed onto the deck, in response to the bosun’s whistle, Mr Mundy returned with the two sailors. Stiff after being confined below decks and concerned about the rolling sea while imprisoned beneath a locked grating, they had been woken from a troubled sleep and were somewhat confused. Unaware of what was happening on deck they had only heard a rumour that two other Deal men had run. They were not sure of the truth of the whispers. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the lack of light.
‘Do you recognise where we are?’
‘The Downs, Capt’n.’
‘But at what point? How well do you know the Sands?’
Thomas Wotton allowed a grin to spill across his cheeks. ‘As well as any man born and bred on this coast, Capt’n.’
‘Then you will be the pilot. You will take us by the North Foreland or through the middle channel. You will give your instructions to Mr Mundy.’
The smile disappeared as the seaman looked at his mate.
Jo Foss answered. ‘It’s impossible on a night like this. There ain’t no lights only them few town lights for guidance and its fifteen years since we sailed this stretch.’
‘Well you have fifteen minutes to recall those times, Mister.’
The men glanced from the deck to the dozens of lanterns swaying haphazardly in the roadstead. There were definite signs of disorganisation. Occasional cries, carried on the wind, confirmed the captain’s fears that more than one of the other ships’ anchors was dragging through the shingle and heading them for disaster.
‘We must get clear before we collide!’
As the storm flashed overhead its effect was evident. Already four ships had drifted too far to the east to be safe from the pull of the Sands while two others were attempting to run the gauntlet to the north, battling the wind and attempting to make the Gull Stream and around the North Foreland.
‘I’ve seen four hundred ships in the Downs when a wind came up and twenty lost in a single night,’ Wotton said.
‘And the Deal men no doubt clapped their hands with glee!’
Mr Parry squirmed at the sailing master’s caustic remark. He remembered the men who had saved him and his crew and a small local boat Pegwell which had come back three times during the night and
eventually taken him off just before the sand swallowed his ship.
Wotton, the coxswain dared speak his mind. ‘Begging your pardon, Capt’n sir, but that’s not fair what Mr Mundy said. Most hovellers are honest men who’ll risk their lives to help someone. I know it for a fact. I was out there as a lad. I witnessed my father and brothers drown trying to save some ungrateful lubbers.’
Oliver nodded. His grandfather had suffered the same fate. It had long been said that Cornish folk lured ships onto the rocks to steal their cargo. But it was not true. The fishermen took flotsam and jetsam from the water and saved men’s lives in the process but they never set out to sink a ship.
‘Take no notice of him, Wotton. The wind is trying its hardest to force us back onto the Sands. It must not succeed. Tell me what heading we must take?
The seaman raised his voice against the rain and thunder. ‘You’ll not sail north on this wind, Capt’n. It’ll carry us onto the North Bank. And it’d be foolish to try for Kellet Gut. That channel could be miles away from where I remember it.’
‘Where then? Speak man, there is little time!’
‘Best beat back to the South Foreland and head for Dover. That’s my advice.’
‘Then the South Foreland it is. All hands ready? Mr Parry, take her around.’
Dashing the rain from his eyes Oliver listened to the orders relayed along the deck, watched the man on the helm and the sailors standing ready to haul the jibs and staysails across, and like every man on deck waited, counting the moments, willing the frigate’s head to come around. But as the wind howled and gusted, Elusive heeled over. Waves crashed over her bow and white water cascaded through the scuppers.