Chapter 29
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me (Psalm 42)
The harbour was a strange and unfamiliar place, the quay deserted and nets flapping in the wind or blowing in heaps across the cobbles to rest against the foot of the buildings. The surface of the water was dark and ruffled by gusts, little waves rearing their heads only to be mashed flat by the weight of the wind. Boats tossed and ground together against the wall among a heaving welter of broken timber and débris.
On the far side the Black Joke was still in the shelter of the breakwater, looking black and hunched. Figures moved on her deck, but only a few. Then there was a puff of smoke quickly whipped away by the wind, followed a second later by the dull sound of the explosion. Another ball was hurling over Pert's head into the packed houses behind.
He kept low, crouching behind an upturned dinghy, and waited until the figures were bent over the cannon to reload, then darted quickly along the quay and hid again. The second cannon fired, and this time he heard the ball hiss as it passed over. He watched the figures and only moved when he thought they were busy.
His progress along the quay was slow, and he had plenty of opportunities to look around and listen. Further up the town he could hear shouts and screams, and the crash of falling timber or falling walls and slate. The sky was scarlet from the fires, which now spread in a wide arc at the top of town, the lowering clouds lit with a baleful glare. He wondered whether he should be worried about his family. No, their house was upwind of the fire, they were safe. But could the fires spread as far round as Aunt Gittins'? No point thinking about it, he decided. Anyway, they had legs, and they had Septimus to guide them, and sooner or later Billy would be there. He had absolute faith in Billy's ability to get anywhere or do anything needed.
But the other houses in the town, the fishermen's cottages behind the harbour, and Walter and his wife, families and children cowering in the buildings that were lower down and in far more danger, and the ample roofs of the Prettyfoots' house, where Floris and the girls were hiding in the cellar. A cellar should be safe, surely, except from fire? But the fires were moving in the opposite direction, driven by the gale. Then he remembered the shop girls in the Emporium. That was a prime target for the guns, and he wished he could be sure that they were safe in the basement. It was a sorry predicament to be in, caught between Grubb's vicious wrath and the impartial thunderbolts from the
ship.
No doubt about it, he thought, this was the right thing to do. He glanced at the ship and the figures toiling there, and made his next dash up the quay. He was at the Drop o' Dew now, boarded and silent with a hole high in the front wall where a poorly pitched cannon ball had struck. He could see the Better Times now, straining at her painter and rocking wildly. He ducked down as the long sixteen fired again. That was the moment when he might be seen, when they were watching the town to see where the ball fell. He heard the ball passing overhead, and then a different sound as it struck, not the ordinary crash of smashed stone and roof, but a loud bang! and a flash.
This was bad, he thought. Teague has found some explosive shells and has decided to escalate his attack. He imagined the bursts in the narrow streets, and the stone chips and fragments that would kill and maim anyone out in the open.
He made the edge of the quay in a last rush and flung himself over the edge and down the ladder. Better Times' painter was tied to the bottom rungs, and he cast off, tucked the painter round one rung and held the end in his hand as he pulled the boat towards him. She came, bobbing and pitching, and he scrambled over her bows and fell into the well, still holding the end of the rope. He waited a while before risking a peep over the gunwhale. The men on the ship had not seen him, but were bent once more over their guns. There were two more reports, and one dull crash and one sharp explosion from the town. They only had shells for the big gun, the smaller one in the bow was
still firing solid ball.
This was the most dangerous time, rowing the boat across the clear water of the harbour. This was the moment they might spot him. He got out the oars and pushed off, letting the painter slip and run out of the ladder. Better Times slid backwards and began to turn across the wind. With one eye on the ship he pulled hard on his right oar to complete her turn, then bent to both oars and took three or four good strokes to windward. Better Times was a good boat, old but easily driven. Even against the wind she slipped forward into clear water.
He looked at the ship, and as the next burst came he lay back with the oars shipped. With a bit of luck if they saw the boat they would assume it was just a stray, broken free of its moorings and adrift. He hoped they would not be paying enough attention to wonder how she was managing to drift against the wind. He could feel by instinct that her head was beginning to pay off as the wind bore on her starboard bow, so he glanced out to see the coast was clear and took several more strokes, then lay flat again.
Each time the guns fired, he hid and rested. Once he thought the gun crews were busy, he rowed. It was back breaking work, pulling a heavy fishing boat against this wind, and he feared that every time he rested he was losing whatever ground he had just gained, but gradually, very slowly, he was making progress. He tried to remember what the tide was doing. It might just be getting into the ebb, which would be a help as the current moved seawards against the wind.
He was level with the stern of the ship now. Its black windows looked at him, but the Captain was busy on deck, he hoped. The round tower at the end of the breakwater was right above him, and he turned the boat and ran parallel with the breakwater, straight towards the stern of the ship. He was in plain sight of the men on deck. He could imagine the pistol balls whipping round him if they saw him, though they would not be able to get one of the big guns to bear.
The stern of the ship rose tall above his head. From the other side of the harbour she had seemed serene, untouched by the storm, but here he could see how she was tugging at her mooring lines, rocking slightly, her bilges sucking at the water and her big rudder, six inches thick of solid oak, slatting slowly from side to side. Above there was a constant roar of wind in the yards, a shriek as the air tore at the rigging and the loud pistolshots of halliards frapping on the masts.
Now he had a problem. He was at her stern but he needed to cast her off at the bows first, for that way her high bow would take the wind and fall away from the breakwater while her stern was still held fast, and she would swing by the stern so her guns would be facing the marshes instead of the town.
He stood up in the bow and tied Better Times' painter to the rudder stock of the Black Joke with a slip knot that would come undone when he pulled on the end. Then he felt under the thwart where Walter kept his big fish knife with the eight inch blade honed every day on one of the thwarts to keep its wicked edge. Tucking it into his belt, he took off his jacket and shoes, and slipped over the side. The cold water took his breath away and made him gasp. When he had recovered a little he pulled himself away from Better Times and into the narrow space where the curve of Black Joke's
bilge entered the water and left a tunnel between the ship's timbers and the stones of the breakwater. He pulled himself along, breathing hard, his fingers on the slimy stones. It was a frightening thing to do with the ship heaving above him and the water black under his feet, and he feared being crushed at any minute although he knew the shape of the ship's hull would allow no such thing. In reality, he kept saying to himself, this was the safest place to be, out of sight and secure, however cold.
When he had pulled and slithered himself along the ship's length he came out into the wider space where the bows rose above him. He had never noticed before that the ship had a figurehead under the bowsprit, a figure of a lady with bare breasts very round and wavy hair, although the sea and shoddy seamanship had left her without a lick of paint and her breasts were seamed by the grain of the wood from which she was carved. He saluted her, and as the ship rocked she
seemed for a moment to dip towards him, acknowledging. Perhaps she knew he meant to send her back to her proper element, the sea.
He was close to the pirates at the bow gun now. They were just a few feet above him, and he could hear a word or two, a grunt as they lifted a ball into the muzzle, a command to stand clear and the loud bang as the gun was fired. Then hurried movement as they started the process again. This was his chance, while they were busy. He swarmed up the slightly sloping stones of the breakwater, fingers and toes finding plenty of wide gaps to lodge between the stones. At the top without putting his head over the edge he was able to reach up and touch the taut mooring line, two inches thick. He pulled out the fish knife and began to saw at the rope. One thread snapped apart, then two more. Walter had honed the knife well, for it went through the strands easily and then when only a few were left the weight of the wind and the ship did the rest. There was a faint twang, and the rope parted.
Pert slithered quickly back to the water and began to make his way to the stern, shivering. As he went he was aware that the tunnel was getting wider and he was now moving in the light. The Black Joke was swinging by her stern. As he hauled himself over the side of Better Times there were shouts from the deck of the ship. They had looked up from their work and realised the ship had moved, their guns no longer bearing on the town. There were loud footfalls and a barked order. He reached over his head, then had to stand on a thwart, balancing wildly as the boat pitched. His knife would just reach the taut mooring warp. He sawed once, twice, three times and the rope parted under the strain. Immediately the ship fell away from the breakwater. He pulled at the rope end that released him from the ship's rudder, and ran back to take the helm of Better Times.
The Black Joke drifted rapidly out towards the centre of the harbour, still swinging round under her own momentum. In a moment her bows would come right round and she would point to the harbour mouth. Pert knew what the crew would do. There was only one thing they could do, to bring the ship under control. If she were to be prevented from crashing across the harbour and fetching up against the opposite side, held into the welter of fishing boats and floating junk by the press of the wind, they had to hoist a sail and give her some forward movement in order for the rudder to bite.
He also could not allow himself to drift down and strand against the quay. The Better Times needed to be under control too. He grabbed the halliard and hauled the single sail up halfway, then threw the end of the halliard round the bunt of the sail so that only the top four or five feet could fill with wind. Full sail would just capsize her, the wind was so strong. Better Times staggered as the wind snapped the sail open, then gathered herself and surged forward. He settled himself at the tiller.
Better Times was small and gathered speed immediately, a white bone in her teeth. The ship was large and ponderous, and responded only slowly as the men aboard her inched their way along the main yard and cast loose the furled canvas. Once the ship gathered way she would be much faster, but for now Pert found himself creaming rapidly along her high side, overtaking her. As he burst out into clear water ahead of her there were more shouts. He had been spotted. There were several dull popping sounds, and he was dimly aware of little splashes in the water some feet away. They had fired their pistols, and it would now take them at least a minute to reload. By that time he would be far ahead, but that meant he could not now turn and make his way back to the harbour. He had to continue this headlong flight towards the creek.
The wind came swooping across the marshes from his right, and Better Times heeled and settled down to her work. He braced his feet in the floor of the boat and concentrated on the tiller, straining and quivering against his arms as she tried to round up into the wind. This was a broad reach, the point of sailing any boat likes best, and she tore down the first stretch of the creek like a thoroughbred, dashing the little waves aside in clouds of spray. He glanced behind, and saw that the ship was doing the same. There was nothing else he, nor they, could do. They were going to sea whether they liked it or not.
Even with one sail set the ship was gaining slowly, but the creek turned to the right and the next reach was closer to the wind. With her fore-and-aft sail and tall spar Better Times could lie closer to the wind than the square-rigged ship, and Pert took full advantage, clawing up to windward while the ship wallowed more slowly, having difficulty keeping the sail full of wind. He adjusted the halliard and tidied the bundle of captive sail at the foot, wrapping the reefing lines round and knotting them so the sail wouldn't escape and fill with more wind than he could handle.
At the next bend the wind came free, howling from over his right shoulder. He slacked off the mainsheet, letting the sail out, and Better Times was tearing down the final reach. At the bottom was the open sea, and he could see large waves waiting for him. Already the bows were pitching up and down as the waves rolled up the creek and met him head on, but the wind pressed him on. Behind him there was a bang, and a whistle and a tall plume of water rose from the creek several feet to his left. Spray fell into the boat, but he felt elated. They had fired the bow gun at him, and missed. They would not have another chance before they hit the waves and their aim was spoiled.
Then he was among the smother of breakers at the river mouth, and for many minutes he was aware of nothing but the need to keep the sail drawing and driving, smashing the bows into the breakers as they rushed at him, flinging spray and lumps of solid water aside, soaking him again. The wind pushed him on, and he concentrated on keeping the boat straight. If once he let her yaw to one side or the other, she would lose the wind and falter, a breaker would strike from the side, and she'd be over.
Eventually – he neither knew nor cared how long it had been – the breakers gave way to the big, serious rollers of the open sea. Huge and steep they bore down on him, but Better Times shook
her head in the troughs and rose bravely to the face of each wave, paused at the top, and rushed down the other side to do the same again. He risked a glance behind. The Black Joke had gained, for this was more her element than his, the waves bothered her less, and he could see figures in the rigging. Teague was putting out more sail. He could no longer fire his gun with any hope of accuracy in this sea, but his ire was up and he meant to hunt Pert down and crush him.
Pert began to think, for the first time since he had jumped down into Better Times. He had been operating on instinct and excitement, making decisions without thought. He had simply done each obvious thing as it presented itself. Now he must consider what to do next.
At the moment they were sailing straight out to sea, with nothing ahead but a thousand miles of storm-tossed ocean. At this rate there was no doubt that Black Joke, by far the faster vessel, would overhaul him in an hour or so. What would Pert do, if he were Teague? He might start using the forward gun again, firing indiscriminately in the hope that a lucky shot might find its target. Or he might wait until he was close enough and try picking Pert off with pistol or musket fire. But probably he would rely on the weight and speed of his ship, slowly overhauling Better Times until she was crushed under the forefoot and cast aside in splinters and Pert would drown.
What could Pert do to avoid this? His boat was handy and could turn far quicker. He could put the helm up at the last minute and gybe round into the wind, stopping his boat while Black Joke rushed past and would then take fifteen minutes to complete her own turn. But gybing was a risky manoeuvre at the best of times, presenting his stern to the wind and letting the wind get the wrong side of the sail and send it crashing across. In this sea it was suicidal, and as the ship passed they would shoot down at him with their muskets and pistols.
Could he then turn the other way, coming closer to the wind and slantways across the seas? Black Joke could do that as well as he, but it would keep him closer to the shore and out of the deep ocean. Where would he come if he did that? What lay up to windward?
The answer was obvious, and horrifying. Only two miles to windward was Bodrach Nuwl and the Stonefie
lds. He imagined the Stonefields as they would be now, a seething maelstrom of fury, the great breakers roaring up the narrow gullies and the spray flying a hundred feet into the air. There was no surviving the Stonefields in any storm, leave alone a Twenty Year Storm like this.
Suppose he were able to work his way up to windward past Bodrach Nuwl? What lay there? Pert had little idea. He knew from seeing when fishing that the cliffs fell rapidly and then petered out to sandy dunes and little hills inland, but he knew nothing of the shore. Was it sandy or rocky? In either case the breakers would make landing impossible.
He cowered down in the sternsheets, watching the great grey seas rolling under his bows and feeling the lunatic tugging of the mainsheet in his hand. He wished he had something to eat or drink. His face was wet with spray, his mouth foul with salt. He wished he had some dry clothes to put on. He thought of the kitchen fire, and hot milk, and his mother, and his sister talking quietly to the mouse. He thought of Rosella at her desk, her eyes proud and private. He thought of Billy, so sharp and quick and happy.
Then he thought of the shop-girls cowering in their basement, and the little Prettyfeet shivering in theirs and wondering when a shell would burst over their heads and set fire to them, and his good Aunt Gittins in her warm cottage up the hill, and Septimus, the ludicrous Septimus who had only just found someone to love and to love him back. He thought of Walter, relaxing at the tiller with his bottle and his old wife waiting with her chair leg and her love for the silly old fool.
His choice came down to this. He almost certainly couldn't survive himself, but he could make sure Teague didn't either. The man was so full of lust and anger, he would hunt Pert until he was certain Pert was dead. So ... Pert would lead him where no ship could survive, where there would be no making port and firing on innocents, no guns and no Brethren of the Seas, just wreck and ruin. He would lead the Black Joke into the Stonefields, and let the sea and the Old Man wreak justice.
He put the helm down and hardened in the sheet, and Better Times turned through the wind on the crest of one wave, then slid quietly down its back and rose diagonally up the next, the wind in her face. To sail directly to the Stonefields would be a reach with the wind on the beam, but the waves would be on the beam as well which the boat could not stand. Instead he must beat up to windward, taking the waves on his port bow, keeping control and relying on leeway to carry him along the coast instead of out to sea. All boats make leeway, sailing forward but also slipping sideways at the same time. He would sail slightly out to sea, but in reality would slip along the coast until he reached the Stonefields.
Behind him Black Joke matched his course, rising more easily to the seas than he, but probably making more leeway. He dare not relax his attention, for to head too far into the wind would take the drive out of the sail and rob him of the power to steer, leaving him to wallow helplessly in the troughs. He drove onward, every nerve and sinew bent on his own destruction.
It seemed to take no time at all before under his lee he could see white water and clouds of spray, and dimly make out the dull roar as the ocean met the intractable land. He hardened in his sheet and pointed more into the wind, slowing his forward progress, and looked round to see where Black Joke was. He hadn't looked at her for a long time, so it was a shock to see how close she was. Her great bows rose only yards away, one moment pointing up to the sky so that he could see the copper under her hull, the next crashing into the trough in a welter of foam. She had three sails drawing now, and in the bow stood a tall black figure.
Pert kept the Better Times hesitating a little longer, her sail drawing but her progress almost stalled, so that the Black Joke would get close before he changed course. He wanted to do it suddenly so that the pirates would react automatically and without considering the consequences. He could almost look into Teague's black eyes, he was close enough to see the half open mouth and the savage grin, and the strong hand grasping the forestay, and the eager foot poised on the rail. Teague meant to run him down, and watch as the Better Times was smashed under his feet.
Pert put the helm up and loosed his sheet. Better Times swung obediently, taking the wind from astern, and her bows rose on a white roll of foam as she gathered speed and raced downwind. When you sail downwind, the wind seems to lose a little of its force and things are quieter, but Pert was approaching a welter of spray and roaring water, and the sound rose to a deafening pitch as the rollers reared up and rushed him towards the rocks.
Behind him Black Joke reared and plunged, and made another roar of her own from the great bow wave she pushed before her. Pert thought he had never sailed so fast in his life, born landward by the great press of wind and the breakers. Higher and higher the waves rose, feeling the ground beneath their feet and rearing up to plunge upon it as though they thought they could consume it by the sheer weight. Once Pert looked back and found that while he was in a trough, Black Joke was careering down the face of the wave behind him, speeding down towards him as though it could spear right through him and down to the bottom. He thought he could see the lunatic light in Teague's eyes as he turned and shouted to the men at the helm, waving one arm.
The roller passed under them, and Pert was on a crest while the Black Joke heaved up behind him. The crest was starting to break, and Better Times was picked up and rushed shorewards at a breathtaking speed. She was not going to slide down the face of this wave, for this wave was going to curl and hurl her with it. The water beneath her turned white and green and insubstantial as though she might no longer float, and Pert thought that he was on top of the world, looking down at the rocks and the trough behind him where Black Joke still followed, and the white water far below in front.
He could see rocks he recognised, but not as he remembered them. No longer did they tower over the entrance to the big gully where Walter had brought him. Instead, Pert on his wave towered over them, and they were consumed in water that rolled over them and poured off their tops still blue and solid.
Then the wave began to break. It was a slow thing, and Pert had time to observe. First Better Times sunk suddenly as the bubbles beneath her no longer held her weight, then she tilted sharply forward, her bow pointing down the almost vertical slope, and began to rush quickly down. Pert could do nothing but let go of the tiller and hold on as tight as he could. The boat was tilting further and further, practically standing on her bows, and then the crest hit her from behind as it tumbled down the face, and she was sunk into a welter of foam and water and noise, rushed down and down until she must surely crash into the ocean floor, and turned this way and that, and almost over but miraculously staying right side up and then pushed forward between pillars of rock that flashed past, a wall of white water pushing her inland and inland but losing its force gradually so that she steadied.
Pert was able to look back. Crouching in the stern sheets he clung to the gunwhale and watched. Behind them the next wave towered, rising higher and higher, impossibly tall. Pinioned on its front face was the Black Joke, looking like a toy, so steeply raised that Pert was looking down on her deck from above. He saw the black figure in the bow, still grimly clinging, and another figure lose its grip and fall down the decks, and the great gun amidships come off its mounting and tumble into the focs'le and then the wave fell on it all at once, and the ship hit the rock on the left hand side and flew apart.
One moment the Black Joke was there, suspended in the air but whole, the next there was nothing, just a cloud of black timbers, half a mast in the foam here, a yard and sail there, splinters flying up and scattering over the rocks, an explosion of wood and canvas and iron and copper that rose in the air and then fell. And then ... nothing.
Better Times rocked, and her forward rush was slowing, but she was upright and little damaged, and Pert crouched in the stern stunned and wide eyed, unable to comprehend what he had seen. A ship, a fine, powerful, wicked black ship with men and guns and masts and ten thousand miles of ocean under her keel, and in a moment, gone. There was nothing. He
fell into the bottom of the boat and wept, and then leaned over the side and was sick.
While he lay, Better Times ran on. The wind was robbed of its force by the high rocks on either side and by its need to rise up the face of Bodrach Nuwl, but it was still there and the small area of sail still forced her onwards. And the great breakers were spent, but still they surged up the gully and carried her with them. Once or twice she grated on the rocks, but righted herself and ran on.
Quieter and quieter it grew, and less and less the motion, and still she ran more and more gently. Pert sat up and took notice. The seaweed walls slid past. He saw the entrance to the rock pool, and then it was gone. Then the tall red rock Walter had described. Here the main channel turned leftwards, but Pert put his hand to the tiller and guided the boat to the right, into a narrower defile. Don't turn, Walter had said, don't turn. He would not turn.
Overhead the wind still howled, but it seemed a long way off now. Down here was peace, and gloom, and sucking water in the weed. The boat rocked quietly, and slid onwards. Darker and darker it grew, and deeper and deeper the defile, and she slowed and slowed, and then slid to a stop. There was a little grating noise under the bow, and Better Times had beached herself.
Pert stood. The cliff face rose sheer in his face, and he had to lean back to follow it upwards. To the right there was a gentler slope, and green, where rocks and earth formed a buttress up the face of the cliff, but here was just vertical rock, silent. They had beached on a little ledge of stones and pebbles. He stepped out and waded ashore, and pulled the boat up to make it more secure.
On his left, only yards away, was a grey hull, the timbers silvery with wear and exposure to sun and wind. It lay canted away from him, low in the water and on the stones, clearly stove in beneath the waterline. There was no mast or rigging, though a litter of old spars lay on its deck. It might have been here for ten years, or a hundred. Here was the boat Walter had seen, and thought he might have imagined.
He looked up to the top of the cliff. The sky was a little lighter there, but lit with a rosy glow. The fires in the town were still burning. In the confusion and fury of the waters he had forgotten the town. There the houses were still flaming and people were wandering in the streets wondering what to do and where to go. But the shooting had stopped, that was something.
Pert found it hard to think about the town, and the people he loved who were in it. Somehow his mind had moved away from them, and for the moment they didn't seem real, but just a story he had heard long ago. He wondered if there were any way back from here. He had never heard of anyone climbing up from the bottom of Bodrach Nuwl. It was impossible to scale a thousand feet of vertical rock. He would have to wait until the storm abated, and then try to sail home. Better Times was only a little damaged, she would float.