English passengers (20 page)

Kewley, rather to my surprise, seemed not greatly interested. ‘‘One of them, I dare say.’’

‘‘D’you think we shall make land today?’’ asked the vicar.

‘‘I very much doubt it.’’

Wilson looked even pleased. All he seemed to care about was that nothing should interfere with his sermonizing. All day he had been busy thinking up new ways to make a nuisance of himself clucking and fussing. His chief demand had been that a temporary stand be created on the quarterdeck, so he could play the giant parson at everyone. As if he were not bothersome enough already. ‘‘I’m simply concerned,’’ he told Kewley, pressing his hands tight together as if he were trying to squeeze out some kind of juice, ‘‘that the men may not be able to hear me clearly.’’

The Captain, to be fair, did not give up without a fight. ‘‘They hear
me
well enough.’’

‘‘It would seem hardly fitting for the word of God to be bellowed out like some shipboard order,’’ answered Wilson, twittering at his little joke. ‘‘Surely it would be possible to devise some temporary arrangement, perhaps made from a few of the cases containing our stores?’’ Next he gave his toothy smile, which, in my experience indicated he was getting ready to stab. Nor was I mistaken. ‘‘Unless, that is, you feel your men should not benefit from a little Christian instruction.’’

There it was, the vicar’s killing thrust. Kewley could hardly protest further without making himself look like some Antichrist. He frowned at the sea, knowing himself beaten, then grumbled assent.

Wilson beamed. ‘‘I’ll just need four of your men. It won’t take them a moment.’’

Potter had sat himself on a coil of rope just below the quarterdeck,
writing in his notebook and I supposed this was where he planned to remain. The spot was almost out of view from the temporary pulpit, so Wilson would not be able to see if he was listening, while the doctor could never be accused of hiding away and playing heathen. I was surprised to see him making even this careful concession, in truth, so bad had matters become between the two. There had been times when I had hoped I would have proper hitting fight to watch, especially on that morning when Wilson sat next to the doctor in the dining cabin and started praying for ‘‘all men’’ to ‘‘overcome their petty hatreds and listen to the words of wisdom of their brothers.’’ Potter’s face looked dark with rage. Mind you, he’d given as good as he got, especially at the start, when Wilson had been seasick and Potter had driven him half mad with goading. That was purest Potter. If Wilson would annoy to death with his pushing and twittering, Potter was all quiet danger.

‘‘Oh no, I’m afraid that one won’t do at all. What about one of the cases of champagne?’’ Wilson said this with a touch of sadness, quite as if it were he who would be heaving and sweating crates up the stairs. A champagne case was duly brought and laid beside the others on the quarterdeck, but still he was not satisfied, peering at it from different angles, then having it moved from one side to another, only to shake his head again. ‘‘Perhaps one of the ones with cutlery?’’ Finally, though, even he could think of no reasons for fussing and he declared his platform ready.

The Manxmen seemed divided over the question of his service. Some, such as the Captain himself looked none too pleased at this sudden interference in their Sunday, which had previously been a preserve of lounging and pipe smoking. Others, though, appeared content enough, and gathered themselves beneath the quarterdeck, bright-eyed at the treat ahead. I had never seen Wilson at work before and, rather to my surprise, he showed himself to be quite a player, acting out his drama. First he raised his hands in the air to make everyone hushed. Then, when there was no sound except the wind, the birds and the light flapping of the sails, he suddenly changed his mind, shook his head and stepped back down from his platform. For a moment he stood at the rail, cupping his chin in his hand and frowning at the ocean, so we could all observe his state of contemplation, and then, just as some in the congregation
were beginning to fidget, at once he clapped his hands together, as if he had found the answer to whatever question that had been annoying him, and he jumped back to his place.

‘‘As you all will know,’’ he declared, ‘‘there is no greater mystery than the sea.’’ Now he leant forward onto an upturned case of portable soup that acted as his lectern, so he could stare at us more thoroughly. ‘‘The sea! The sea! That great wilderness which…’’

It was bad luck for him, there was no denying. Just when he had caught the moment nicely there was a cry from the topmast, ringing out clear in the light breeze. ‘‘Sail. Sail to the northwest.’’

The Captain looked pleased at this chance for a little belittling, and strode straight up onto the vicar’s platform, all but pushing him to one side. ‘‘Teare, bring my telescope.’’ Wilson himself had to smile and look as if he never minded.

This new ship must have emerged from behind a headland of the island, as it was not very far off being easily near enough to be seen from the deck. It was a large schooner, with two triangular sails, both coloured grey. As for direction, it was pursuing a course parallel to our own. His telescope brought, the Captain retired to the rear of the quarterdeck to take a good look.

This time Wilson did not trouble us with another miming act but simply leant forward onto the lectern. ‘‘As all of you will know, there is no greater mystery than the sea. The sea! The sea! That great wilderness which appears to possess…’’

It was not his day. All at once the Captain strode back onto the platform looking fierce, and, without so much as a by-your-leave, bellowed out an order in Manx. Whatever this was, it could hardly have been better calculated to wreck the proceedings. In an instant every member of Wilson’s congregation was dispersed, some scampering up the rigging, others gathering about the base of the mainmast unfastening the ends of ropes. I could not help but wonder if this were a case of deliberate wrecking, a suspicion evidently shared by Wilson himself

‘‘Captain, is this really necessary?’’

‘‘It may be and it may not, but I’m taking no chances with a ship like that.’’ With this mystery Kewley handed his telescope to the vicar.

‘‘It seems an ordinary enough vessel.’’

‘‘She’d be more ordinary still,’’ said Kewley, with too much patience, ‘‘if she carried a flag or two from her masts and had a name and port painted on her prow.’’

Shielding my eyes, I could just make out that the mast was bare and the prow was black and nameless.

Wilson seemed still unimpressed. ‘‘There’s probably some quite harmless explanation.’’

Kewley shrugged. ‘‘Let’s hope so.’’

By now the crew had begun to pull the yards about and China Clucas was turning the wheel spokes, bringing the ship slowly round, until she was veering away from the other vessel. All eyes looked aft. For a moment all seemed well, but then the two grey sails began gradually to change shape, until she was once again aligned behind and parallel to us: a narrow strip of dark woodwork with a great expanse of grey sailcloth stretching out above. For a second or two we all remained silent. Then Brew bellowed to the crew, and they jumped into activity, unfurling more canvas.

‘‘It looks a poor sort of vessel,’’ Potter declared, almost petulantly. ‘‘I’m sure we will outrun her.’’

It was a pleasing thought, but, as matters turned out, well wide of the mark: as I watched, it was soon evident that they were gaining upon us, if slowly, in the light wind. How strange it felt to be stood thus at the rail, among the smells of pitch and wood and damp that were now grown so commonplace, knowing that just a mile or so distant was a vessel filled with strangers, who were hoping to rob, or even murder, us all. It was no catastrophe I had imagined. Nightmares of storms and shipwreck I had had, but never had I thought we might find ourselves pursued by some form of freebooter pirates. I felt my pulse quicken, and yet I found myself also somehow unmoved. I wondered, with some shock, if I was simply numbed, or if I even cared what fate might be awaiting me. Potter also seemed subdued, quite slumping over the rail, and only Wilson had lost none of his spirit.

‘‘Have no fear,’’ he called out to any who would listen. ‘‘I will use all powers to intercede with them. I will beg them to treat us mercifully. I will tell them of our Christian purpose. God will help us.’’

I was, in truth, far from sure his mediation would improve our prospects.
Captain Kewley was engaged in more practical measures. He had the crew form a human chain, lowering buckets over the side and then passing them along the deck and up into the rigging, so seawater could be hurled against the sails.

‘‘It helps the canvas catch the wind,’’ Brew explained. ‘‘In a light breeze like this it could make a good difference.’’

How effective an advantage this might be, sadly we never discovered, as within only a few moments our pursuers could be observed doing exactly the same. Their advance upon us seemed undiminished. Borrowing the Captain’s telescope, I could now see their vessel in some little detail, its deck crowded with dark figures. These, a little to my surprise, showed no signs of shouting or working themselves into some frenzy, simply standing thus, unnervingly still. Among them there was a constant glinting, as the sunlight caught bright metal strips by the dozen. Cutlasses?

‘‘D’you think they may be freed slaves?’’ I wondered.

‘‘They cannot be,’’ insisted Potter, suddenly animated. ‘‘Slaves would never show such resourcefulness.’’

Captain Kewley shrugged grimly. ‘‘I can’t see it much matters what their profession was.’’

‘‘Perhaps we should lower a couple of boats and try and haul ourselves out of trouble,’’ suggested the chief mate, Brew.

Kewley shook his head. ‘‘By the time we’ve cleared out the creatures they’d be on us. Besides, the wind looks like it’s freshening again.’’ This was true enough. As he spoke, another gust came, flapping the sails into greater life. Kewley frowned. ‘‘Can we get that cannon going?’’

‘‘We’ve no shot,’’ Brew answered grimly.

‘‘How are we for guns, then?’’

‘‘There’s a couple of old muskets in the stores locker, but I’m not sure they’ll fire.’’

My only surprise was that nobody had thought of it sooner. I suppose we had been so preoccupied with escape that we had hardly been thinking of anything else. ‘‘What about the rifles?’’ I asked.

Suddenly we were all hurrying. It was not until this moment, curiously enough, when something could finally be done, that I felt something like panic. All at once I felt myself seized by a curious clumsiness,
bumping my way down the stairway quite as if I were drunk. The case was heavy as a coffin but eventually Potter, two Manxmen and I managed to haul it up to the deck. Kinvig, the little second mate, ripped open the lid with a hook, and we found ourselves staring at six gleaming rifles and a revolving pistol.

Potter frowned at a cartridge as it sat, trembling slightly, between his fingers. ‘‘I’m sure there was some trick with these. Let me see…’’ He ripped at the greasy paper with his teeth and black powder poured out. When the paper was torn further, the grey nose of a bullet became visible. ‘‘But that can’t be right. The bullet is pointing at the charge.’’

‘‘Perhaps it was made wrongly,’’ I wondered. I tried a cartridge each, fumbling with the paper, but it was just the same. If it was dropped down the barrel powder-first, as it must be for firing, then the bullet would be shot out pointing backwards, which would hardly do. There’s little worse than trying to think through clever puzzles when time’s running short and your mind’s full of fears of being murdered, and it was sorely tempting just to despair and think everything impossible. Glancing back, I could see the men on the sloop’s deck quite clearly now, as they stood regarding us, so still. Most were holding cutlasses, but some had what looked like grappling hooks.

It was Wilson, of all people, who had the answer. ‘‘Wasn’t there something about pouring the powder out and then turning the bullet round?’’

‘‘That was it.’’ Potter emptied the powder into the barrel of his gun, then tried the bullet, which was still wrapped in its cartridge paper. It fitted nicely. Using the spindly ram to press it well home, he raised the gun and aimed it, for some reason, at the mizzenmast. All at once there was a violent report—causing squeals of alarm from the pigs and sheep— and a small cloud of smoke filled the air. As for the mizzenmast, this now had a mightiest hole smashed into it, quite as if it had been punched by some metal fist.

Captain Kewley gave him a hard look. ‘‘I thought it was their vessel we were shooting?’’

‘‘At least it shows it works, and very well too.’’ Glancing aft, Potter now looked disappointed. ‘‘They’ve lain down. How cowardly.’’

Sure enough, our tormentors had all now vanished from sight,
though their vessel continued its progress just as before. An instant later a shot rang out and a bullet whizzed through the air somewhere above our heads, causing us also to drop to the deck.

‘‘What about the Reverend’s pulpit?’’ called out Brew.

The platform could hardly have been better suited to our needs, it was true, and we all hurried behind its shelter. Still it was hard to know what we should do.

‘‘Perhaps we should just shoot at their vessel,’’ proposed Potter. ‘‘The bullet seemed to cause a good bit of damage.’’

‘‘It might only make them more violent towards us,’’ insisted Wilson, who seemed to be looking forward to the chance of lecturing them into mercy.

Captain Kewley looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘‘I suppose we could aim at their wheel. That’s the part that might notice.’’

It was visible enough—though the helmsman had dropped out of sight, guiding it, I imagined, from below—and so we began. Wilson refused to take part, protesting that it was no business for a man of God, but I took a rifle, as did Potter, the Captain and three more of the Manxmen, while the little second mate, Kinvig, took the revolving pistol. I had never fired a gun before and cannot say I found it much of a pleasure. First there was the biting into the cartridge, which gave one a mouthful of grease, and the pouring in of the powder. Next came the fiddly business of placing the ram into the end of the long barrel, so one could push home cartridge and its bullet, this last being surprisingly large and heavy. Then there was the awkwardness of keeping the gun aimed against the motion of the ship, and all the while taking care not to accidentally shoot our own helmsman, the huge fellow Clucas, who was lying flat grasping the lowermost spokes of the wheel. Finally there was the firing, which jolted one’s shoulder hard as could be, caused a fine ringing in one’s ear and filled the air with smoke. For all this it seemed a good deal better than being robbed and murdered, and soon we had going a proper fusillade. As to the guns, they were quite as fearsome as Jonah Childs had promised, and every time the smoke cleared away the woodwork about their wheel looked a good deal more smashed. Their shots, by contrast, were few and seemed to come hardly near us. Thus we fired away, round after round, till the ammunition box was a good deal emptier, yet still they gained on
us, the freshening wind speeding their progress. Then, just when I was supposing we would have to try and shoot them as they jumped aboard, the chief mate Brew gave out a shout.