The Sea Between (6 page)

T
hey that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits’ end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven…

Setting the Bible down on his desk, Richard rested his forehead wearily in his hands. He had just sailed through three days of the worst weather he’d ever experienced and he could identify with every word the psalmist had written. He and his men truly had staggered about on the heaving decks like drunken men, at their wits’ end. Never in his life had he seen such wild seas. As for crying out to the Lord—he’d done a fair bit of that over the past day or two. But his cries had been answered, thank God. An hour ago the boiling seas had at last showed signs of calming, and although his crew were battered and bruised they’d all come through with their lives, and for that he was truly grateful.

Numb with fatigue, he sat for five or ten minutes, half-dozing,
then with an effort forced his eyelids open, closed the Bible, reached for Charlotte’s letter and read through it again. At the last page he smiled, as he did every time he read it.

…I must tell you about something that happened last Sunday afternoon. I’m sure it will make you smile. As it was too wet for his usual Sunday afternoon stroll, Father had settled into his armchair in the parlour and was reading. I was sitting by the window, mending one of Father’s shirts, and Matthew and Arthur were lying on the hearth rug playing with their wooden fort. After a while I went off to get a drink of water, but I got waylaid by Mrs Hall on my way back, so I was gone for quite some time. When I eventually returned to the parlour, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw what was going on. I really should have put a stop to it there and then, but I couldn’t resist standing in the doorway and watching for a minute. It was the funniest thing I have ever seen. Father had fallen asleep in his chair and was snoring loudly, which is probably why Matthew and Arthur didn’t hear me coming. The two of them were standing in front of his chair and they were taking turns at holding a little brown feather—the sort that pillows are stuffed with—in front of his mouth. The little monkeys had noticed that every time Father snored he followed it by a big huff as he breathed out, and they had invented a game of holding the feather in front of his mouth then letting go of it just as he huffed so that it floated up into the air. They were giggling fit to burst, and it was all I could do not to laugh myself. I knew I would never be able to keep a solemn face if I went in to tell them off straight away, so I stepped back into the hall and tried to put on a ‘stern aunt’ expression. I was just about ready to go in when all of a sudden there was a terrible outburst. I dashed into the parlour and there was Father,
purple as a plum, coughing and retching, and Matthew and Arthur gaping at him in horror. You can perhaps guess what had happened. My father had got the feather stuck in his throat. I suppose at the critical moment he had breathed in instead of out. Anyhow, to cut the rest of the story short, Father eventually managed to cough up the feather, and my two nephews got sent to bed with no supper and smarting backsides.

Well, I am almost at the end of the sixth page, and since I have told you all there is to tell, I shall end here. Father, Edwin and Sarah send their fondest regards, as always. I pray for you each night, for calm seas and for your safe return.

Yours affectionately,

Charlotte

Dropping the last sheet on to his desk to join the others, he reached for a clean sheet of paper and plucked a pen from the inkstand. Dipping it into the glass inkpot, he began to write, hoping that it might take his mind off his leg, which was throbbing like blazes.

Monday, 30th March, 1865

My dearest Charlotte,

Your letter, along with one from my mother, was waiting for me in Port Elizabeth when we called there to replenish supplies. They made welcome reading, especially yours.

He reached across to dip the pen into the inkwell again, then looked up as he heard approaching footsteps. They stopped outside his cabin and two sharp raps sounded on the door. Gathering up the sheets of Charlotte’s letter, he pushed them into the drawer then glanced at his fob watch, which was lying on top of his desk. It was just after nine
o’clock. ‘Let this not be something that will keep me from my bed,’ he muttered beneath his breath. Tonight would be the first proper night’s sleep he’d had in days.

‘Come in,’ he called hoarsely. He’d shouted so much over the past three days to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and sea, that he had all but lost his voice.

The door swung open a crack and Dan Lithgow’s battered face appeared. He was sporting two black eyes and a very swollen broken nose. ‘Can you come below deck, cap’n?’ he said in thick nasal tones. ‘Some of the cargo’s shifted.’

With a sigh, Richard scraped back his chair and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Which cargo, Dan?’

‘The cast-iron machinery parts—three or four big crates.’

Richard gave Dan a puzzled look, then said sharply, ‘I checked those crates only yesterday.’ The holding ropes had slackened off and he’d issued orders for them to be tightened up. ‘Who re-roped them?’ Whoever had done it hadn’t done a very good job by the sound of it.

‘Nobody did, cap’n,’ Dan admitted apologetically. ‘I told Enoch to do it, but before he could make a start he was summoned on deck to help secure the sail that was breaking free. It took every man aboard to secure it, as you know, and in the bedlam the crates were overlooked.’

Richard breathed out a long, weary sigh. Dan was right—it had been bedlam. Men rushing back and forth, hauling on ropes, straining against the fury of the wind, desperately trying to save the blustering sail, while huge seas swept over the decks. It was a miracle no one had been washed over the side. It had taken close on two hours to make the sail fast, by the end of which every man aboard was thoroughly spent, himself included. It was easy to see how the crates had come to be overlooked.

‘All right, Dan.’ Richard nodded and limped over to him. ‘No harm done, I expect.’ Save the loss of a few more hours’ sleep.

‘How’s the leg, cap’n?’ Dan asked.

‘Sore,’ Richard replied. ‘Is there much water in the hold?’

‘It’s awash,’ Dan said.

Richard nodded. It was the answer he’d expected. ‘Who’s manning the pumps?’

‘Robert and Enoch.’

‘Is the block and tackle below?’

‘Aye, and some chains.’

‘Good,’ Richard said. Dan was a good man, the best first mate he’d ever had.

Two hours later, the displaced crates had been successfully manoeuvred back into place and the ship was on an even keel again. One of the pumps, however, was being bloody-minded and refusing to work properly.

‘Shall I try dismantling it?’ Tom suggested.

Richard nodded. ‘I think you’ll have to.’ He glanced down at the water slopping around his boots and mentally ran through his cargo list, assessing how much the load would suffer if the seawater got to it for any length of time.

While Tom Smith, the ship’s carpenter and general maintenance man, set about taking the pump to pieces, Richard moved over to the wall and leaned against it, taking the weight off his right leg. It was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and every now and again a needle-sharp pain would shoot through it and bring him out in a sweat. He watched Tom for a while, then, giving in to weariness, closed his eyes. He was feeling slightly dizzy, partly from the pain in his leg but mostly from lack of sleep. His thoughts started to drift to Hobart Town, the last port of call before Auckland. Should he anchor there for two nights, perhaps? He’d been planning on stopping
for only one, just long enough to take on fresh supplies, but maybe he should make it two nights. The ship was in need of a few minor repairs and the men were in need of a rest. From Auckland it would be on to Lyttelton and…His eyes snapped open and he jumped, sending another sharp pain shooting up his leg, as Tom suddenly exclaimed, ‘Ah, here’s the culprit! A bit of old rag was fouling the pipe.’ With a satisfied grin, he held it out for them to see.

‘Well done,’ Richard congratulated, clapping his hand on Tom’s shoulder. Reaching for his jacket, he tossed it over his shoulder and hobbled back to his cabin, scrubbed his hands, then collapsed gratefully on to his bunk and pulled the blanket over him. Two minutes later he was asleep, still with his boots on.

‘You coming ashore, cap’n?’

Surprising his first mate, Richard nodded and went to join his men, who were standing on the quay, waiting for John Church, the youngest member of the
Nina
’s crew, to make his appearance. Making the most of the forty-eight hours’ shore leave they’d been granted, they were about to go and sample the local alehouses. Richard didn’t normally join his men when they went drinking. Drink made them loud and crude, added to which he’d learned that it didn’t pay for a captain to be too familiar with his crew. Tonight, however, he was making an exception.

‘If you’ve no objection, I’ll join you for a while and buy a round or two of drinks,’ he returned amiably.

‘You’re welcome to join us all night if you’ll keep filling up the glasses,’ Dan said, grinning.

The Trafalgar was not the sort of public house that Richard would normally have frequented, but he had to concede it was better than some of the dingy-looking establishments they’d passed. It was a
two-storeyed building with a public bar and dining room downstairs, and guest rooms upstairs. Like a good many port hotels it was rowdy, full of smoke, and stank of ale and stale sweat. It was also packed to the gunwales. There wasn’t a free table anywhere.

‘Shall we try somewhere else, cap’n?’ Dan suggested, shouting to make himself heard above the noise. He glanced down at Richard’s right leg. ‘You’ll be wanting to sit down.’

‘No, I’ll be all right,’ Richard yelled back. His leg would be a good excuse for him to leave early.

As it turned out, while he was enquiring what his crew wanted to drink, well aware they’d want something dearer than ale since he was paying, a table came free on the far side of the room and Tom promptly went off to lay claim to it. A few minutes later Richard and four of his crew were seated around it, while the rest of his men joined the crush of rowdy patrons drinking at the bar.

‘To the crew of the
Nina
!’ Richard said, raising his glass in a toast.

‘To the crew of the
Nina
!’ Four glasses of whisky clinked in turn with his own. A battered and bruised crew they are, too, he thought, as he glanced around the table. Albert Freeman had a broken arm, Dan Lithgow had a broken nose, and he himself had eleven stitches in his leg. Their injuries were all the result of the storm. The three of them had been in the hold, checking the cargo, when the ship had suddenly risen up on a huge wave then crashed down again, tossing them about like skittles. It was a miracle none of them had been killed. Four years ago, he’d lost one of his men to the ferocity of the sea, a young lad of nineteen. He’d never forgotten the look on the face of the lad’s mother when he’d gone to break the bad news to her, and he hoped never to have to carry such news again.

‘That’s fine whisky!’ Albert licked his lips, nodding appreciatively. Beside him, young John Church had just swallowed his first mouthful
of strong spirit, judging by the beads of sweat that had broken out on his forehead. Quite a large mouthful, too. Setting his glass on the table, John sucked in a long, rasping breath, then lifted his arm and wiped the tears from his watering eyes. Dan, sitting to the left of him, slapped him on the back, roaring with laughter.

‘You’re not meant to swig it down like ale, lad! You’re meant to sip it!’

‘I know that!’ John retorted, red-faced. ‘My glass tipped in my hand!’

‘Aye, of course it did,’ Tom agreed.

‘Bit of grease on your fingers, is there?’ Albert asked.

Richard leaned back against his chair, smiling as the good-natured banter continued. Learning to handle banter was part and parcel of learning to be a seaman. This was young Church’s maiden voyage and for a fifteen-year-old lad he’d conducted himself commendably. He’d handled the storm well—better than he was handling the banter. Better than he’s handling his first taste of whisky, too, Richard thought wryly, as Church gamefully took another drink then exploded in a fit of coughing which provoked even more uproarious laughter.

Half an hour and another whisky later, with no sign of the raillery abating, Richard took pity on the lad. ‘Speaking of boys,’ he said—John Church’s smooth whiskerless chin having become the butt of the latest jests, ‘you’ll be going home to a new child, won’t you, Albert? You might find you have a son this time.’

‘Or another daughter.’ Albert rolled his eyes comically. ‘Four daughters is more than enough for any man. I’ve no need of more!’

‘They do say if you father four daughters in a row, no matter how many more children you father they’ll all be daughters,’ Tom commented, raising his glass to drain the last of his whisky.

‘Pfoh! Old wives’ tales!’ Dan said in scoffing tones. ‘It’s like rolling a dice. You can roll it a dozen times and turn up an odd number every
time, but if you keep rolling it, eventually it turns up an even.’

‘For pity’s sake, don’t wish a dozen daughters on me before I get a son, Dan!’ Albert exclaimed. Seeing Tom set an empty glass on the table, he drained his.

Following suit, Richard drank the last of his whisky, then dug his hand into his pocket and brought out some silver coins. Turning his hand over, he deposited them in the middle of the table. ‘Buy another round of whisky, will you, Dan,’ he said. After this he would be on his way.