Salting the Wound (20 page)

‘Draw a chart up? Since when have you known anything about stars?’

‘He who must not be mentioned in your presence taught me about them. We sat up on deck and it was pitch dark except for the stars. The sky was enchanting. The nameless one told me a story about each star. I think he made half the tales up, though. I fell asleep on his shoulder.’

‘I imagine he must have bored you.’

‘Far from it. If I were a man I should like nothing better than to sail around the world in command of my own sailing ship. It was wonderful, and I’ll never forget it.’

Charlotte scoffed, ‘You always did believe Nick’s tall tales. You’re a dreamer, Marianne. You think people are better than they are.’

‘And you never see the beauty in life, and you always look for the worst in people.’

‘That’s because they usually display their worst. Oh, I know I come across as sharp and self-centred, but I had to fight with our father for things we both needed when we were growing up. He was always making promises that he didn’t keep. Men do. Sometimes we didn’t have enough to eat because he’d lost money at the card table. The only person I ever felt I could trust was you.’

Guilt sat heavily on Marianne’s shoulders for a moment. ‘What about Seth?’

‘What about him?’

‘Don’t you trust him too?’

Charlotte laughed and a cushion hit her in the back as she left. ‘Mind your own business.’

T
hey’d limped into Williamstown Harbour with the pumps manned, making hardly any headway, and with
Samarand
waddling from side to side like a fat sow on the way to market with a dozen piglets hanging off her teats. Her extra cargo of salty water sloshed knee high in the hold.

Luckily, the cargo was household goods, and the sea water hadn’t been there long enough to do much damage. Unloading the ship didn’t take long. Afterwards, Nick went below himself with some of the crew holding lanterns aloft to find where the water was coming in.

The water stank as he and his companions edged carefully along the seam. The leak was the worse place possible, the seam between the keel and the planking – aptly named the devil, needed sealing again. He cursed his uncle once again that the bottom hadn’t been coppered. The same seam had been caulked in Boston. It would have to be done again. Luckily, the gap hadn’t spread.

While he was down there he inspected the main mast for worm. It sounded a little hollow, as did the keel in a couple of places. All he could do was paint the patches with white lead to kill whatever was eating the ship out from under him. It had got them here, and no doubt it would get them back as long as he patched her up.

He remembered the first mate touching bottom in Poole Harbour, and cursed. The seam must have been weakened then. He should have inspected her before they left, the Australian run was hazardous enough without sailing on a ship that wasn’t seaworthy.

They couldn’t work on her underwater. They’d have to careen her to get at the seam this time. It was a job none would relish, so he said, ‘The devil needs paying again. We’ll have to careen her this time, and there will be a bonus when we get back home for those who volunteer.’

Several of the men stepped forward – a couple of them avoided his eyes and exchanged a glance. Nick suspected they intended to jump ship and join the Victorian gold rush. Not before the caulking was done, if he had anything to say about it. He’d keep an eye on them. ‘You two can help as well.’

They beached her in a nearby bay, tethering her to a pole while the tide went out. She looked vulnerable with her bottom showing and covered in marine growth. Nick discovered other seams that were suspect, but they could patch her up. Quickly, the sailors began to tightly pack oakum into her seams, using marlin spikes. The tar was heated over a fire on the beach. He didn’t want to wait for the next tide to inspect the other side, but his impatience was overcome by the thought that he was responsible for the safety of his crew, as well as himself.

By the time two tides has come and gone,
Samarand
was as watertight as she’d ever been. They sailed her back to the berth, pumped the remaining water from her and began to take on cargo for the homeward leg – 3,000 bales of wool.

Like most of the clippers, Nick was taking the great circle route via the South West Cape. If they survived the icebergs and made it through the roaring forties and around Cape Horn they’d enter Drake Passage. Once through that it would be a simple matter to navigate the Atlantic and home.

He hoped Aria was managing. He smiled at the thought of her, just one diminutive woman that his heart cherished. He could picture her as though she was still with him. She was different to the other women he’d known, a resourceful little baggage. He marvelled that she’d been in his life for years, and he’d only just found her.

He took out the tiny painting of her as a girl and opened the locket to read the message. Marianne Dearly Beloved. He knew the message had been intended from mother to daughter in the first place. But it must have been her most precious possession, and Aria had given it to him as a keepsake while they were apart. The thought that she might have fallen in love with him, warmed him. He ran a finger over the glass containing the keepsake of her baby hair, then kissed the locket and pinned it back inside his pocket. He didn’t want to lose it, and the three months it would take before he saw her again seemed a long, long time.

He sailed short-handed, having lost four of the crew to the gold rush. He put Sam under the tutelage of the most experienced seaman, with strict instructions that the lad was not allowed into the shrouds while the ship was under way.

Nick smiled at Sam’s disappointed face. Nick’s uncle had sent him up the mast when he’d been about the same age, and he’d been so looking forward to it. The weather had been calm and when he’d looked down, the ship had been shaped like a small coffin. He’d been swaying back and forth on a long, thin pole that supported a large span of sails with an unimaginable weight to them and a power that owed all to the mercy of the winds and the expertise of the man standing below at the helm.

He’d been so scared by the thought that he’d been unable to move, and at the same time had realized a healthy respect for his uncle.

Someone had gone up to help him come down, but just as his feet touched the deck and he’d got over his fright, his uncle had said. ‘Up you go again, lad. This time you’ll either come down by yourself or you’ll stay up there until we get back in port.’

He’d done it, his stomach in his mouth, the contents churning and his knees shaking with fright. The crew had cheered him on and when the deck was solid under his feet again, and his legs had nearly given out from under him, because they’d felt like jelly, Erasmus had patted him on the shoulder, said, ‘Well done, lad, I’ll make a seaman of you yet.’ Erasmus had walked off, leaving him feeling as though he was ten feet tall.

Only then had Nick allowed himself to be sick, but downwind, as he’d been told. It had suddenly occurred to him then that he’d have to learn his craft the hard way, the same as everyone else. But this was not the career he’d have chosen for himself.

They’d hardly cleared three miles when disaster struck. It was sudden. A king wave appeared and roared down on them, a magnificent, terrifying and crippling creature with dark core and a jaunty feather on its cap, a wind-whipped foam-tipped curl that Nick had never seen the like of before. He took a few seconds to admire it before he feared it.

Samarand
usually cut through the waves like a buttered knife, but the weight of this one towered over the bow then crushed them, swallowing them, sails and all. When they came staggering out of the all-engulfing cataract the ship was almost standing on her stern, and Nick, who’d clung, white-knuckled, to the nearest rope, began to slide down the deck, taking whatever he was attached to with him. A second wave reared over them. Knowing the ship was about to capsize, he released the rope. It was attached to the ship like an umbilical cord to an infant. Nick didn’t want to be tangled in it when it was dragged under.

There was a splintering of wood and a ripping sound as
Samarand
’s masts and rigging were torn away. Nick was tossed about in the frothing water like a rag doll in the jaws of a dog, and battered painfully by small and large objects alike. Carried away by another wave he was hurled through the air into a trough, where he landed on something solid that drove the breath from his body. It was a raft of some sort . . . the hatch cover!

His fingers scrabbled for purchase and hooked over the edge, while his toes practically dug a hole in the wood. Hurtled at breakneck speed to the top of the next swell he was spun around. He saw the clipper, keel uppermost, her planks a splintered gaping hole. Then she was there no more, borne under by the sodden wool, leaving a dirty, turbulent patch in the water as the remaining air belched from her. At least she hadn’t turned over on top of him.

Oddly, the ship’s dinghy bobbed about in an assortment of the debris. What luck! He couldn’t allow it to get away. He waved an arm and shouted at it to stop, feeling ridiculous when it didn’t. He began to paddle his raft after it, because the dinghy appeared to be unmanned. A body floated by, face down. The cook! Nick hauled Red out of the water by his hair, turned him on his stomach and pressed. Water spurted out and the man groaned, then vomited. Swooping in a deep breath he opened his eyes. ‘Thank God it’s you, Captain. Did you ever see the like of that water? I never learned to swim, and thought I was a goner.’

‘We’re not out of danger yet, and I haven’t got time to look after you, so hurry up and gather your wits together.’ Nick pulled his boots off. ‘Guard these with your life. I’m going to see if I can get the dinghy . . . and make sure you keep your eyes on me, so we don’t get separated. Did you understand that, Red?’

‘Yes, Captain. Don’t you worry about me; nothing will keep us apart while you still owe me my wages.’

Nick chuckled, then he dived into the water. In a little while he was pulling himself up over the side of the dinghy. To his relief, Sam was lying in the water in the bottom, shaking with cold, or was it fright?

Nick couldn’t afford the time to mince words. ‘Are you injured?’

‘No, Captain, a crack on the head, that’s all.’

‘Good . . . so stop feeling sorry for yourself and look lively, lad. Keep an eye out for other survivors while we go back for Red.’

Sam scrambled to do what he was told, his eyes mirroring relief at finding somebody else still alive to tell him what to do.

The last time Nick had sailed this dinghy had been in the calm waters of Poole Harbour. Aria had been waiting for him and they’d made glorious love under the trees. He pressed his palm against his waistcoat and checked that he still had secure the keepsake she’d given him that day. He lifted the mast, pleased to find that the small sail was still intact. When the wind filled it he brought her round to where Red was waving his bandanna, and took him aboard.

They sailed around and picked up a few things they thought might be useful: a stone jug full of ginger beer, a torn sail with a rope attached that would serve to give them shelter if needed, and a tin can with a handle.

They saw bodies, none of which would ever breathe again, and left them to the sea that had claimed them. Most of his crew would either have been in the rigging or trapped in the hull. Their shouts across the water brought no answers. The crew had sailed together for several years and the other two survivors bowed their heads when Nick said a short prayer for the drowned souls.

Afterwards, Red said, ‘Which way is the land?’

‘A compass would be handy. There’s a lot of water out here.’

Sam fished inside his pocket and offered Nick a brass pocket compass of the type usually given to boys for birthdays by fond uncles. It had a small magnifying glass attached that swung out. Nick had received one just like it from his uncle when he was ten. When Erasmus had quizzed him on the compass points two months later, luckily Nick had possessed a good memory to see him through.

He grinned when Sam appeared slightly apologetic at the offering. He was still young enough to indulge in hero worship, and he flushed with pride when Nick said, ‘Well done, Sam, first the dinghy, now this. You may have saved our lives. If we weren’t in such dire straits I’d give you your first navigation lesson as a reward.’

Keeping the tiller under his arm while he gazed at the needle quivering towards the north, Nick brought their little boat about and pointed her bow to where the land should be. She was slow to respond.

‘Bale the water out of the dinghy and try and keep it down, Sam.’

‘How?’

‘Anyway you can. Hands . . . cap . . . whatever’s available.’

Red smiled at the lad. ‘We’ll use the captain’s boots here. I’ll help, between us we’ll make short work of it.’

‘Make sure you don’t lose one, else you’ll be swimming after it,’ Nick threatened.

The dinghy responded to the weight of water being removed, and soon their little craft was skimming over the water.

It was two days before they washed ashore, woken by the sound of surf. Their lips were cracked and dry from lack of water and exposure to the sun, and they were exhausted. They’d been carried up the coast, now they were in danger of foundering on some rocks. Turning the valiant little boat around, Nick managed to take her out beyond the breakers.

‘There’s a gap,’ Sam croaked, his finger stabbing at an impossibly narrow, but smooth stretch of water.

‘Hold tight gentlemen.’ Steering the ship into the current Nick dropped the mast. His aim was unerring. Scraping over the hidden barrier of rocks below them, they were pushed through the gap by the force of water behind them, and floated with the decreasing turbulence into a small cove of calm water beyond. Water began to bubble up through split planks and Nick swore. They’d been shipwrecked for the second time in as many days.

With their remaining strength, they pulled their battered craft up the beach. Nick gazed regretfully at it. ‘Even if we had the tools, she’s damaged beyond repair.’