The dawn was a fine one – a calm sea, and the promise of a sunny day. We all knew we had no time to waste repairing the ship, and making good our escape. During the course of the day Middlewych was everywhere – encouraging, cajoling, hounding and praising. By eight bells that afternoon we had rigged up a jury foremast. With that, and our tattered mizzenmast, we set all sails to return home to England.
In the evening Middlewych gave orders for the cook to prepare the best feast he could muster. But it was a sorry affair. Much of our food had been ruined by the rising waters in the hold. In fact, it was lucky there were so few of us left to feed, otherwise we may have had to make a dangerous return to Gibraltar to reprovision. There was to be no extra grog either – we would not be making the same mistake as our Spanish friends, and celebrating too much too soon. The thirty or so prisoners we took when we regained our ship were kept confined to the Captain’s cabin. The guards who stood watching them at the open doors were changed every hour. There on the gun deck we also took the precaution of setting up a carronade filled with grapeshot. This was constantly manned and pointed straight at an open door to the Captain’s cabin.
Despite our repairs, the Miranda was a shadow of her former self – especially with our mainmast still missing. The timbers at the side of the ship had been particularly badly damaged. Now there was a constant need for men to man the pumps to keep the water in the hold from rising further. Here we made use of our prisoners in this task – letting them out two at a time from the Captain’s cabin. Middlewych ensured their cooperation by telling them that if they didn’t work they would not eat. Most of the Spaniards seemed to be grateful to still be alive. Like us, most had been compelled to serve on their ships. As long as they behaved, we bore them no ill will.
The wind blew in our favour, and we made good speed. Within days, as the Miranda sailed north, we could feel the weather getting cooler. But that return journey was a melancholy one. With so many dead or taken prisoner, the mess seemed three-quarters empty. Still, it had its compensations. Officers and midshipmen mingled more freely with the ratings, and I learned a little more about Robert Neville. The voyage had been the making of him, and it was difficult now to imagine he had ever been the snivelling boy I had once watched being reprimanded by his uncle. Lieutenant Spencer had survived the battle, but had been one of those taken off on the Gerona. Robert fretted about him to me. He was fond of his uncle, despite the Lieutenant’s harsh words. I learned too that Robert’s family were wealthy, influential people. His father, Viscount Neville, held a senior position at the Admiralty.
When time allowed, Robert taught me some of his seafaring skills. I learned how to use a sextant to calculate the ship’s position on a map, and how the constellations could be used to establish our direction. Robert was full of fascinating information, which he was keen to share. In me he found a willing pupil. Although my father had encouraged me to take an interest in the world, and develop what he termed ‘a well-furnished mind’, he had a blind spot when it came to science. Especially any scientific discovery which conflicted with his religious beliefs.
Robert’s father, in contrast, was especially interested in the new science of geology. He loved to poke around in the ground, studying fossils and the varying layers of soil and rock beneath the surface of the land. Most of all, said Robert, he loved to debate the nature of the formation of the Earth. Before he went to sea, Robert had sat at the family dining table listening to his father’s friends and relations discuss these very topics, and what he had to say filled me with curiosity. Why was it, they would argue, that the remains of ancient sea creatures could be found on top of high mountains such as those of the Alps?
‘I could tell you that,’ I said. ‘They were swept up there during the great flood, when God covered the Earth with water.’
‘Yes,’ said Robert. ‘That’s what my Uncle Henry says. But then, he would. He’s Bishop of Chichester. You and him, you’re what we call Neptunists.’ I was flattered to be placed alongside a bishop. Then Robert went on, ‘Uncle Henry believes the world was created exactly as it is – mountains, hills, rivers and valleys – all in the first week of creation.’
‘So do I,’ I chimed in. ‘Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. On the third day of creation, in fact. It’s all there in the first book of Genesis.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Robert impatiently. ‘And they say if anything has changed then it’s due to the action of the seas during times of great flooding. But there’s another school of thought here. My father and I, we’re Plutonists.
‘We think that volcanoes and earthquakes, and the wind and the rain and the sea, all change the face of the planet. We think that the mountains with the fossils of sea creatures at the top used to be part of the sea bed, and they’ve risen up. All of this, though, has taken place over an extremely long period of time. Hundreds of thousands, or perhaps millions, of years . . .’
I couldn’t agree with him. ‘But Reverend Chatham told us the world was created in 4004BC, on Sunday 23rd October. So it’s less than six thousand years old. So that puts paid to your explanation.’
‘That’s another argument altogether,’ said Robert. He was beginning to sound impatient. ‘That’s the case if you want to take the Bible literally. My father would argue that the Book of Genesis is an allegory.’
‘A what?’ said I.
‘It’s not meant to be taken literally. I believe in the same God as you, Witchall, but I think some parts of the Bible are open to interpretation.’ Robert was getting impatient, and determined to have the final word. ‘“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”’
I felt quite baffled.
‘It’s Hamlet , Witchall. Y’ know, Shakespeare? He’s the fellow who came up with the name of our ship.’
I didn’t. Shakespeare was another world too. Robert was losing me fast. He did annoy me when he made me feel stupid.
Luck was with us throughout that journey. The wind blew fair, and no pirates, privateers or enemy frigates crossed our path. We would have been the easiest prize in the Atlantic Ocean. Eventually, on the morning of 14th February 1801, Lizard Point, on the southern tip of Cornwall, came into view. Our home shore, and Valentine’s Day too! This seemed like a good omen. As we crowded on to the larboard side of the deck to peer through the haze at the far-off coast, I could see the delight and relief on everyone’s faces.
Our home port of Portsmouth was only a couple of days’ sailing away, but Middlewych decided it would be safer to head for Plymouth, which was much nearer. Perhaps now we only had one more day at sea. I finally allowed myself to believe that I would soon be seeing my family and Rosie again. I’d never felt happier.
It didn’t last. When I mentioned this to Robert, he gave me a wry smile. ‘I don’t think the Navy will let you go, Sam.’
I knew he was going to say something that would crush my spirit. He usually called me Witchall, as I called him Mr Neville. I thought of him as ‘Robert’ and it seemed odd for me to have to address a boy no more than a year or two older than me in this formal way, but such were the traditions of the Royal Navy.
Robert continued: ‘If you’re pressed, you have to remain on your ship until it pays off, or you’re turned over to another ship. They may let you go when the war is over – although heaven knows when that may be.’
‘But don’t I get shore leave?’ I said, feeling my face grow hot with anger.
‘I’m amazed that you never discussed this with your messmates,’ he replied.
‘I never thought to ask about it.’
Robert sighed. ‘Men aren’t usually allowed to leave their ship, never mind go home and be expected to come back. The Navy is afraid they’ll just disappear. As soon as we get back to Portsmouth we’ll all be transferred to other Navy ships while the Miranda is given a refit.’
I felt a numb disappointment for the rest of the morning. The elements, too, conspired to match my mood. The sky darkened and rain began to fall in sheets. Soon after we passed Lizard Point, it became obvious that we were heading into the teeth of a storm.
When the wind picked up, sails were ripped from the yards as we struggled to furl them. With only sixty of us left, and all weary from the voyage, the ship seemed too big for us to handle. Left completely at the mercy of wind and tide, the Miranda began to drift perilously close to the rocky shore.
All of the crew had more to do than any one man could be expected to achieve. We raced from side to side, drenched by the storm and exhausted by our failing efforts. The Miranda’s four heavy anchors were dropped in a bid to halt our fatal drift. The rolling and pitching of the ship put an enormous strain on the anchor cables. As late afternoon faded to dusk these cables groaned as if under torture. Soon after dark there was an horrendous splintering of wood and cable as first one anchor, and then the others, parted company with the ship.
In a final frantic effort to regain control of our ship, Middlewych ordered the guns and stores thrown into the sea. The task of casting loose these two-ton guns, and letting them smash through the side of the ship as it heaved to and fro, was exhausting and dangerous, and two men were crushed. Theirs was a gruesome death, and Dr Claybourne had only brandy to ease their final moments.
Lighter stores followed the guns. The ship’s spare sails, spars, ropes – anything we could bring up from the rapidly flooding hold – were hurled overboard.
During the night, in howling wind and sheets of rain, the ship shuddered and lurched, throwing us all to the deck. We had been driven aground a hundred yards from the shore. Soon after, the rudder tore off with a sickening splinter. Yardarms crashed to the deck, then our recently repaired foremast toppled into the sea. I was grateful it had lasted that long. Just as scurvy attacks the body’s frail points, opening up old wounds healed long before, so the sea did its worst to our ship. The Miranda began to break up, as tons of water tormented her weakened hull. Carpenters’ repairs burst open against the pressure of the waves. Water cascaded into the interior, and the ship’s pumps could no longer hold the rising torrent. Soon the hold was submerged, and stinking black water oozed, sloshed, then poured up the stairwells to the mess deck, filling it to a waterline that rose and fell with the tide. At dusk on 15th February, Middlewych called for all hands to abandon ship.
Before we made our preparations to leave, Robert and I accompanied the Lieutenant to the Captain’s quarters. When the storm had begun, all hands had been called to help save the ship. The prisoners had been locked into the cabin, with no men spare to guard them. Middlewych turned the key in the lock, expecting the prisoners to rush forward to escape. But instead, we found them sitting defeated on the floor – all seasick and pale with fear. Middlewych spoke quickly with their commanding officer. The two men shook hands, and the Spanish officer turned to address his men.
As he spoke, Middlewych turned to Robert. ‘I’ve told him they’re to try to reach the shore as best they can, then surrender themselves to the authorities. He’s given me his word as a gentleman that he will order his men to give themselves up. I can’t see any other way around it. The alternative is to kill them, and I don’t have the heart to do that.’
Soon after, a group of us tried to lower the longboat into the boiling sea. The ship’s other boats had been lost in the storm or crushed by falling yards. Middlewych had given orders that men who could not swim were to have priority on the boat. But before anyone could clamber aboard it was swept away by a huge wave, and overturned. There was nothing else to do now but to take our chances in the water.
During these last few hours I had often thought of Ben. What would he be doing? What advice or comfort would he have to offer? Now anarchy reigned. Discipline had collapsed.
I told Richard what I had seen. ‘I suppose the men’ve given up hope of getting home alive,’ he said. ‘They’re determined to die happy. Either that, or they’re trying to give themselves enough Dutch courage to take to the water.’
In those final minutes aboard, a thought hit me like a thunderbolt. If I could get away from the ship, then I could get away from the Navy! If I survived, then I would be free from this floating prison. There would be nothing to stop me from heading for home. I pushed the notion to the back of my mind. For now, there were too many ‘ifs’ to consider . . .
As the ship emptied, we grabbed whatever objects we thought would help us make our way to the shore. I found myself on the quarterdeck with Silas and Richard. They looked as desperate as I felt. We were all numb from the cold, and worn out by our struggle to save the ship.
Standing over a fallen yardarm, I shouted at Richard over the noise of the storm, ‘Help me cut a piece off this!’ He nodded, and as we began to hack away with boarding axes, Silas joined us.
‘I’m going to get home, and so are you two,’ he told us with some determination. ‘We’ve not been through all this just to die in sight of a friendly shore. Now let’s lash some rope to this yard, so we’ve got something to hang on to.’
Over the chaos of the storm I heard a plaintive whine. It was Bouncer – so drenched and bedraggled his fur hung tight and soaking round his body.
‘What are we going to do with the cat?’ I shouted.
Silas had an idea. ‘Put him in a chest and set him off to the shore. He’ll drown if any of us try to carry him.’ So that we did – there were plenty of wooden chests to choose from, and I chose Ben’s. Inside were his spare set of clothes and some meagre possessions. It brought a lump to my throat. Here were a few letters from his wife, Caitlin. Neither of them could read or write, so they kept in touch with letters written and read by friends. Ben never let me read or write his letters. This was a part of his life he wanted to keep to himself. Also there in the chest was a silhouette portrait of Caitlin which Ben had treasured, and a model ship he was making for his son. That was all he left to the world. I’d hoped to find his wife’s double-heart brooch, which he carried as a good luck charm. But that was probably lying with him at the bottom of the sea.
I flattened down the clothes, dropped Bouncer in, then put the letters, silhouette and boat back in too. If the chest did reach the shore, maybe someone would return these possessions to Ben’s family?
We lowered the chest into the sea and watched the waves carry it away.
‘Let’s be away ourselves,’ said Silas. By now the Miranda was listing badly, and the larboard side of the quarterdeck was almost level with the sea. All three of us dragged over our piece of yardarm, and prepared to launch ourselves into the chilly water. Then, among the few frantic souls still aboard the ship, I noticed Robert Neville, standing as best he could on the sloping quarterdeck.
‘Mr Neville, are you not leaving the ship?’ I yelled in astonishment.
‘Never was a great one for the water, Witchall,’ he replied. Then his composure cracked a little. ‘Sam, I can’t swim. I’m going to stay here until the storm abates, and take my chances then.’
Silas joined us. ‘Bollocks to that,’ he said. ‘This ship is breaking up. You’re coming with us.’ With that, he frogmarched the young midshipman down the sloping deck and over to the side of the ship.
And so all four of us slid into the sea and began kicking our legs in the water for all we were worth. I expected it to be extremely chilly, but we were so cold already, it made little difference to us. The last thing I saw on deck was Lieutenant Middlewych trying to persuade some drunken sailors to take their chances in the water. My heart went out to him. He was doing his duty to the end, and I was sure he would not leave the ship until the last man had gone. I hoped in my heart we would see him again, safe on land.
Through driving rain, the silhouette of the rocky shore bobbed in and out of view. Our clothes weighed heavy on our weary limbs, and each exertion required considerable effort. Robert was close to panic. His grip kept slipping from the rope wrapped around the yard. Richard and I did our best to grab hold of him and return him, coughing and spluttering, to the surface.
As we drifted in the waves, hurled high and low in great troughs of water, a strong current picked us up and carried us along the coast. Silas shouted, ‘Just hold on for dear life, lads. Maybe this will carry us to a more friendly-looking shore?’
Then a huge wave crashed down upon us, and I was snatched away from the yardarm and swept beneath the water . . . As I sank deeper my ears began to ache and I was gripped by a fierce terror. The wave had caught me so completely by surprise, I had not even filled my lungs before I went under. Now my chest was aching desperately for air. Almost by instinct, I found myself gulping down great lungfuls of water. So was this what it was like to drown? I flailed beneath the sea, trying to move my legs and arms hard enough to propel me to the surface. But in those dark waters I did not even know which way was up and which was down.
The strength was fast leaving my limbs. Panic subsided and a strange stillness overtook me. I surrendered myself to death and felt at peace with the world. In my mind’s eye I saw myself as a young child, snug with my brother between my mother and father, safe and sound in my parents’ bed.
Then, an undercurrent thrust me unexpectedly to the surface, and there I was again, back in the world of the living – spluttering for air and coughing up huge salty globs of mucus and sea water. Ahead of me was a broken rail from the Miranda’s quarterdeck, and I grabbed at it, clinging on for dear life. My head spun as I felt sick and dizzy. Maybe twenty yards in front of me, I could glimpse Silas and the two boys still clinging on to their yardarm. Richard was shouting, almost in a frenzy, and looking around desperately. His shrieks carried across the waves. ‘SAAAMM!!!! SAAAAMMM!!!’ When I reached the crest of a wave I shouted and shouted, and waved one hand until they spotted me. I kicked my legs hard in the water until I managed to rejoin them.
By now we had been in the water perhaps twenty minutes, and I was so cold I could barely manage to maintain my grip on the wooden rail. But the shore was looming out of the darkness, and salvation was at hand.
‘Come on, you bastards!’ said Silas. ‘We’re nearly there.’
Spluttering through the spray, we gained strength as the shore grew closer. Then, all of a sudden, I felt rough pebbles beneath my feet. It was my first touch of solid ground in six months.
‘We’re almost there!’ I shouted. Then a large wave crashed into my back and threw me face down into the water. I struggled to my feet and broke surface, gasping for air. Just at that moment the backwash caught me and carried me out to sea. As I was thrown back I caught a glimpse of the dark outlines of the other three, now only waist deep in the water and wading towards the beach. Again, panic seized me. Don’t let me die now, please, God. Not when I’m so near to the shore.
Before I was swept under I cried out, and one of the silhouettes turned and began to swim back towards me. ‘Hold on, Sam! Hold on!’ a voice called urgently. It was Richard. As he half-swam, half-waded out to me, another wave picked me up and thrust me nearer to the shore. Now I was so weak I could barely force my frozen limbs to fight against the motion of the tide. Richard grabbed my arm and held me firm as the outgoing water tried to tug me back into the dark sea and certain death.
We staggered out of the water, plodding through the surf, wet clothes dragging us down, and on to the soft wet sand of the beach. We lay there panting for five minutes or more, like gasping fish flailing on the deck of a fishing vessel. But, far from writhing in our death throes, we rolled around in triumph.
‘We did it!’ we shrieked, scarcely believing we had reached dry land.
Up from the beach we could see the lights of a village. We stumbled up the cliff path to the church and banged on the door of the vicarage. A small man wearing spectacles opened the door. He stared in mute astonishment at the four bedraggled figures standing before him. Robert Neville reasserted his authority.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said with ridiculous formality for a boy who looked like a drowned rat. ‘I am the Honourable Robert Neville, and these are my shipmates from His Majesty’s ship Miranda – shipwrecked just now close to Lizard Point. Would you be so kind as to take us in and provide a little warmth and a change of clothing?’
The parson raised his eyebrows. ‘This is the village of Pentherick, young sir. It is in fact some thirty miles further east of Lizard Point.’ We were all astounded by how much further the storm had swept us up the coast.
Our parson was a helpful fellow – or rather, he knew just the people who would help us. I stared past his shoulder with some longing at the blazing fire inside his house, but rather than ask us in he took us at once to the local inn. It was called the Royal Oak. The landlord, he explained on the way, was an old sea salt, who would be pleased to provide for us. Sure enough, our clothes were taken off to dry, and fresh ones provided. They were ill-fitting, but who could possibly grumble? The landlord told us he would gladly provide food, lodging and ale, but would most certainly prevail upon us to tell our extraordinary tale. It seemed a fair exchange.