We make slow progress, not much more than a few knots above drifting, always heading due west. Rowdy and the Bosun work furiously trying to keep the makeshift sail filled with wind. The rest of us do our best to cut away all the shattered timbers and clean up the mess of rope and canvas and all the other damage. All the while, the Cossack luggers sit near the horizon, trailing us like dingoes hunting an injured bandicoot.
Day after day drags on and a whole week passes. I stand at the top of the ratlines again, hanging on with one hand. In my other, I have the Captain’s binoculars. ‘Captain!’ I call, but he is nowhere to be seen. ‘Bosun Stevenson!’
He looks up to where I am perched like a monkey.
‘They’re turning back. All except one.’
The Captain must have heard me as he runs up the steps from his cabin.
‘Heading due east. No, a few degrees south of east,’ I call.
‘Heading home, eh. Alright, Red, come down.’
I reach the deck in seconds and hand the Captain his binoculars.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea of our position,’ says Bosun Stevenson, sounding embarrassed.
‘And how could you, Bosun? Me either,’ answers the Captain, ‘with the chronometer smashed, and no landmarks. I took a sun setting at midday and estimate we are about twelve degrees latitude, but that is as much as I know.’
It is just before dawn the next day and the sun not yet visible, though the sky glows red behind us. There is a slight breeze pushing us forward, but the sea is almost as calm as a millpond.
‘Everyone on deck! Now!’ the Captain suddenly yells, his voice loud and urgent.
Mr Smith is on the tiller and has pushed it as far to the right as he can. He looks anxious, clutching the spar tightly. Bosun Stevenson slashes the rope holding the cross spar, and the spar and sail tumble to the deck with a loud crash. Several of the crew from below deck rush up the ladder and look about. Why the urgency? It is such a calm night. Sam Chi, who has been in the galley preparing breakfast, takes moments longer. He still wears his apron, something he never usually does on deck.
I turn towards the bow. There is a large dark shape directly ahead, silhouetted against the sky, only a few hundred yards away, but it is still too dark to see clearly.
Usually, you can see waves on a reef. White in the moonlight. Not tonight. ‘Brace yourselves!’ the Captain yells.
Seconds later, the Dragon shudders violently. We have hit something. It is unlike anything I’ve felt while onboard. A low groan, long and disturbing and almost sad, rumbles beneath us as the reef of jagged coral tears at the hull. Timbers crack and split open, and I hear the roar of water gushing in. It is as if the very heart is being ripped out of the Dragon. I clutch at a stay with both hands as the bow rises and the deck suddenly leans sharply backwards. Heartbreakingly slowly, the beautiful ship grinds to a halt, her keel almost certainly broken. I am so shocked I can hardly breathe.
The bow is trapped on the coral reef, the long bowsprit pointing skywards. A few minutes later, I can see, two hundred yards or so ahead, a white beach glistening in the first rays of sunlight across the shallows. A dense forest of jungle and palm trees is behind that, and to the left, almost out of sight, I glimpse a building and a jetty. I look closer. The building is rusty and derelict, and the pier has undoubtedly not been used in years. The pylons are green with slime, and several are missing, apparently collapsed into the sea.
A small wave crashes over the hull, and I turn as best as I can with the steep angle beneath my feet to see that the deck at the stern is entirely underwater. Stranded like a turtle and broken, the proud Dragon is a forlorn sight.
One of the heavyweight starboard cannons breaks free and careens wildly down the deck. Mesmerised, I watch it smash everything it hits. It quickly splashes into the water at the stern, just missing Mr Smith who still clutches the makeshift tiller and who is now up to his waist in swirling water.
No, something is not right with him. ‘Mr Smith!’ I shout loudly, but he doesn’t answer.
He is slumped over the oar at his waist, his head and arms lolling in the water. He is unconscious, or even dead. Instantly, I let go the forestay. My feet shoot out from under me, and I slide down the slippery deck. I bang my head. It hurts, but I don’t have time to think about it. ‘Captain!’ I yell, ‘Mr Smith!’
The Dragon is one hundred and one feet long, and the last twenty feet are underwater. The deck is wet, and I can feel myself sliding out of control, so I twist around. I’m on my back, slipping feet first for the whole length. I plunge into the sea and immediately swallow enough to drown me. I scramble back to my feet, reach up and grab hold of the tiller. I clutch hold of Mr Smith’s collar and pull his head out of the water. Luckily, he coughs several times, so I know he is not dead, but he collapses backwards, again into the swirling mess of water, ropes and rubbish.
I lift him again, but this time I manage to hold him to keep his face out of the water even though my feet slip and slide about.
‘Red!’ The Captain also slides down the deck. He too splashes into the sea, and, in seconds, he is beside me and holding up Mr Smith’s limp body.
‘Over the stern, Red. Swim for it,’ he says. With one hand each we pull Mr Smith out over the stern rail and into the sea and kick and pull ourselves one-handed out and back towards the island. An outcrop of coral is above the shallows. Luckily, the waves are tiny, and we get there quickly.
We are surrounded by rock pools, but there is enough of the dry coral to lay Mr Smith on his back on the flattest bit of reef we can find. He coughs several more times, but his head still falls back. He must have had a whack to the head. Anything could have hit him as debris flew everywhere when we hit the reef.
Bosun Stevenson and the rest of the crew all hold grimly onto the side rail or lengths of rope to stop themselves sliding down the steep sloping deck into the sea.
‘The ladder, Red, can you see it?’ calls the Bosun down to me. ‘Is it still there?’
I look up. The ladder hangs over the edge of the hull, which is lucky as the deck is too high above the coral for anyone to leap off the deck to the outcrop. There is only a small jump down from the bottom rung though. I suppose they could slip into the sea at the stern and swim ashore as well, but it will mean sliding down the deck like I did and that is dangerous. There is no hope of using the ship’s dinghy. Its stern is entirely mangled, making the craft look like a carpenter’s scrap pile. In fact, the whole ship is a huge mess. Ropes and canvas are strewn everywhere, one cannon carriage is overturned and is caught up in a tangle of sheets. Jagged holes have punctured the hull so that daylight shines through. It is almost as if a giant had viciously stamped his boot down on the Dragon, splintering and smashing it.
One by one, the crew climb down the ladder and drop onto the coral outcrop. Most turn and gaze back at our ship. She still groans gloomily as water pours in, filling the stern and, inch by inch, pulling her back towards the deeper water.
I can barely believe my eyes, shocked at seeing our Dragon like this.
Captain Bowen is first to speak. I am surprised that he doesn’t sound angry, as I would have expected. By rights, he should be furious. He looks about, obviously counting to make sure we are all there, and then quietly says, as if just asking for a cup of tea, or even the time of day, ‘The wreckers’ revenge, eh? Those Cossacks don’t even know the meaning of the word. But they are certainly going to learn it. They are going to wish they hadn’t done this. They will live just long enough to regret this day, but no longer. Not a minute longer.’ His voice is like ice.
No one says anything.
The Captain continues, ‘O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! Revenge should have no bound, and in our case, it will not,’ he whispers coldly.
I don’t understand how he can say that with such certainty. Here we are on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean, miles from anywhere, with little hope of rescue and no water or food. It is possible there could even be cannibals lurking in that dark jungle only two hundred yards away, and we could very well be the food. I look back over my shoulder just a little nervously. And even if we can survive starvation or some of us being eaten, the odds are high that the wreckers will be back, well-armed, to try and finish us off for good.
Mr Stevenson nods in agreement. ‘It may take us a little while now with the Dragon worser for wear, but it will happen.’ He smiles wickedly and draws his finger across his throat like a dagger.
Worse for wear? The Dragon is utterly destroyed.
‘You think they’ll be back, Captain?’ asks Sam Chi.
‘Most certainly, Sam,’ he replies. ‘It’ll take them about a week to get back to Cossack and restock with those cannonballs and powder and water and supplies, and a week or so to get back here, so we have that long to get ready for them. They are going to sail back into the biggest surprise of their soon-to-be short lives. Every single one of the poisonous, bunch-backed toads.’ He looks up again at the now battered and worthless hull of the Dragon. ‘Damn their eyes. Curse them. I curse every bone in their miserable, pox-ridden bodies.’