If Killigrew had had a farthing for every old sea dog who had told him that the sea was like a woman and needed to be respected by those that would earn their living from her, he would have had enough money to buy himself several pounds of sea salt. He could only presume that they had known some pretty frightening women. He had known plenty of women – and men, for that matter – whose wrath could be unnerving, but he had yet to meet the human being whose ire could even begin to match that of an angry sea. If Congreve had been right when he had claimed that Hell had no fury like a woman scorned, then Hell was an afternoon boating on the Thames on a sunny summer’s day compared to a storm at sea.
He had endured cyclones in the Indian Ocean and typhoons in the China Seas, and the one thing his experience had taught him was that the sea did not care if you respected it: when it made up its mind to destroy you, you were going to go down whether you liked it or not.
But there were certain precautions one could take to stave off the worst, and as the sky became overcast and the wind backed from south-east to north the crew of the Leopardo battened down the hatches, cleared the decks, made fast everything that could be made fast, and took in all canvas except the foresail and the main topsail, both of which were close-reefed.
The wind hovered around ten knots – force three on the Beaufort scale, barely a moderate breeze – with a gentle swell running under the Leopardo, but it was the calm before the storm and Killigrew knew it could not last. ‘What do you think?’ Madison asked him and Coffin.
Killigrew knew that a seasoned mariner like Madison would already have made his mind up about what to do next, but was looking for confirmation. ‘It looks like she’s coming up out of the south-east,’ he said. ‘If we’re not careful we’ll get caught in the dangerous quadrant.’ A tropical revolving storm in the northern hemisphere revolved anti-clockwise, and a ship caught in the dangerous quadrant was in danger of being blown into its path.
Coffin nodded without reluctance, his hatred and mistrust of Killigrew and everything to do with him held in abeyance in the face of the coming danger. ‘There’s a slim chance we might make it back to São Tiago, but I wouldn’t risk it. Best we run with the weather and try to get on her good side. If she catches us all we can do is turn into the seas and hope for the best.’
Madison nodded. ‘Steer south-west,’ he told the helmsman. ‘Better break out the oilskins,’ he added to Duarte. ‘When this bitch hits she’s going to hit fast and heavy.’
Even though Killigrew was on the lookout for clues to the coming storm’s ferocity, he was caught out by the abruptness with which the sky turned dark. All of a sudden leaden clouds boiled up out of the south-east, and the first spots of rain fell on the sea, fat drops which pattered heavily on the oilskins they all wore. The sky was so dark it might have been twilight, although it was barely five o’clock and at that time of year in those latitudes it should still have been bright. Then the wind hit them, snapping at the sails and driving the rain hard against their backs. The creaking of the timbers grew ever louder as the masts and spars laboured under the incessant pressure, and the wind screamed through the thrumming rigging.
‘Reduce sail,’ ordered Coffin. ‘Reefed foresail and reefed mainstay sail only.’
The wind increased steadily over the next two hours while the sky grew blacker. The gravid clouds were so low it seemed as if one only had to shin to the very top of the mainmast and reach up to touch them. The Leopardo scudded along with the wind full behind her. At first the gentle swell seemed unaffected and the brig rode the waves easily, but by seven o’clock the seas increased in size and she started to pitch. Killigrew watched the compass and the dog-vane: when the wind started to come from due north he would know they were clear of the dangerous quadrant.
The wind whipped Killigrew’s oilskins against his limbs and forced him to lean back into it to maintain his balance. Its noise rose to an ear-splitting shriek for a while and then all at once fell to a low, eerie moaning, although its speed continued to rise: sixty knots gusting to ninety, force twelve – a hurricane.
‘Furl those staysails!’ Madison had to shout through his speaking trumpet to make himself heard above the wind. Killigrew was not the most imaginative of men, but even he could not help thinking it sounded like the souls of mariners drowned at sea singing a dirge for those soon to join them. As the hands struggled to furl the staysails, one of them was ripped from its fastenings and whipped out to sea. A stay slashed across the face of one of the topmen and he fell to the deck with a scream which was sharply cut short.
‘Cut it loose!’ Coffin roared to the men trying to furl the other staysail. They would lose that one too, but better that than lose the whole mast. The topmen gladly complied and climbed down from the rigging.
The man who had fallen to the deck was not dead. Duarte ordered two of the men to take him down below to Pereira in the sick bay, although what that gentleman was supposed to do for the seaman – whose back was clearly broken – was beyond Killigrew.
The seas rose to forty feet and started to break over the Leopardo’s stern. Killigrew braced himself as the water on the deck surged between his legs. It ran out through the scuppers, but not quickly enough for his liking. ‘All hands to the bilge pump!’ he ordered.
As the seas increased in height they came closer together, thus steepening between crest and trough. As each wave broke over the brig’s stern she laboured to rise over the crest. As the waves passed under her she slipped easily down the back of the wave, her stern pounding the trough with a shudder which ran the whole length of the ship; then the next sea would break over her and they would go through it again, each time worse than the last. There was nothing they could do now but keep pumping out the bilges, hang on for dear life, and pray.
Forked lightning shattered the sky, like bright limelight behind cracked, black-painted glass, but the rumble of thunder was masked by the wind’s ululating threnody. The gale blew the rain at such an angle it was impossible to tell where the rain ended and the spume began. Water foamed and boiled across the deck. After a while it did not even break, remaining grey as it slid waist-deep the length of the ship. Killigrew could only marvel that such a delicate vessel still floated under the onslaught, although he knew it was only a matter of time.
He began to consider the possibility of his imminent death. He found he could face it with an equanimity which surprised him. He felt a pang at the thought of never seeing Eulalia again in this world, but apart from that he had little to lose. He thought of the Chinese he had met, with their philosophy of ‘joss’: either he would survive the storm, or he wouldn’t – it was as simple as that. There was little he could do about it and no point whatsoever in worrying: now his fate was in the hands of the gods.
The Leopardo was lifted on another crest and exposed to the full fury of the wind. It was like a living thing, full of rage and hatred and determined to sink this ship which defied its capricious will. It slammed into Killigrew’s body and would have knocked him off his feet if he had not been gripping the rail tightly. He heard a shout behind him and turned his head, tears coming at once to his eyes as the wind stung them.
Coffin had raised his face to the black, lightning-slashed sky and shook his fist at it. As the brig slipped down into the next trough, sheltering them from the worst of the wind, Killigrew could just catch his words: ‘Come on, you bastard! Do your worst! I’m ready for ye!’
‘Don’t you think that’s rather asking for trouble?’ Killigrew asked with a wan smile. But Coffin could not hear him above the noise.
Incredibly, conditions worsened. More incredibly, the Leopardo stayed afloat. But she could not take much more of this pounding. Killigrew remembered an old rhyme he had heard as a child from the fishermen of Falmouth: ‘Long foretold, long last; short notice, soon past.’ Experience had taught him there was truth in those words whether one encountered a storm off Lizard Point or a typhoon in the South China Sea. This tornado had risen quickly, yet after four hours it still showed no sign of abating.
His exposed skin was numb from exposure to the wind and spume and every limb in his body ached with the effort of simply remaining upright. Another wave lifted the Leopardo dizzyingly high – he would have said the waves were seventy feet from trough to crest if he had not known better – and then a sudden gust of wind slammed into her like a giant fist. There came an horrendous crack like the firing of a sixty-eight pounder. At first he thought it must have been the thunder, but then he realised that thunder would not have made the deck shiver so.
He looked at the foremast and saw it topple. It was broken clean through close to the deck, the snapped windward rigging flapping in the gale. It pitched forward as the next wave lifted the brig’s stern, and would have toppled had not the rigging held it upright. When they reached the crest, the full weight of the wind hit the mast once again, and the stays attaching it to the mainmast made the latter bend perceptibly.
Killigrew pointed to the masts and had to cup his hands over Coffin’s ear to make himself understood. ‘If we don’t cut it free we’ll lose the mainmast as well!’
Coffin nodded and the two of them at once went forward to the mainmast. It was at moments like this that one could understand what the brotherhood of the sea was all about: Killigrew might secretly despise Coffin as a slaver, while Coffin openly detested him as an Englishman, but the two of them were instantly ready to put their differences aside and work together to save the ship; their lives depended upon it.
They hauled themselves hand over hand along the rail as the seas crashed over the deck. Killigrew indicated the stays which ran from the top of the mast down to the dead-eyes on the starboard gunwale, and made a slicing motion with the edge of his hand. If they cut the starboard forestays and timed it with the pitching of the deck then the mast would topple forward and sideways overboard. That was the theory, at any rate.
Coffin shook his head firmly and pointed up to the stays which ran between the foremast and the mainmast. The important thing was to cut those first; but it would be impossible to cut them without ascending the rigging.
Killigrew nodded, jerked a thumb at his chest, and then pointed up into the shrouds.
‘You’re crazy!’ bellowed Coffin.
‘Got any better suggestions?’ Killigrew yelled back.
‘You’ll never make it! You’ll be killed!’
‘Then you’ll be happy, at least.’ Killigrew gazed up into the shrouds once more. Coffin was right: he was crazy. Still, it was a sensible exchange: one life for two dozen.
One honest man for the life of two dozen slavers, he reminded himself. If you’re going to die, wouldn’t it be better to take the bastards with you? Was it his place to judge these people? Surely that was the Lord’s decision. But he had taken that decision into his own hands when he had executed da Silva. Perhaps this storm was God’s way of punishing him. One murderer and two dozen blackbirders, Killigrew told himself. No wonder God wanted this ship sunk with all hands. Watch it, Kit my bucko: you’ve been spending so much time with Madison you’re starting to think like him. You’ve never been a Jonah before now, and this is hardly the time to start! He found himself grinning as some of the defiance Coffin had expressed earlier infected him with its violent energy. ‘Come on, then!’ he roared at the heavens. ‘Take me, if you want me!’
And with that he hauled himself up into the ratlines.
He ascended a step at a time. It seemed to take all of his strength just to cling to the sodden rigging, never mind to pull himself up at the same time. The rain hammered him and the wind sought to tear him away. He was glad it was so dark, for he could hardly see the mountainous seas around him and the deck pitching below; occasionally a flash of lightning would pick out the white caps of the wave crests, but Killigrew had enough to do without worrying about that.
The mainmast creaked threateningly. It was the only thing keeping the foremast up, and soon it too must snap. Killigrew forced himself to climb faster, throwing caution – literally – to the howling winds. The rain soaked clean through his oilskins and seemed to slice into the skin underneath.
Before he realised it, he had reached the doubling where the topmast reached the topgallant mast. Up here the wind was even stronger. He lost his footing and slipped, dangling from his arms. The strength of the wind seemed to make gravity irrelevant: everything span around him and he no longer knew which way was down. The wind blew him forward at an angle, and nothing he could do would get his feet back on to the ratlines. He thought about pulling himself across the shrouds hand-over-hand, but knew that as soon as he released the grip of one hand, the other would be broken by the strength of the wind.
Then the Leopardo sank into another trough and the mast swung backwards, swinging Killigrew with it until he could entangle his legs in the ratlines once more. Just a few more inches, he told himself. He climbed up: one step, two, and then he could see the stay less than a foot away through the stinging rain.
He wrapped both legs and arms around the shrouds, clinging on with all his might, then eased a hand into his pocket and took out his clasp knife. Whatever you do, don’t drop it, he thought to himself with a grim smile. The rain was like a thousand white-hot needles against his flesh and his hands were so numb he could barely open the knife. But at last the blade snapped into view. He reached across with one hand and started to saw at the thick rope which ran from the mainmast to the foremast. The blade was razor sharp and quickly parted the strands. It was hard work nonetheless, and it seemed to take for ever before the weight of the foremast was enough to break the strands which remained. There was a snap like a pistol-shot and the rope snaked away into the night.
Killigrew closed the knife and began to descend, grateful for every step which took him a foot nearer to the safety of the deck. Only one other stay ran between the foremast and mainmast, where the topmast met the lower mast. He swung himself underneath the ratlines and lowered himself to the maintop. He missed his footing in the darkness and the wind, and his sea-boots slipped on the rain-washed planks. He scrabbled desperately at the boards, his numbed fingers searching for a grip. He felt his feet slip out over the leading edge, then his calves and his knees, and then he had hooked one arm around the mast itself. Half dangling over the edge, he braced himself where the mast itself afforded him some protection from the murderous wind.
He risked a glance down to the deck. He could just make out pale faces staring up at him, while the deck itself was awash with soaking waters which sloshed between the bulwarks. Each time a wave broke over the Leopardo’s stern the faces would be buried beneath a maelstrom of white water, but they were still there when the waters receded. Coffin was at the foot of the starboard forestays, already hacking through them with a hatchet.
Killigrew took out his clasp knife once more and reached down towards the stay with the blade. His arm was just an inch too short. He withdrew it and altered his grip on the haft of the knife so that he held it between his fingertips. That way he found he could reach the rope, but the amount of pressure he could apply was negligible. The strands parted, but slowly, far too slowly.
The rope snapped so suddenly that Killigrew lost his grip on his knife and it was whipped away; only the lanyard tying it to his belt saved him from losing it altogether. Coffin had hacked through the forestays and as the ship was lifted on another wave the foremast toppled forwards and then swung sideways as the port-side forestays took up the strain. There were still plenty of stays running from the foremast to the bowsprit, but Killigrew could not cut those in time and could only hope that they snapped. There was a chance the bowsprit itself would be ripped away, but better that than losing the mainmast.
The foremast crashed into the sea and was swallowed up by the blackness at once. Coffin lunged through the knee-deep water on deck to hack at the port-side forestays which still attached the mast to the ship’s side. A moment later there was a great crack as the jib-boom snapped off the bowsprit, and then the last of the ropes snapped and the danger from that quarter was gone.
Killigrew descended to the deck feeling shaken and used-up. He crossed to where Coffin hacked through the last of the forestays, but the job was done by the time he got there. Coffin did not even acknowledge him.
As the brig descended stern-first into the next trough Killigrew turned aft and then froze in horror.
A rogue wave rose up behind them, towering, mountainous. An immense wall of water a hundred feet tall if it was an inch. Such a wave could not support its own weight and Killigrew saw foam at its peak as it began to topple forward on to the poop deck. Either it would snap the ship clean in two or else flip it stern over bows: either event signalled the death of the Leopardo.
‘Hold on!’ he yelled as the vast breaker tumbled down towards the brig’s stern like the jaws of some vast leviathan of the deep closing on its prey. He felt the whole ship shudder and pitch crazily as hundreds of thousands of gallons of water slammed on to the poop. The deck fell away sickeningly from beneath him and he went over backwards, splashing into the knee-deep water. Still the breaker descended, a vast wall of cascading water eating its way up the length of the deck from stern to stem.
Towards Killigrew. Floundering, he rolled on to his front and half crawled, half doggy-paddled towards the stump of the foremast. He threw his arms around it, took a deep breath, and then the water crashed down on him. The weight of water drove the breath from his body and seemed intent on pushing him clean through the deck. It was strangely silent beneath the water after the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves.
The pressure on his back slowly receded, and then the waters surged about him, transferring the weight to his arms and shoulders as the flood tried to drag him away from the mast-stump. Even if he had been at full strength he could not have hoped to resist that pressure; as it was, his trip into the rigging had left him hopelessly drained. His arms gave way and the water swirled him away: up, down, sideways, it was impossible to tell. Something heavy slammed against him, and then a fresh surge of water span him through its inky depths.
He thought about swimming towards the surface, but dismissed the idea as nonsensical: he did not even know which way the surface lay. There was nothing he could do but enjoy the strange feeling of peace which filled him as the water swept him where it would. Was he drowning? Probably. He had always supposed that one day it would come to this, but he had never thought it would happen this early in his career. There had been so much he wanted to do with his life, so many battles left unfought, it seemed a shame it should all come to an end now. Others would remain to fight those battles, of course, but he was not sure he could trust them to do the job properly. And then there was Eulalia waiting for him in London…
Something else slammed against him, and he clung to it instinctively, just as he clung on to his life by holding on to what little breath remained in his lungs. The water tried to pull him away again, but with less determination now. Then a roaring filled his ears. At first he thought it must be the blood roaring in his head as he died, but then he realised it was just the turbulence of the storm-tossed waves.
A moment later whatever he clung to broke the surface, and Killigrew surfaced with it. The wind, rain and spindrift stung his face and he gulped air into his lungs.
He was clinging to the rails of the head. By a miracle, he was still alive. By an even greater one, the Leopardo was still intact and afloat. Shaking his head to clear the rain and hair out of his eyes, he saw other members of the crew on deck looking about them with wonderment as if astonished to find that they still lived, and he shared in that wonderment.
‘Man overboard!’ boomed Duarte.
No rest for the wicked. Killigrew pushed himself to his feet and crossed to where the boatswain stood at the rail, pointing out into the inky blackness beyond. Killigrew could just make out a figure floating level with the storm-tossed ship, perhaps thirty yards from the side. At that distance his face was no more than a white blur, but Killigrew somehow sensed that it was Coffin. If he had thought about it he would have left the chief mate to drown. Not even Madison could have blamed him for doing nothing after all he had already been through, and trying to save the chief mate was suicide anyway. But there was no time to think. He quickly unwound a coil of rope which had been thaned up tightly round a belaying pin. He gave one end to Duarte and tied the other around his waist.
‘Make that fast!’ he snapped at Duarte, and then jumped overboard thinking: There’s trust for you.
His narrow escape from the rogue wave had filled him with a sense of exhilaration, as if part of him had got the impression he was indestructible. He knew the idea was false, and yet somehow it inspired him with renewed strength. He started to swim out with a strong, easy crawl-stroke to where Coffin struggled in the water. But his strength had deceived him and quickly gave out. Just a few more feet, he thought, as his exhaustion caught up with him.
He reached Coffin as the chief mate was going down for the third time. Killigrew caught him underneath the chin and dragged him back to the surface. It was all he could do to float on his back supporting Coffin. Then the rope around his chest tugged against him and he realised that the muscular boatswain was hauling them both back to the ship.
‘You’ll die when I decide it, and not before,’ he heard someone snarl at Coffin, and it was only by process of deduction he realised it must have been himself. If the half drowned chief mate heard him, he gave no indication of it.
Then they bumped against the Leopardo’s side and strong arms hauled them both over the bulwark. The storm seemed to have abated a little. Killigrew hoped it was over now, rather than a temporary lull. Coffin sprawled on the deck, vomited sea water, and lay still.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Madison.
Duarte put an ear to Coffin’s chest, and then shook his head. ‘He lives.’ The brawny boatswain lifted Coffin in his arms and carried him almost tenderly below deck to the sick bay. Killigrew followed.
Pereira looked distinctly seasick in the dim glow of the oil lamp which swung wildly from an overhead beam. There was only one cot in the sick bay, and it was already occupied by the man who had fallen from the rigging earlier. But from the way Pereira had pulled the sheets up to hide the man’s face he was no longer in need of a comfortable bed. Killigrew hoisted him out unceremoniously and Duarte lay Coffin in his place.
Before Pereira could do anything, a spasm shook Coffin’s body and he leaned over the side of the cot to fetch up more sea water. Gasping for breath, he looked up at the boatswain. ‘What happened?’
‘You were washed overboard,’ said Duarte. ‘Senhor Killigrew saved you.’
Coffin glanced across at him. If Killigrew had expected gratitude he was disappointed, but even he was stunned by the look of sheer venom in Coffin’s eyes, as if the chief mate would have preferred to have been left to drown. Then Coffin turned his eyes on Pereira. ‘Brandy,’ he gasped.
‘I have none,’ said Pereira.
‘There’s a bottle of aguardiente in Madison’s cabin,’ said Coffin.
‘I’ll fetch it,’ offered Killigrew.
As he made his way aft below decks he thought about Coffin’s reaction on hearing who had saved him, and began to understand it. How hateful it must have been to a confirmed anglophobe like Coffin to owe his life to an Englishman! The thought afforded Killigrew a small modicum of amusement, but it was short lived. He remembered how the Chinese believed that if one saved a man’s life, one was responsible for that man for the rest of his existence; a very Chinese logic, but a kind of logic nonetheless. Any atrocity Coffin committed from now on would lie on Killigrew’s head. It was a thought which filled him with a distinct feeling of unease.
He went into Madison’s day cabin. Despite the tarpaulin which had been stretched over the skylight in the deck head, the glass had shattered under the pressure of the waves and now lay in shards all over the floor, while water dripped steadily from above. In spite of this, the shutters which protected the windows were still in place, and the oil still burned in the lantern which swung from an overhead beam, casting eerie, swaying shadows across the scene.
By some miracle the bottle of aguardiente in a drawer of Madison’s desk had not been broken. Killigrew took it out and pulled out the stopper, pouring a generous and – in his opinion – well-earned measure down his throat. He gasped with pleasure as the fiery liquid burned its way down to his stomach.
So much had happened during the past few hours that he had forgotten he was on board the Leopardo for a specific purpose, and it was only in that instant he remembered it. This was the opportunity he had been looking for from the moment he had joined the crew. He went to the door and glanced out. Seeing no one, he closed the door and went to work.
He carefully searched the other desk drawers, taking care not to drip water on to the papers within, but found nothing to indicate who the financier behind this slaver was. Then he turned his attention to the safe. It was locked, of course, and the key was doubtless on Madison’s person. Killigrew did not know anything about picking locks, but there was no harm in inserting the key to his own sea-chest to see if that fitted: it would only take a couple of seconds.
But a couple of seconds can mean the difference between life and death. Just as he was trying to withdraw the key, having failed in his attempt, the cabin door opened and Duarte’s massive bulk filled the frame.