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At 4 a.m. Marin climbed back down the rope ladder, and by the time he reached the ice encrusted deck, he felt as if his hands were frozen in the curled position. Carefully making his way to his cabin, he found Phillipe curled up asleep in the bed. He poured a tankard of rum, sat down at his desk, and began to make an entry into his log. He had only managed to scribble a few lines when he drifted off, slumped over the desk’s surface, pen in hand.
A few hours later, but what seemed like only moments to a weary Marin, someone pounded on the cabin door, calling out, “You’re wanted top side, Captain.”
Marin looked around and noticed that Phillipe was gone. He retrieved his heavy coat and made his way to the deck, where he was greeted by a strong frigid wind swirling about. With the sunlight over the horizon attempting to pierce the thick fog, Marin had a hard time recognizing that it was Mister Sheets back at the helm, struggling to hold the wheel steady.
“Mister Murel has commanded us to maintain a north by northeast heading,” Sheets called out to Marin through the heavy wind, “but she’s getting’ harder to hold that course, what with the winds constantly shifting about and the lack of a crew to man the yards. All the while, I am mindful of your warning about the rudder. And, Mister Prince has just ordered us to pursue a course due north. I am in need of your orders, Captain.”
Marin pulled his father’s compass from his vest. “According to my compass, we are heading just twelve degrees east of due north.”
“According to the ship’s compass, we are heading twenty-four degrees north by northeast, Captain.”
“Bring her due north by the ship’s compass, Mister Sheets,” Marin called into the wind. “I will deal with Mister Murel. Where might I find him?”
“I believe he is in the mess, sir.”
Marin went down into the galley and found Mister Prince.
“Mister Sheets is fighting the wind at the helm. We’re changing course to due north by the ship’s compass. Give him a little foresail.”
“Aye, Sir,” Jude replied, with a satisfied grin.
“Have you seen Phillipe?” Marin asked.
“The last I saw of him, he was going to visit Mister Armstrong.”
Marin found Phillipe reading from his Bible to a sleeping Mister Armstrong. He paused and listened to Phillipe recite. When Phillipe paused, Marin asked,
“Has he taken a turn for the worse?”
“He has a fever, and I believe his wound is infected,” Phillipe replied.
Marin gently unwrapped the wound and turned away from the noxious odor. He threw the blood-soaked shred of a sheet aside and looked around for something he could use as a fresh bandage. Nothing. He removed his coat and ripped one sleeve from his shirt. He wrapped it around the wound and ordered Phillipe to round up material that could be used as bandages, and to see to it that someone changes the bandage every hour.
“Listen Phillipe,” Marin began in a voice that usually preceded a mild reproof, “I think you need to get your own bunk in the general sleeping quarters.”
Phillipe closed his Bible and drew it to his chest. He released one hand from the Bible and scratched his head as if preparing to say something, but returned the one hand to his Bible and scratched his head again with the other.
“Is there a problem?” Marin asked.
“I do not believe I am well-liked among the men,” he confessed.
“Does that really matter when you are asleep?”
“It can make it difficult to fall asleep.”
“I see,” Marin allowed. “Even so, I cannot have you sleeping in the Captain’s quarters. I am sorry, Phillipe.”
Phillipe gave a rapid shake of his head, opened his Bible, and began reading aloud again.
“Phillipe,” Marin interrupted, “tend to the procuring of bandages.”
Marin went to the mess deck and found Mister Murel sitting trance-like at one of the tables. Not being sure of proper etiquette as concerns approaching someone in a trance, he sat down across from Dorian and patiently observed. After a while Dorian looked up, but said nothing.
“I have informed Mister Sheets to change course to due north,” Marin informed him. Dorian maintained his stare at Marin, but remained silent. “I was wondering what your objections might be if I were to turn, say, another twelve degrees west to three forty-eight.”
Dorian gradually become cognizant of Marin’s presence ...then he spoke.
“We are on the outer edge of a whirling mass of air. Turning westward would pull the ship into its vortex. We need to sail north by northeast until the whirlwind has passed.”
“Nor’easter? You’re saying we are on the edge of a Nor’easter.”
“I said no such thing. We are on the edge of a storm with shifting winds, and it is in our best interest to ignore its invitation to follow.”
“But it could be a Nor’easter?” Marin persisted.
“Call it what you wish, Captain.”
“It matters, Mister Murel. If it is, in fact, a Nor’easter, the winds will shift and come from the east, and we would have to sail close reach to maintain a north by northeast heading. She cannot hold that course.”
“My advice is for you to command your ship on a north by northeasterly course as long as you can, Captain. Either that, or surrender her to the will of the wind and let it send her into the jagged rocks of southern Maine.”
Marin bent forward, and in a cordial but straightforward manner, asked Mister Murel, “How is it you can be so certain of that? I too have sailed these waters many times, and yet we disagree. You say your knowledge has nothing to do with magic or sorcery; if that is so, you should be able to explain it.”
“Two men can read the same book, and yet one is left with only the story, while the other carries away the meaning.”
“And how is it, Mister Murel, that the one finds the meaning, and the other does not?”
“First, you must accept that there is meaning. Then you must admit that you do not know what that meaning is. Only then can you open yourself to it, surrender, and let it in.”
“You sound like Phillipe.”
Dorian let the words fill the space between them without comment.
After a docile moment, Marin flexed himself straight up, and asked, “Do you have any idea, approximately, as to our location?”
Dorian pulled a hand-drawn map from his vest pocket, spread it out on the table, and put his finger at a spot located two hundred miles equidistant between Rhode Island and Nova Scotia.
“I have a decision to make,” Marin said, getting up to take his leave.
“Not really,” Dorian mysteriously replied.
Marin returned on deck and assisted the crew in adjusting the sails, leaving only the mainsail and the foresail in the wind. When they had finished, he took Jude aside and told him about the conversation with Mister Murel.
“Two Hundred miles between Rhode Island and Nova Scotia?” Jude scoffed. “He needs ta polish his juju. He’d have us wrapped around the rocks of Sable Island if we’d stayed his course,” Jude warned. “Cut the course to three hundred forty-five degrees north by northwest, and we’ll be in Passamaquoddy in a little over a day ...should the winds hold.”
“And what do you suppose our location to be?” Marin asked.
“Without the use of the stars, we’ve only the compass and the knots in the water. Hate to say it, Captain, but it’s hard to tell. But I can assure you we are not straddlin’ Rhode Island and Nova Scotia.”
“So, we are lost,” Marin concluded.
“I wouldn’t say lost, Captain; misplaced maybe, but never say lost.”
“A distinction without a difference, I fear,” Marin said, adding, “I need to talk to Oscar.”
“He just left for the mess,” Jude replied.
Mister Oscar sat at a long table, nibbling on a stale biscuit and cradling a cup of coffee snug against his chest.
Marin sat down across from him and remarked, “Surely Mister O’Brien has a biscuit in the kitchen younger than that one.”
“I like ‘em stale,” Oscar replied, breaking off a piece with a canine. “They last a little longer.”
Marin’s smile could not cut through his chief concern. “The winds are getting stronger, Mister Oscar, and we are pushing fourteen knots. Mister Murel says we are on the edge of a heavy storm and wants us to stay north by northeast, away from our destination and moving closer to the wind. Mister Prince favors crossing north by northwest, riding the wind to Passamaquoddy. Any thoughts?”
“I told Jude, she’s not long afloat. She’s started takin’ on water faster than we can relieve her. She’s not fit for speed, and what with a shaky rudder and a cracked Mizzenmast, not to mention the riggin’s gone lax ...and the sails ...well, they should o’ replaced before we left Sumatra. So, it’s time or speed, Captain. You pick ‘em. But too much of one or the other is gonna be the end of us.”
Marin retreated to his quarters to look at the charts, hopingto decipher the ship’s location and best choice of course. Upon entering, he saw Phillipe’s gear neatly gathered together in the corner by the door. His Bible lie balanced on top of his seabag. The ship took a heavy roll, and the Bible tumbled to the floor. Marin picked it up, carried it to his bunk and began perusing through it in no particular order.
A few minutes later, Phillipe came into the cabin and saw Marin cuddled up, leafing through the book. “Looking for a passage in particular?” Phillipe asked.
“No. I'm simply trying to find something that makes sense.”
“You need only to stop anywhere and read,” Phillipe said.
Marin laughed with single burst of air, and said, “I remember as a child being told that the Bible is the word of God, and that every syllable is true. However, when I tried to read it, I couldn't understand any of it. I would turn my head away, and ask, 'Why can’t I understand any of this?’ If this is the word of God, shouldn't He have made it a little easier to understand? Am I too stupid to believe in God?”
“You have to pray for understanding,” Phillipe replied.
“But shouldn’t I first believe in God before I pray to him?”
“Well, of course you believe in God ...don't you?”
“I don't know. That's why I'm leafing through the Bible,” Marin said, flipping another page.
“Perhaps you should nest somewhere, brother. You might begin with Matthew 7:7, where Christ says, ‘Ask and ye shall receive.’”
Marin riffled through the Bible looking for the Book of Matthew.
“It is in the New Testament, Marin,” Phillipe jeered.
“Yes, I know,” Marin replied, and finding the book of Matthew, he began turning a single page at a time. “Here it is,” he said, and he read the passage aloud: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” He looked at Phillipe, and asked, “What is it I am to ask for?”
Phillipe drew in a deep breath of exasperation and slowly released it before answering. "Ask for faith."
Marin closed the Bible, marking the spot with his index finger. "Shouldn't God be asking me for faith?” he asked.
"W-H-A-T?" Phillipe blurted in disbelief.
"If I want you to believe in me, I should come to you and ask you to believe in me, and give you reason. I would not expect you to come to me and ask, ‘Will you please give me faith in you?’ As if faith were somehow granted, rather than earned.”
"My dear brother, we ask that of everyone we meet. One way or another we ask them; can I trust in you?”
"No, we ask them to give us reason to trust in them, and if we wish for them to trust in us, we are expected to give them sufficient reason. Only thieves and liars ask you to blindly trust in them.”
“Marin, what are you saying? Surely you are not calling Our Lord—”
“I am simply asking, why should I have faith in your, or anyone else’s, god?”
Phillipe moved closer to Marin, and said in his Sunday best and most reverent voice, “Because of what he has given unto you. Look around you, Marin; look with the eyes that He has given you; see as you have never seen before: the earth, the sea, the sky, and the heavens. Where is it you look, and yet you do not see him?”
Marin pitched in toward Phillipe, and in a voice void of any reverence whatsoever, said, "In the outstretched hands of a hungry child, in the well-worn lines of worry, etched in the face of an impoverished mother, in the pleading eyes of a disease-stricken man, in the—"
“These are not the works of God; these are works of man,” Phillipe objected.
“Has a god no responsibility for his own creation? What nonsense. What is a man to do with such a god?” Marin bellowed.
“PRAY!” Phillipe implored him.
“PRAY?”
“PRAY!”
Marin settled a moment, handed the Bible to Phillipe, and said, “You do the praying. I have work to do.”
***
Marin, having decided to favor his own compass over that of the ship’s, figured the twelve-degree difference put them sailing north by northwest.
The longer they maintained that heading, the stronger the winds became, and the darker the lowered skies hung over the Magister Maris. By late afternoon, the icy rain was flying heavy and cold against the men on deck as they struggled against its force to perform even the most menial of tasks. The ship was approaching her top speed through the stormy water, and Jude gave the order to bleed wind from the main and foresail to slow the ship down. Waves were breaking at ten feet and slashing across the deck. Marin was at the helm, and Oscar stood at his side, warning him that the loosening and resulting flapping of the mainsail was not advisable.
“We need to furl the sails, Captain,” he shouted through the wind.
“And where would I find the hearty sailors to man the yardarms, Mister Oscar?”
“She’ll not take much more of this, Sir.”
Mister Oscar’s warning proved prophetic. By evening’s twilight, the mainsail had ripped loose from the clews holding the base of the sail down. It was now a useless swath of cloth flapping in the gale. The foresail was swinging wildly on the yardarm, forcing the bow of the ship to twist and turn violently in the wind. Rain, snow, and occasional hail were pushing horizontally through the darkening night air with such force, it stung the flesh with the bite of a thousand tiny shards of metal.
Marin was holding onto the ship’s wheel as best he could, but it thrust first to the port and then to starboard with such force that it would carry the captain along with it. His feet slid on the slippery deck, lending him little traction against the twisting of the helm. Suddenly the wheel flung to port with such violent force that Marin yanked with all his strength and body weight to bring her back to center. Something snapped and the wheel lost all tension, spinning freely around to starboard and sending Marin, shoulder first, down onto the deck.
“She’s lost her rudder,” Oscar screamed.
Marin struggled to his feet, yelling to Jude, “Haul the foresail and tighten her down.”
Jude and a few of the men began pulling on the lines to lift the foresail out of the wind. Marin knew that the foresail should be furled, but he simply did not have a crew that could accomplish the task in even the mildest of storms. Except for Jude, Oscar, and perhaps Mister Collier, he didn’t really have a crew at all. He watched for as long as he could as the Magister Maris surrendered to the forces beyond his control, and when his eyes could hold no more, he repaired to his cabin with Jude fast on his heel.
“What in the world are ya thinkin’, duckin’ below and leavin’ those squid ta fend for themselves?” Jude yelled.
“I need a moment to think...”
“’Ta think?” Jude exploded. “We’ve no time for thinkin’, Captain. I’ll go aloft and assume command myself before I’ll let ya think us to the bottom of the drink,” and Jude held his pose for a couple of precious seconds before heading for the door.
“WAIT,” Marin commanded. “Brace the mizzenmast yardarms hard round. Open her sails full to wind.”
“Have ya gone dancin’ with the fairies, Captain? That mast won’t hold.”
“Indeed,” Marin said. “Let her fall aft. She will be our rudder and we will use the jibs and staysails to heel her into the wind.”
Jude stood dazed before the captain, unable to even move a facial muscle.
“Do as your told, Mister Prince.”
Jude followed Marin out of the cabin and they began unfurling the two top sheets of the mizzenmast into the tempest. It took but a few lashes of the wind before the mast broke about three feet from the base with a thunderous crack, as if the entire ship had split in half. The rest of the mast ripped loose from the rigging, tearing spars, lines and braces, and tugging hard against the main mast before crashing into the stern and splintering again above the first yardarm. The upper most part of the mizzenmast plunged down into the violent waters behind the ship, even as the mast remained tenuously attached to the base. Jude ordered the men to grab what lines they could in the tangle of rope, and cleat them down on either side of the ship. Marin grabbed an axe and began chopping the toppled part of the mizzen mast away from the broken base. He stationed a man on each side and had them pull and let at his command, turning the fallen mast into a crude rudder. The sails dragging through the water slowed the ship down to a more manageable speed.
“Bring her to heel and put her in irons,” Marin hollered. Every available man aboard began following his orders to point the ship directly into the wind. The short-handed and inexperienced crew fought the wind and rain and pounding waters for half an hour before the ship sat facing the wind, and they found themselves afloat, but going nowhere. The bow sliced through the oncoming surf, causing the ship to teeter and totter and bob up and down as if it were but a toy caught in a turbulent stream.
Dorian asked the captain, “And how long do you suppose we can idle into a storm that is shifting as we speak?”
“This is not a sloop that can maneuver on a whim, Mister Murel.”
“Captain, these winds are about to blow hither and yon. There will be no facing into a twisting twine of a whirlwind. You are merely surrendering your command to the tempest.”
Mister Collier’s voice from far up in the Crow’s Nest shrieked, “Ship ahoy! Approaching from the starboard bow.”
Marin looked out over the railing, but could see nothing. “Can you make her out?” he yelled back.
“She’s turnin’ broadside. Looks to be flyin’ the Union Jack.”
A flash of orange light and a loud explosion tore through the thick dark air, and something went whistling through the yardarms, and somehow, miraculously, sailed clean through the spaces.
Jude yelled out, “Push the fallin’ mast as hard as ya can, laddies. Turn her broadside or the bastard’ll strafe us lengthwise.”
“NO,” yelled Collier sliding down the rope ladder as fast as he could. “They can’t hold that position broadside to the wind.”
But it was too late. The Magister Maris spun around counter-clockwise with such force that there was no stopping her. The men pushed against the fallen mizzenmast with all the strength left to them, but nothing could stop the ship from spinning ‘round. Another blast of a canon and the Magister Maris shook from the force of a cannon ball flying through her hull, and then another blast, and another, all flashing like orange lightning and cracking sharper than thunder.
Suddenly, the symphony of cannonade became more complex. A deeper, syncopated series of blasts rumbled from the distance. The ship within their sight began running with the wind, heading north. As she passed within ten yards of the spinning Magister, Collier yelled, “That ain’t no ship of Her Royal Majesty’s Navy.”
A cannonball that had struck a yardarm and fallen to the deck rolled up against Collier’s foot. He held it under his boot and pointed it out to Marin, saying, “Would ya have a look at this pathetic excuse for a cannonball? The Royal Navy hurls no such buckshot.”
Through the fog came an American frigate on the tail of the fleeing mystery ship as the Magister Maris continued to wheel round and round in the stormy sea. Marin ordered the two men manning the lines at the cleats to let loose the ties, and the mizzenmast slipped out into the Atlantic.
Collier grabbed a couple of men and let out the foresail topsail with enough linen to grab some wind. The foresail foiled against the wind and pulled the bow round to a stop facing into the storm. Collier ordered the foresail hauled in, and the Magister bobbed on the choppy waters.
Marin gave the order to drop both bower anchors, realizing that only he, Jude, and Collier had ever performed the task. The other men stood around while the three of them let go the anchor. Not knowing the depth of the water, they let out all the lead cable they had, and when they released the anchors, the massive weight pulled the cables burning past the edges of hawser holes with such force that they screamed out a high-pitched whine such that you would have thought the ship was dying in pain. When the crown caught the seabed and the cable pulled taught, Marin and Collier surveyed the damage topside while Jude and Oscar went below.
The Mizzenmast was gone; the Mainmast had lost a yardarm and the foremast mainsail was torn through with cannon shot. One of the three jollyboats had been destroyed, and the deck was awash with debris. The crew began to straighten up the deck as best they could.
Phillipe’s voice strained through the wind to ask Marin if they could pause a moment to pray for the Lord’s assistance.
“I wouldn’t think you would have to ask Him,” Marin shouted back.
Jude and Oscar returned topside and took the captain by both arms and led him to his cabin. Once inside, Oscar delivered the bad news.
“She’s taken on too much water, Captain. I wouldn’t give her more than an hour afloat.”
Marin looked to Jude, who added, “The main hold’s ripped open. Nothin’ but stones for cargo. We’ve been duped, Captain.”
“Oscar, assemble the men topside and prepare to abandon ship.”
“Yes, sir,” Oscar replied, but remained glued in place.
“GO! NOW!” Marin bellowed, and Oscar scurried out of the cabin. “We’ve only two jollyboats that hold six men apiece, so three of us must remain. I want Phillipe in a boat with you, Jude, and—”
“No sir,” Jude demanded. “I’m stayin’ aboard.”
“Jude, you will follow your captain’s command,” Marin ordered.
“Beggin’ the Captain’s pardon, but who do ya mean ta send to the bottom in my stead?”
Marin’s face froze in place. Who indeed?
“Armstrong for one,” he said. “His leg needs to be amputated and he wouldn’t survive the trip. Besides, he would take up too much room in the boat.”
“And?” Jude challenged.
Marin’s hand was forced. “And I want Phillipe in a boat with Mister Murel and Oscar. Collier will command the other boat.” There followed a funeral like silence before he added, “Well, let’s go. Hoist the jollyboats and get the crew over the side.”
As Jude and Marin were preparing to leave the Captain’s quarters, Phillipe came bounding through the door. The grave look on Marin’s face gave halt to Phillipe’s step.
“Go Jude,” Marin ordered. “Phillipe, I have something to tell you, and I want you to listen to me as your captain and forget for the moment that you are my brother. I have given the order to abandon ship. We’ve only two dinghies. Each will hold six men. We’ve fifteen aboard, so that means three men must stay with the Magister Maris.”
“I will gladly stay, Marin ...I mean, Captain.”
“I am not looking for volunteers, Phillipe. You are to get into a jollyboat with Misters Murel, Oscar, Sheets, Wayne and O’Brien. That is an order.”
“No, no I will not,” Phillipe threw forth. “I will not abandon the only real family I have left. You have no right to order me to abandon my own brother.”
Marin, straining to remain calm, answered him, saying, “As your captain, I have every right.”
“I am not afraid of death, Marin,” Phillipe said, and placing his hand on Marin’s shoulder, he added, “In the face of present circumstances, I welcome it.”
Marin swept his brother’s hand off of his shoulder, and in his best captain’s voice, he commanded, “I do not give a tinker’s dam whether you fear or welcome death. As Captain of this ship, it is my duty to save as many of my men as I can, and you are going in that boat if I have to heave you overboard myself.”
Phillipe fell back a step and collapsed into a chair. He bent over, placing his face into the Bible that lie in his lap, and he began to weep. Marin gave the moment its due before bending over to address his brother in a more civil tone.
“Phillipe, listen to me. I want you to get into that lifeboat for the same reason you want to stay aboard; because I love you. Someone has to carry on. Someone has to comfort Opaline and Phoebe and Aunt Belle ...explain what happened. You are that person.” He stood up, reached into his vest pocket, and pulled out his father’s compass. Handing it to Phillipe, he said, “You are going to need this more than I.”
Phillipe took the compass and flipped open the lid and silently read the inscription. He closed the lid and held the compass to his breast. Taking the Bible from his lap, he held it out to Marin. “Please...” he pleaded, “take this.” Marin reacted with reflexive hesitation. “Please Marin...” Phillipe repeated.
Marin reached out with one hand, accepting the Bible, while grabbing his brother with the other and pulling him to his feet. “We need to hurry,” he said, as he accompanied Phillipe out the cabin door and up to the main deck.
Jude and Mister Collier had slung the two boats to the side of the ship and gathered the crew together, and Oscar had loaded the small boats with water and other provisions. Marin gave the orders through the howling wind as to who was to occupy which lifeboat. If any man objected, the wind scattered his words, and the tortured listing of the Magister Maris quickly made him thankful for his seat. As Jude and Marin lowered the boats, neither looked down at the faces of the men looking up. When the lowering ropes gave their slack, Jude yelled over the leeward side, “We bid you fair wind and following seas, me hearties.” Marin, gripping the railing as he stared blank-faced out into the fog-thickened stormy night air, said nothing.
Jude grabbed him under one arm and pulled him away, saying, “Come on, Captain, we’ve plenty to do before we surrender to the sea.”
“Has anyone told Armstrong?” Marin asked.
“Couldn’t say, sir,”
“We have to tell him.”
“You go and have your chat with Mister Armstrong. I’m going to the galley and grab a couple of barrels of rum,” Jude said.
“That is the plenty that we have to do before we surrender?”
“I’m not gonna drink me a hundred gallons of rum, Captain. It breaks me heart, but I mean ta spill it out. Them empty barrels might be the only thing ‘tween us and Davy Jones’ locker.”
When Marin came to Armstrong’s side, he found the man in a deep sleep, cradling a Bible to his chest. Marin tried several times to rouse him, to no avail. ‘Should I arouse a man in peaceful slumber to tell him he is about to die?’ Marin wondered. ‘Does it benefit a man to know his time is nigh?’
Marin stood and watched Armstrong’s slow, deep breathing, and felt a stirring of envy; he almost wished he could trade places with the semi-conscious man. ‘Maybe he and Jude should drink as much of the rum as they could,’ he thought to himself. ‘After all, there wasn’t much chance of surviving the stormy North Atlantic in a goddamned barrel. If we are to drown, better to be unconscious than to suffer’.
The longer he looked at Armstrong, the more he was overcome with a sense of what could only be called, ‘morbid mercy’ - the repulsive urge to kill him as he slept rather than risk his waking up to find himself deserted and drowning. Marin sat by the man for several minutes in tortured debate with himself. He recalled the discussion of ethics and morality he had with the Professor in Providence; ‘...a man of character can stand firm against custom, whereas a man of custom is quite often brittle against character.’
“C’mon Captain,” Jude yelled from the deck. “We want to be as far from the ship as possible when she goes to the deep.”
“A Captain cannot leave a ship with a live man aboard,” Marin yelled back. He heard Jude’s footsteps coming down into the sick bay.
Jude peeked his head in and said, “He’s a dead man, Sir; he has only to do the dyin’. Bid yer goodbyes, and I’ll see ya topside.”
After Jude left, Marin slipped the pillow out from under Armstrong’s head and held it over him. “I can only hope you would do the same for me,” he said as he placed the pillow over the man’s face and gradually applied pressure. As Armstrong’s body began to twist about, Marin increased the pressure, struggling to hold it in place as the body fought harder for life-sustaining breath. Pushing down all of his strength, Marin felt himself tenuously balanced on the line between mercy and murder. Armstrong’s will surrendered and his body went limber. Marin held the pillow a little longer, as if he didn’t know how to let go. There came a heave of the man’s chest and his arms jerked back, sending the Bible sliding off his breast. Marin watched as the Bible flipped open and fell like a bird dying in flight, landing face down at Marin’s feet. Phillipe flew cross his mind for a moment. Looking back at Armstrong he noticed that there was no movement of his stomach. He lifted the pillow from Armstrong’s face and watched as that same familiar stillness that lay itself across Maria and Emma’s departed remains, settled on Armstrong like wet upon a stone. The man was gone.
“What’s keepin’ ya, Captain? Bid yer farewells and let’s be gone.”
Marin picked up the spread open Bible from the floor, giving its pages a quick, curious glance. It was open to Proverbs Chapter Two. Without pausing to read, he spread it open side down across Armstrong’s lifeless chest, tucked the pillow under the man’s head, and with a slow heavy stride, climbed the steep steps to the top deck.
“The stern is bound to go down first, Captain, so I suggest we get in the barrels to the fore, and as soon as we begin ta float, we paddle like hell away from the ship.”
“I am not going,” Marin said, looking down into his open hands.
“What are you...?” but Jude stopped short of finishing the question, and in an attempt to comfort his captain, said, “Yer thinkin’ ‘bout Armstrong, aren’t ya sir ...and that nonsense about the captain goin’ down with his ship? We both know Mister Armstrong won’t survive, sir. I doubt we survive, but we’re bound to try.”
“I am not going,” Marin repeated.
Jude gave a surrendering nod and said, “Then neither am I.”
“Yes you are,” Marin directed.
“I think I’m not.” Jude returned.
“Jude Prince, I am your captain, and I order you to get into that barrel.”
Jude laughed aloud, and said, “So then take a good look ‘round. We’re no longer Captain and First Mate, Mister Carpenter. We’re but a couple of old friend dyin’ together out ta sea.”
Marin gave his old friend a long look. He could feel the tears welling up in his own eyes while hoping that the rain would disguise them, as perhaps they did in Jude’s eyes as well.
“And we’re not going down without a fight,” Jude said, as he sprung to his feet and descended into the bowels of the ship, leaving Marin in the company of his own thoughts.
––––––––
Marin became self-conscious of own breathing and felt haunted by the air in his lungs. It was fair enough for the sea to take the three of them, but he had arrogated unto himself the right to steal Armstrong’s breath, and claim providence over his fate. Emotionally spent and physically exhausted, he was lost to time ...until Jude’s footsteps brought him ‘round.
Jude had returned with two lit lanterns, a large magnifying lens used to read charts, a small wooden box, a long pipe and a few powder horns of gunpowder. He took his knife and cut a hole in the wooden box and wedged the lens into the hole. He then placed the lanterns together in the box and a beam of light shot out into the darkness. Proud of himself, he gave a wide smile to Marin, who returned a brief, if noticeably reluctant, amused smile of his own. Jude then huddled under a piece of loose sail and loaded some gunpowder into the open end of the pipe. He took a splinter of dry wood, lit it, and dropped it into the pipe. A bright flare of light shot out of the pipe, reaching several feet into the dark air. He followed the flare with a shot from his pistol while waving the light through the dense night air, only stopping occasionally to shoot another flare of gunpowder into the darkness and fire his pistol.
At first, Marin was mildly amused at Jude’s efforts. However, as time passed, he fell into a deep depression. Before him was a man who had not lost all hope, nor faith, nor spirit. Or, it could be Mister Prince was daft, but at least he had not surrendered. Marin wondered if perhaps faith wasn’t so much a matter of surrendering to unknown forces, as it was a matter of not surrendering to unknown forces. Whatever it was, Jude had it, but Marin felt he had lost it the moment he smothered Mister Armstrong. Sinking even deeper into despair, Marin was ready to follow the Magister Maris to her deep-sea grave.
***
“Ahoy there,” came a voice from deep into the fog.
Jude sprang to his feet and began waving the ‘box full of light’ back and forth.
The call came again. “I say, ‘Ahoy there’ ...you, the keeper of the light.”
“Ahoy.” Jude yelled back. “I’m First Mate, Jude Prince, and I’ve with me, Captain Marin Carpenter of The Magister Maris.”
“How many aboard?” the voice called out.
“Two,” Marin quickly replied. Jude wrenched his head toward Marin, who held his hand up as if to ward off comment from Jude.
“It’s rough goin’ but we’ll heave you a line. You’ll have to secure it and cross over ...and good luck to ya.”
The lightest sketch of an outline of the other ship peeked through the fog.
“GANGWAY,” came the warning, followed by the sound of a grappling hook grabbing hold of the starboard rail of the Magister Maris.
Jude grabbed the rope, detached it from the hook, and secured it to a cleat. The rope between the two ships would, with erratic rhythm, go taught and slack, taught and slack, to the rhythm of the waves between the two vessels.
We need a constant tension on the rope,” Marin said, and he untied the rope from the cleat and ran it through a pulley and wrapped it around a hitch. “You go first,” he said to Jude. “I’ll hold the tension.” Jude gave him a hesitant look, and Marin shouted the order, “GO!”
Jude grabbed the rope straddled between the two ships and slung himself over the side of the boat. Dangling precariously over the cold ocean waves while being tossed and twisted by the rolling and the shifting of the two boats, Jude finally made it to the other side.
“Cleat the rope, Captain,” Jude yelled. “We’ll hold the tension from here. Marin pulled the rope back through the pulley, and for a moment debated whether to make the crossing. Jude sensed the delay and yelled, “Now’s not the time for thinkin’, Captain.”
Marin tied the rope securely around the cleat and gave it a tug. The rope went taught and Marin gave one last sideways glance at the Magister Maris, and left her for the last time.
Crossing over the divide between the two ships, the anchored Magister Maris held her ground as Marin made the crossing. As several hands reached out to grab him, the rope suddenly slackened, dropping several feet. Jude let loose the rope on his end, and the ship pulled away from the Magister Maris leaving her off into the fog.
“Welcome aboard the U.S.S. Fortune,” someone said, but the words could not pierce the silence the two men shared, as they looked out upon the Magister Maris; her skeletal outline etched into a veiling mist, as if posing for a final portrait.
As the fog continued to gather, she ever so gracefully began slipping from her proud perch upon the Atlantic Ocean, and Marin felt as if he himself was losing his equilibrium. He strained to maintain sight of her as she tilted ever more skyward, until her bowsprit reached straight up toward heaven, and surrendering her grasp, she vanished into the deep blue beyond.
A man approached Marin and Jude, but stopped and stood in solemn silence for a few moments, and then, in a halting and consoling tone, he asked, “Begging your pardon, which of you is Captain Carpenter?” Marin turned his head briefly toward the man, but said nothing. “Commander Ernst would like to see you in his quarters,” he said.
“Does he? He’ll see the both of us then,” Marin replied, and they followed the man to the Commander’s cabin.
“Captain Carpenter?” Ernst probed, glancing back and forth between Jude and Marin.
“I am Captain Carpenter,” Marin said, “and this is my First Mate, Mister Jude Prince.”
“I am Commander Ernst,” the man said, holding out his hand to Marin. “I had hoped to speak with you in private, Captain.”
Jude turned to leave, but Marin grabbed him by the arm with one hand and shook the commander’s hand with the other. “Whatever enters my ears will eventually arrive in Mister Prince’s, Commander.”
“Very well,” the commander allowed. Giving notice to the soaking wet uniforms of his two guests, he said, “We need to get you two gentlemen into some warm, dry clothing. Are you hungry?”
“I’m famished,” Jude blurted out, but shrank back a little under Marin’s sideways glare.
“I am sorry for the loss of your ship, Captain. I take it your crew abandoned ship safely.”
“Yes, in two small dinghies. But I worry about their ability to survive in such waters.”
“Well, the good news is, the storm is waning. We will carefully keep an eye out for them on our way back to Newport.”
“Newport?” Marin asked, a beat ahead of Jude.
“Yes, we are about a hundred miles out of Newport. Where did you think we were?”
Marin and Jude looked at one another. “We weren’t at all certain,” Marin confessed. “How did you find us?”
The commander hesitated a moment, giving a sideways glance toward Jude before answering. “We have been doing our best to follow you since you left Perth Amboy. As you reached to the northeast, we lost you in the fog. We made a run for Newport, hoping to beat the storm, but we could not outrun the swirling mass. After regaining control, we came across you under attack. We gave chase to the pirate ship, but decided to turn back and find you. We saw your light and flares and came to your side.”
Jude turned his head to Marin, but Marin held his focus on the Commander.
“Pirate ship?” Marin barked.
“Yes sir,” Ernst noted.
“Commander, with all due respect, that was not a pirate ship.”
“It wasn’t?” the Commander challenged.
“No sir...”
“What was it, then?” Ernst asked, with a hint of condescension.
Marin drew in a deep breath, as if that would lend credibility to what he was about to say. “I believe it was an American Navy ship flying British colors,” he said, watching for the Commander’s reaction.
Ernst quickly turned aside and pulled on a small rope that was attached to a pulley on the wall. A bell rang outside the cabin, followed by a knock outside the door.
“Enter,” he ordered. “Mister Mason, take these two gentlemen to supply and get them some warm clothing, and then escort them to the mess hall.” He placed his hand on Marin’s back as if to guide him toward the door. “I believe you two gentlemen will benefit from a hot meal and some rest. Sun up is but a few hours away. I will see you then.”
“Why were you following us?” Marin asked, holding his ground.
“We can discuss this later,” the Commander replied dismissively. “Right now, we had better begin our search for your crew.”
“Something is askew,” Marin made clear before he and Jude followed Mason out of the Commander’s quarters.
While changing into common swabbie attire, Marin stewed over the Commander’s refusal to answer his question.
Jude was busy complaining about the clothing he was struggling to get into. “Why so many bloody buttons?” he said and began counting the buttons on the front flap of the trousers. “Thirteen,” he said, as if it were a new swear word. “Pity the poor sailor in a hurry. Pity the poor woman who is—”
“Why were they following us, Jude?” Marin interrupted. “Why would the navy have one ship sent to sink us, only to have another rescue us?”
“Would ya look at this shirt they give me?” Jude said, shaking his head. “Don’t I look the dandy, all puffed up?”
“Jude, can you forget about the clothes for a moment? Don’t you wonder about what just happened?”
“Now that you mention it, Captain, yes, I do. And while I’m wonderin’, perhaps you could tell me why you told ‘em there were but the two of us aboard? Why didn’t ya mention Armstrong?”
“Armstrong was dead.”
“...Dead?”
“Dead.”
“Ya mean, good as dead?”
“No, I mean, dead.”
Jude held his thoughts for a few moments, but eventually they seeped out. “I don’t understand. How could a man I was talkin’ to but a few hours ago have—”
“I killed him,” Marin blurted out.
Jude put a little distance between himself and his captain. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“I am not sure I do either,” Marin confessed.
Jude thought for a moment before saying, “Captain, I want ya to think long and hard about this. Ya can’t go around telling people ya killed somebody, when what you really mean to say is—”
“I suffocated him,” Marin said. “I put his pillow over his face and held it until he breathed no more.”
“Why would ya do such a thing?”
“Hope. I lost all hope, Jude ...and I didn’t want Armstrong to wake up and find himself about to drown without a mate at his side.” A long silence followed. Marin raised his head and looked directly at Jude, who was struggling to maintain eye contact, but looked in Marin’s general direction. “But not you, Jude. You never lost hope. Did you?”
“Not much point in that, sir.”
“But I did.” Marin confessed.
Jude shrank back from own reply.
“Have you never lost hope, Jude?”
Jude stepped away from Marin, sat down on a bench and began to put on his boots. As he fed the aglets through the eyelets, he laced his words as well. “When I’m at sea...I understand all too well...I’m at her mercy...but she’s a stern mistress ...she demands that we earn it.” He gave the laces of his right boot a tug and tied them. Then he began lacing up his left boot. “When she sees ya give up...she claims you all the quicker...and it is my intention, Captain...to remain topside...and sail as long as she allows.” He gave the laces of the left boot a tug and tied them. He picked up Marin’s boots, stood up, and handed them to his captain. “What say we get some grub and maybe a little rest?”