12

The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away

Brown’s Cut

South of Gun Cay, Bahama Banks

Wednesday, 11 July 1888

Rork and I spread the spare jib around the forward half of the hull, which was taking the brunt of the seas, then went below for the first hour at the pump. It was a two-man contraption that reached down into the main bilge, just forward of the galley spaces. There wasn’t much room in the tight space to work the pump, and my elbows kept hitting the bulkhead. As I pulled and pushed that handle up and down, I tried to calculate the volume of water in the hull, but gave up. My mind just couldn’t function anymore. Fifteen minutes later neither could my body, and I lay down on the galley table bench as Ab and Dan took over pumping.

When I regained awareness, Corny and Blackstone were pumping. The wind’s howl had decreased outside and Delilah was riding discernibly easier. I tottered up to the main deck, the muscles of my legs and arms protesting every step. It was dark except for the binnacle light, which showed a form sitting against the main boom crutch.

Rork was on anchor watch. He gave me a weak smile and said, “Well, me boyo, we’ve been through worse, but not much worse.”

I smiled back. Rork was opening a game we’d played for decades whenever things looked bleak. “South China Sea was worse,” I offered.

“Ooh, that time in Africa was far worse’n that,” he countered.

“Which time in Africa?” I asked, and we both laughed. The African mission in ’74 had been dismal, indeed, for a while.

He held up his left arm. “Aye, sir—but Indochina topped it all. Damned dicey, that was.”

“Got me there, Rork. Anything to report?”

“Aye, sir. Wind an’ seas’ve laid down a bit. Visibility picked up an’ I could see two keys o’er to the west while we still had light. We must’ve come through ’em in that wee bitty cut young Absalom knew. Anchor’s holdin’ fine, but I fear the heavy devil’s done dug in halfway to Haytees by now.” He sighed at the thought. “We’ll have one helluva time getting’ that bastard back up.”

I asked the important question. “Leaks?”

“Hull’s no longer flexin’ so we’ve gotten even with ’em, maybe gainin’ by now. Not sure how long we can go like this, though. The lads are done in by it, sir.”

“Any sign of Dunbarton?”

“No. His body’s probably over in the mangroves on Andros Island by now. By the way, I told Blackstone about Dunbarton, since he was down below when it happened.”

“And he blamed me, no doubt . . .”

“Well, did ye expect anythin’ else? Blackstone’s useless for a cook or a sailor, but he’s been workin’ away on that pump. I’ll give him that. Self-preservation can truly inspire even the Blackstones o’ the world.”

I exhaled and leaned back on the cabin top. “So what do we do now? Suggestions?”

A voice came out of the darkness up forward. “I’ve an idea, sir.” Our young black sailor appeared out of the gloom.

“Then I’m listening, Ab. You did very good work today, son. Saved our lives. Thank you.”

Ab sat on the deck. “I think we need to get repairs as soon as possible—right, sir? Get Delilah careened and caulked and re-rigged.”

“Yes, Ab, we do. But it’s going to be a tough voyage. Key West is at least a week or more of upwind tacking—against that current—assuming we’d even make it that far, which is assuming a lot with this hull and rig. Nassau’s closer, but still no less than four days’ sail in our condition. We’ll have to exit that cut, get back out into the ocean, sail up to the Bimini Islands. Then we’ll use the deep-water channel to cross the Great Bahama Bank from there to Northwest Channel. Head onward to Nassau from there.”

The young man shook his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I can get us through Elbow Bank and Sandy Ridge Shoals to Lowes Sound at Andros Island by tomorrow night, if the wind holds steady and fair enough to send us downwind. We don’t have to go north. We can go east from here. Downwind, with less strain on the rig. Once there we can careen the ship and repair her ourselves. They’ll help us there.”

It was a tempting thought, but it wouldn’t work. “Delilah draws six feet, probably more with this water in her, Ab. There’s no channel across the banks for her draft south of Gun Cay.”

Ab shook his head. “That’s what I’m saying, Captain. There is a way, one you outsiders—even folks from other island groups—don’t know. Just us Red Bays people know the way.”

He was referring to the Bahamian Seminoles, on the isolated upper west coast of Andros. It was how they’d stayed hidden for the previous six decades.

“Sounds good to me, lad,” said Rork. “An’ if we do go down, it’ll be in shallow water.”

“You sure you know the way, Absalom?” I asked, studying him by the dim glow of the binnacle.

“Aye, sir. That’s how I got us through that cut in the reef back there—Brown’s Cut. My grandfather showed me the way. He was one of the original people that came here from Florida sixty years ago.”

Never look a gift horse in the mouth, I’ve been told. “Then you’re just the man to lead us through, son. We weigh anchor at dawn. Now go get some rest until your spell at the pump.”

“One more thing, sir. Could we have a service tonight for Mr. Dunbarton? You, being the captain, you could run it. It’d be the Christian thing.”

“That we can.”

***

All hands met on deck. The reef still rumbled, but the wind had lightened to twenty knots and I could see stars shining through holes in the clouds. That meant the storm was past—continuing west to Florida and thankfully not south, toward us.

There was no Bible aboard, so I extemporized as best I could to the bedraggled crowd assembled on the after deck. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Dear Lord, please take care of the soul of James Dunbarton, a sailorman upon the mighty sea, which rose up and took him away today, to go and dwell with You in Your house, never to feel pain again.”

I was about to finish with “Amen” when Rork interjected, his head bent down but his eyes squarely on the cook. “An’ dear Lord above, please help us poor sailor lads still alive down here, that we may pull together an’ find young Luke, to return him to his ever lovin’ mother.”

To which all of us, even a reluctant Connerly Blackstone, said “Amen.”

Seconds later, following Blackstone’s frightened gaze, I noticed that Rork had unsheathed that false left hand, letting his wicked marlinespike reflect the light from the binnacle. He’d kept it covered for the entire voyage until then.

When everyone had gone back below, Rork winked at me.

“Thought it were time to air out me spike. We’ve a long way to go.”