The Golden Ocean (29 page)

They had not done all they had intended: that was true; for luck had been against them, and the secrecy of their expedition had been a farce. But they had come round the Horn, where no ship had been able to follow them and live: they had cruised on the Spaniards in a sea where the Spaniards had felt themselves utterly safe: they had destroyed an immense value of enemy shipping and merchandise—infinitely more than they carried in prize-money, for they had sunk, burnt, and destroyed, according to their orders. And they had sacked Paita. They had done this at a terrible cost to themselves: and even now they were to beat against the monsoon to Batavia. But the first was past and the second was yet to come, and for the moment they were reaching upon a fair wind, with a clean, stout ship under them; and above all, they were homeward bound.

‘A
LL HANDS ON DECK. ALL HANDS ON DECK.’ THE CRY AND THE
insistent pipes rang through the ship.

‘What the devil’s the matter now?’ asked Peter, rolling sleepily out of his hammock. ‘Hands to punishment?’

‘Commodore—addressing the crew,’ cried Hill as he flew from the berth.

Peter shot up on deck, and blinking in the sunlight ranged himself in his due place on the quarter-deck.

‘What on earth …?’ he thought, screwing up his eyes. They were only a few days out of Macao, not far out of soundings yet: nothing could have happened to warrant such a portentous assembly.

A great silence filled the ship as the last scurrying hand nipped into his place. Two hundred and twenty-five pairs of eyes were fixed on the Commodore from the main-deck: nineteen pairs from the quarter-deck. Only the quartermasters looked forward, as they steered the
Centurion
on the easy, sighing wind.

Mr Anson withstood this fire and cross-fire of eyes with complete equanimity. He waited for a moment after the total silence had fallen, and then in a voice that could be heard very distinctly, he said, ‘Men. We are going to try again for the Acapulco ship. Quiet, there. I have withheld this news until we were at sea, because now no foolish babbler can destroy his shipmates’ chances. The galleon sails in March from Acapulco for Manilla. You know that. She raises Cape Espiritu Santo in the Philippines between the first week in June and the
end of the month, New Style. If all hands attend to their duty we shall reach the station in time. This year there may be two ships, because we shut them up last time. Now there may be some of you who have heard the stories they put about concerning the galleon—that she is a tall ship, with a great crew and sides so thick that they are proof against shot. They are tall ships: they may carry fifty guns or more: and they may have five or six hundred men but they are not proof against shot. It you engage them a great way off, if you have no taste for closing, why then your shot may not pierce. But,’ said the Commodore, and a slight flush mounted into his face, ‘if you behave as I am accustomed to see you behave, we shall engage her, or the two of them, and I give you my word that it shall be so close that one shot will drive not through one side, but both. And if you are the men I believe you are, we shall sink her or take her.’

The cheer crashed out like a broadside. Three cheers that rocked the
Centurion
from keelson to truck, then a vast disorderly cheering that went on and on.

‘That will do,’ said the Commodore. ‘Dismiss the men, if you please, Mr Saumarez. The course is due east.’

Due east the
Centurion
flew. In the morning she was flying still, her bowsprit right in the eye of the rising sun: and the wind held fair.

‘We must not be too sanguine,’ said Peter, trying to master his hands as he straightened the chart.

‘No. We had high hopes before, and they was dashed cruel hard,’ said Ransome. ‘We must not raise ’em too high.’

But even as they spoke they knew it was no good. The ship was alive with excitement: all the disappointed longings, swallowed down with a sailor’s hard-learnt philosophy, had sprung into brilliant life, as strong and stronger than ever: the ship was blazing with expectation—and they were part of the ship. They might talk as much as they pleased, but in their hearts there was a bubbling ferment that would not be kept down.

Never had the Commodore spoken with such certainty.
Always, before Acapulco, there had been caution, reserve: this time he had said, ‘I will bring you to the station where she must pass: if you have spirit enough, we shall take her.’ He had certainly acquired some secret intelligence in Canton or Macao: he knew that she would sail: and he had given nothing away—the whole crew had been convinced that they were bound for Batavia; everybody on shore had been so unquestioningly certain of it that at this very moment, in the clerk’s cabin, there lay bags of mail for Batavia.

Eastward, eastward, and south about Formosa. ‘May 5th. 21° 57’ N., Bashee Islands bearing SSE 20 leagues. Botel Tobago Xima 7 leagues N. So the Bashees were 25 leagues too much to the W. on the chart: corrected it.’ These observations were of the first importance in navigation, and the Commodore was not, for one minute, going to allow such opportunities to pass: and as the observations were also of the greatest assistance in bringing them to their station in time, every man aboard capable of making them wielded the instruments with passionate zeal.

Glory and a million pieces of eight depended on their efficiency: for this was the galleon bound for Manilla, and her cargo was solid silver and gold.

Efficiency was their ambition and their watchword. Even in the highest days before Acapulco, Peter had never seen men race up the rigging or fling themselves to the braces with such instant, intelligent speed. It was as if their hopes had come to life five times reinforced by long rest. And at the guns the crews practised with indefatigable care: if a shot went wild there was no need for any officer’s reproof; the gun’s crew would be as down as if each man had lost five guineas, and the captain would look wretchedly ashamed. With so small a ship’s company there could not be men enough to fight all the guns: they were divided into gangs of ten on the main-deck, twelve on the gun-deck—two loaders to each gun, and the rest to run from one port to another. They practised continually, so that no words were needed, and the heavy guns ran in and out with silent, astonishing speed.

The sharpshooters, the men with small-arms in the tops, brought themselves to a degree of perfection that would have made a musketry instructor gasp. They were a band of thirty, carefully picked by a long series of competitions, followed with breathless interest by the entire crew: within this band rank and rating went by the board, for a steady hand and eye might be found in any man, irrespective of his degree; and some of the most skilled specialists—warrant officers and their mates—found themselves under the iron rule of Gyppo Soames. For two years past the pipe of All hands to witness punishment had primarily meant that Gyppo was going to cop it again; and the rolling drum’s chief duty had been to drown the poacher’s anguish. But now what a change was here: Soames neat, clean, a conscientious, exemplary tyrant—a most respectable man indeed. And for that matter, the
Centurion
’s defaulters’ list showed an unnatural blankness from the day of the Commodore’s address: it was marred only once, in May, by the record of a furious battle between Hairy Amos and Henry Burrell, able seamen of the starboard watch, for the possession of a musket named Old Noll, allegedly superior to all but Gyppo Soames’ Dead-Reckoner.

‘May 15th. No latitude at noon. Logged 71 leagues, course SW 17 hours, SW½W 7 hours. A glorious run after yesterday’s and the day before’s head-wind and dying airs. Topmen fired upon a pewter plate (old) veered out on a 20 fathom line: 30 holes in it at first volley: praised by Commodore. Mem. Cape Espiritu Santo shows as one knob, three little knobs, one knob, then a headland bearing NNE 1 mile to the sea.’

‘May 17th. Terrible day of calm. Boats away to tow—how much lighter she is—but still am quite fagged out. It is the anxiety, not the exercise. 4 miles logged. Slight current setting E½N however, a great comfort.’

‘May 18th. Half-gale at N and NNW. Crew rejoiced. Carried away larboard main-topgallant studdingsail boom: rigged out another and made good in 7 minutes 45 seconds. Sean begged I would explain plain rule of thumb navigation. Spent all watches below at mast-head watching for Cape. Mem. one
knob, three clustered knobs, one knob, headland: must be on starboard bow. Later: wind dying in gusts—much anxiety.’

‘May 19th. 11° 53’ N. 3° 46’ E. of Botel Tobago Xima. A prodigious run. We may do it yet.’

‘May 20th. Beautiful gale throughout middle watch and forenoon. Raised Cape at noon. I saw it at the same moment as Wilson, whatever he may say, SSW 11 leagues—knob, 3 knobs, knob, on starboard bow. Instantly tacked and struck topgallants, because of the sentinels they post there for the galleon, with beacons. Cape Espiritu Santo is in 12° 40’ N. precisely and 4° E. of Botel Tobago Xima: all our reckonings agree. This is May 31st, their style, and 3 days before the Acapulco ship has ever made the Cape. We are to cruise between 12° 50’ N. and 13° 5’. Crew in most amazing high spirits. Must get some sleep, not having turned in these four watches together.’

‘May 31st. Gunnery practice. Some elegant shots. Number 7 and 10 lower tier still a little slow, being mostly ship’s boys. Longboat lashed alongside, in readiness. Mem. shot-garland no. 4 is a little worn.’

‘June 3rd. Keeping station. This is June 14th N.S. We grow somewhat uneasy. Sorcery beginning again. Lascars very sly about their sacrifice to Pulay Wooloo—a god of their parts, I find. Gave them a Canton hen. Wish them luck. I had a horrible dream that we were blown off station: I wish it may not be an omen.’

‘June 5th. Keeping station. Guns firing all day as usual. The black men’s guns won the prize. How they gleam, when heated. Mulberry lost his little finger running up no. 36: said “Damn um,” and laughed heartily. Tomorrow is the height of their time—the most usual day—16th, their style.’

‘June 11th. Cruising still. An anxious week, but anxiety allayed because of fresh breezes at W. and WSW., which must keep her back. Men have little time for anxiety, being as busy as bats. Scene between Commodore and Sean. Mr Anson wanted mutton: Sean said No, only two China sheep left, and begged pardon, but one must be kept for Commodore
to celebrate victory and one to sustain Spanish captain in defeat. Commodore still wanted mutton, however: Sean grew dogged—was told obstinate, pigheaded; asked if he wished to be flogged? Unmoved. Commodore went aft, muttering.’

‘June 12th. Accident with no. 41. Overheated—kicked at the charge—turned, damaging trunnion. Beautiful repair by Aston, goldsmith by trade. Ransome sleep-walked with a cutlass. We pray earnestly for head-winds, which will be fair for the galleon. Weed beginning to grow.’

‘June 13th. Prayers answered. Fresh breezes and ½ gale E. and NE. Mulberry says it is his god—nonsense. Lascars look uncommon knowing, but say nothing. Gunnery, small-arms; very strict lookout.’

‘June 16th. A shocking thing has occurred. We were confident that we were on station 15 leagues off the cape, but at dawn we found it looming at a bare 7 leagues, the tide having set prodigious strong. Clawed off with all haste: but have our topsails been seen?
Gloucester
’s were, off Acapulco. If their sentinels were awake they could already have sent one of those amazing swift outrigger canoes beyond us already, in the dark, as an aviso to the galleon.’

‘June 18th. Backing and filling in one patch of weed all day. Anxiety very painful. Could she have passed us in the night, days ago? Ship filled with rumours.’

‘June 19th—30 their style and the last day of the month. Can hardly bear it any more. Commodore keeps the deck. Unable to sleep or eat. If she don’t come within 48 hours it is all up.’

Worn and irritable from lack of rest, Peter came off duty at the end of the middle watch. It was four in the morning. He could not face small beer and biscuit, nor the unending guess and conjecture of the berth. He moved slowly up to the foretop in the grey light of the declining moon: the dew was wet under his hands, and the rigging fiddle-string tight. The
Centurion
lay head-on to the Pacific surge, and remotely
before her the stars shone low. It was now the morning watch, and somewhere beyond the rim of the sea the sun would have risen. Peter made a quick calculation: yes, the first rays would be coming green through the woods in Tinian now. They would be lighting the blackened keel of the bark they had burnt: and the dawn would be racing westward at an inconceivable speed. Soon—in an hour and a half or thereabouts—it would have covered the whole tract of sea that had taken them so long to pass, and it would put out the stars.

They were growing a little paler already. Yes, he thought, shifting a leg cramped with sitting and moving up to the topmast-head to loosen it out, yes, they are much paler already, and the small three in a line have almost gone.

That
star, he thought: I cannot place it. He called the astronomical atlas into his mind: but no, he said again, I do not make it out.

‘Oh, strike me,’ he whispered aloud, with something like horror (yet not horror, either) in the sound of his throat. ‘It can’t be …’

The star had not paled. Nor had it risen at all, like those few that could yet be seen: and there was no star in that quarter, nor any planet at all.

With a long swooping rush he slid down the back-stay. ‘I beg pardon, sir,’ he said in a low voice to Mr Dennis, the officer of the morning watch. ‘But I believe there may be a ship’s light one point on the larboard bow. I am not sure, sir.’

The third lieutenant’s face froze in attention. Without a word he vanished aloft: he was back; he gripped Peter’s hand, shook it briefly, made a dash towards the Commodore’s cabin, checked himself and said, ‘No. You may go—compliments, of course—say I confirm.’

‘Mr Dennis’s compliments, sir,’ said Peter, addressing the wide-awake eyes that gleamed from the cot, ‘and there is a top-light at south-east.’

‘Very good, Mr Bailey—no, Mr Palafox, I see. I will be on deck directly.’

It was impossible to say how the news had spread: but even
before the Commodore had stepped from his cabin the men were appearing in the dimness from every part of the ship. The entire watch below was on deck, waiting and waiting: silently waiting and staring aloft towards the mast-head.

And when at last, with the sun, there came the wonderful cry from aloft it was not a surprise, but a confirmation—a profoundly satisfying confirmation, received with a deep, sighing growl.

She had long been stripped for action. There was little to do, and that little was done in seven minutes: now they were to wait. Yet before the galley fires were doused Mr Anson ordered a hot dinner: all hands would eat it, he said, or be sent below during the whole of the action.

With polished mess kits they watched him anxiously. Satisfied, he ordered the fires to be doused, and five minutes later the drumroll, tan tarara tan, filled all the ship. Clear for action: and action stations.