“No help is coming.” Covilha shook his head. “We lost the rudder when we hit those rocks just beneath the surface. Most likely, we have drifted out of the shipping lanes. We cannot expect anyone to come to our aid, and this craft will not be above water much longer. The pumps have not kept pace with the inflow of water. Perhaps you have noticed, no?”
Rienzi stared at the shorter man for a moment. He had, in fact, watched the rising waterline with an equally rising sense of despair. He could not afford to lose this cargo. It was too precious. The world could not afford for him to lose this cargo. How could he make the man understand?
“Captain, if you do not know where we are,” he argued, “then how can you possibly hope to get the passengers and crew safely to port?” Perhaps it was selfish of him to try to keep the sinking ship in the water, but he had no choice. It was imperative that he convince Covilha not to abandon the ship and cargo. There remained the remote possibility that someone might come to their rescue. Any amount of time he purchased, no matter how small, increased that chance.
“I do not know precisely where we are,” Covilha said, holding up a scarred finger, “but we have drifted south and southeast all day. I have a general idea of our location, and I know that I can get us to Singapore. That is, if we get off this ship before we all drown.” The Captain’s face was a mask of determination, and in that moment Rienzi understood that he would never dissuade the man.
“Captain,” called a voice from behind Rienzi. One of the crewmen, a short, swarthy man with a crooked scar running from his left ear to his upper lip, brushed past, a frightened look further marring his disfigured face. “The water is coming much faster than before. We may have only minutes!” He flashed a sympathetic glance at Rienzi. “I am sorry, Monsieur.”
The moment of guilt he felt at having thought only of the sailor’s ugliness dissolved with Covilha’s subsequent words.
“Give the order to abandon ship,” the captain instructed. Without further word, he turned away from Rienzi and began shouting hastened instructions.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Rienzi hurried to the foredeck and descended to the level where the crew bunked. He had made certain he knew exactly where his treasures were stored, the one in particular, and he quickly found the trapdoor that led down into the hold. The sounds of frightened passengers drifted down from above, as people who had believed the worst was over now found themselves abandoning ship. Fitting this should happen at midnight, he thought.
Yanking open the trapdoor, he mounted the ladder and began his descent. Only a few rungs down, he heard the sloshing of water inside. It must be filling rapidly. An icy sense of doom rising inside him, he strained his eyes to peer into the inky blackness, but it was too dark for him to see anything. He needed to find a lantern, though it would likely do little good. Why had he not stored it in his berth? He knew the answer; it was too large for him to hide it in the tiny room, and it would have proved too great a temptation for either captain or crew. It had seemed safer to leave it crated with the other artifacts. It was certainly safe from prying hands now. Or soon would be. He gave a mirthless laugh at the irony.
He clambered up the ladder and back onto the deck. The Dourado was listing to port, and he was hard-pressed to maintain his balance as he hurried back to his quarters. Inside, he gathered his small lantern, along with his journal, which he kept safe in an oilcloth bag. Hastily lighting the wick, he returned to the deck.
The ship now listed mightily, and he was forced to place his free hand on the deck and scurry along like a wounded crab. As he made his way toward the foredeck, a noise caught his attention. He raised his lantern and the light fell on two young women, their faces frozen in terror, clutching the mast.
“Get to the boats,” he shouted. “Quickly!” The shorter woman, a blonde whose milky complexion was almost ghostly in the blended moon and lamp light, shook her head. The other did not respond at all. Fear held them rooted to the spot.
“Monsieur!” The Captain’s voice boomed. “The second boat is leaving! You must come now!”
“Wait for us, Captain! There are yet passengers aboard!” Rienzi cried. If the man would not wait for Rienzi, perhaps he would wait for them.
“Hurry, I pray you!” Covilha’s voice covered a remarkable distance. “The ship is sinking fast!”
“Mon dieu,” Rienzi muttered as he scrambled over to where the frightened women sat. “Come with me,” he ordered. “I will get you to the boats.” The one who had sat in mute silence a moment before, a thin brunette with brown eyes, nodded. She released her grip on the mast with obvious reluctance, and crawled to his side.
“Come, Sophie,” she called to the blonde. We must go quickly. There is no time.” Still Sophie shook her head and refused to move.
This time not bothering to muffle his curse, Rienzi moved to the woman’s side, his boots sliding on the damp decking. Gripping the oilcloth bag in his teeth, he used his free hand to pry Sophie’s fingers loose from the mast. He grasped her around the waist, and heaved her onto his shoulder. He felt the other woman’s arms encircle him, steadying him as they stumbled together across the sloping deck.
The captain was waiting at the rail. Together, they helped the women into the smaller boat. A short distance away, the longboat awaited. Each craft overflowed with anxious looking sailors and travelers.
“That is everyone?” Covilha asked.
Rienzi nodded and tossed his oilcloth bag down into the boat. “Cast off. I will join you shortly.” He turned and left the captain gaping open-mouthed at the top of the rope ladder. He stumbled and skidded his way back down through the crewdeck to the opening that led into the hold. He dangled his lantern through the open trapdoor and felt his heart fall into his stomach. Everything was under water. All would be lost. It would be lost. He should have taken it from the hold when the ship first struck the rocks. Burn it all, he had not believed that the ship would truly sink!
A pitiful whimper snapped him out of his dark thoughts, particularly when he realized that it did not come from his own throat. He looked down to see a small dog furiously paddling through the icy salt water that sloshed through the flooded hold. How had it gotten there? The water level was so high that he was easily able to reach out and catch the pitiful creature by the scruff of the neck, and lift it to safety.
The Dourado lurched, and now he could actually feel the craft sinking. If he did not get clear before it went down, the suction could pull him under. He tossed away the lantern, ignoring the tinkle of shattering glass. Clutching the frightened dog to his chest, he stumbled to the ladder and clambered up onto the deck. Not even looking for the lifeboats, he dashed to the rail and leapt over. The Dourado was sitting so low that he scarcely had time to brace himself for the shock of the cold water.
When he felt his feet touch, he kicked furiously, trying not to go too far under. He raised the yelping, clawing dog above his head, and managed to keep the tiny creature above water. He broke the surface with a gasp and shook his head to get the stinging salt water out of his eyes. He was relieved to see the smaller boat close by, and heading in his direction. Ignoring his body’s instinct to curl into the fetal position, he fought to stay afloat as his rescuers rowed to him. His legs felt like lead and his sodden clothes and heavy boots weighted him down. He kicked with desperate fury, but he was sinking. His shoulders sank beneath the surface of the water, then his chin, then his entire head. He was going to die.