Christopher Cartwright
The Mahogany Ship
This one’s for my children. Elise and Matthew, who are by far the greatest challenge and rewarding adventure of my life.
Prologue
Muttering a vicious oath, Jack Robertson threw up. Again.
It was the most violent storm he’d endured since leaving England almost eight months earlier. The experience confirmed his vow that once he arrived at the settlement in Sydney Cove he’d never take to the sea again.
The Emily Rose shuddered dramatically as her entire bow lifted, losing contact with the white frothy water. It dropped off the edge of an enormous wave, before the following one swamped the entire back deck.
From below, Jack fell to the wooden floor hard. Then he vomited twice more before continuing to man the pumps.
Jack worked on his assigned pump throughout the night and into the following morning. His eyes drifted downwards. He, among so many others, had spewed until all contents of his stomach had been removed. This had then mixed with the sea water, which now mingled where his unsteady legs stood.
Jack could have guessed at the filthy state of the pump room by smell alone. Even so, he smiled. The watermark had been reduced by an entire foot from their efforts. It was disgusting, dirty work, but they were going to survive.
“Well, I’ll be the son of a whore!” Jack said.
“Pardon me, sir?” Mr. John Langham asked.
“I said, God be praised,” Jack replied, dutifully.
The ship turned abruptly, rocking onto its side, causing a number of people to fall.
What now?
Leaving the others to continue pumping, Jack ran up the ladder to the deck and immediately saw the cause of the sudden change.
A massive squall was coming directly from the south, and the helmsman was struggling with another on the wheel to maintain an easterly course.
High in the rigging above, a number of men were aloft, trying to quickly reduce sail area.
Boom!
Lightning struck the mast just before the fore topsail. The five men who had been attempting to furl it were killed instantly. Above them, another three men were trying to climb back down when the now damaged mast snapped under the force of the wind. All eight men fell into the water below.
The top half of the mast crashed into the water, but remained partially attached high up in the rigging. The sail area, having fallen into the water, was caught by the current. It was pulling the entire ship towards the rocky shore.
Jack could hear the screams of the men in the water below, desperate for someone to help them. On deck, he saw the other sailors’ eyes were wide open, their faces contorted in horror, helpless to save the men.
“Mr. Mills,” Captain Baxter’s voice boomed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you be so kind as to take some of your men and finish what God started on my mast before the damn thing drags us aground?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Jack watched as the young midshipman — maybe just fifteen years old, certainly no older — eyed the damaged mast, which looked as though it could snap at any moment in the squall. Mr. Mills organized a rope and pulley from the main mast to take the weight of the damaged foremast. Next to him, a man started to swing an axe as confidently as if he were on the ground in order to sever the remaining shards of wood.
Within seconds, the man had managed to cut through it and the massive broken mast swung from the rope, looking as though it was going to clear the deck. But at the last moment, the rope and pulley became entangled on the very tip of the yardarm.
“Christ, almighty!” the sailor with the axe cursed.
The rope needed cutting, but it was going to be a much harder, more dangerous job. The yardarm was basically a large tree log that sat perpendicular to the mast at various points to form a cross. From it, men in the rigging could unfurl and furl sails that sat directly underneath.
The problem was, now that all the areas above this yardarm had been destroyed, any person trying to get to the end of it would have nothing above to hold on to.
Through the downpour of rain, Jack could just make out the breaking waves upon the jagged shoreline. They were being dragged towards land. The sailor above must have seen it too, because he appeared to let go of all reservations and run along the yardarm.
The man pulled the axe up, ready to swing.
At that very moment, a large wave struck the starboard side of the ship and the man slipped into the violent sea below.
Jack looked to see who would now risk his life to save the ship.
No one moved.
Men were yelling orders everywhere and the Captain, whose voice was normally so calm it appeared malevolent, was screaming for the young midshipman to find a replacement to cut the rope.
And still, nothing was being done.
All right God, I’ll go and save this ship — but then we’re even.
Jack was an atheist, but fools who are willing to risk it all believe in hedging their bets.
He picked up the fallen axe, which had landed unceremoniously, lodging itself into the deck where its previous owner had fallen to his death. It took the strength of both his arms to pull it free. And then he started to climb the rigging thirty feet into the air where the others were trying to create a roping system to support someone when they climbed out onto the edge of the yardarm.
“Out of my way,” Jack snarled.
No one questioned his authority.
Although no one on board could have guessed as to the extent of his violent past, most men aboard the Emily Rose kept their distance. There was something about him that suggested danger.
Jack crawled along the yardarm, his stomach churning. The damn ship seemed to sway even worse from thirty feet in the air. Crouching at the very end, he pulled the axe up and swung it at the rope.
The blade only cut one of the three main strands of the rope and then slipped past, the weight of it very nearly dragging Jack down with it.
He caught himself at the last second and braced himself.
Without waiting, he pulled the big axe once more and swung it down upon the rope. This time it connected perfectly, and the remnants of the massive mast and sail broke free. Below, he could hear the helmsman cry “Huzzah” as he regained control of the ship.
That was close. Christ, but I do hate sailing.
Jack shuffled back until he could hug the top of the surviving mast and then climb down to the deck below. He was greeted by the multiple pats on his back by the sailors who had failed to reach it.
“Well done, sir,” the Captain said.
Then came the sound no sailor ever wants to hear.
Wood scraping along the jagged rocks below the keel.
John Langham heard the sound.
No sooner had its meaning registered in his mind than he saw the water spurting through more than a hundred holes below the bilge.
He stopped working the pump, a wasted effort. The ship was going down and quickly.
Instead of running up towards the deck, he turned and ran aft where the water was now already waist deep. It was cold, but he’d been working the pump long enough that it didn’t matter much to him.
John knew he was risking a lot to reach it, but after all the pain he’d caused to reach this point in his life — somehow he knew, as though God had told him, that it was important to retrieve it and save it from a watery grave.
Worth risking his life.
He found his sleeping net swinging in the sinking ship. Sitting loosely on top he saw what he was after, his Bible.
He took a moment to inspect the vital contents within, then tucked it on the inside of his trouser pants. John looked at the companionway he’d come from. Water had now flooded that part of the ship, which creaked as if it were close to tearing itself apart.