The Delirium Passage Page 13
“Where is my ship going, Lt. Beauvais?” Carstens asked.
“France. Prize court.”
“They haven’t stores enough aboard to sail to France.”
“Not a problem, they can stop in the United States, and the lieutenant is quite resourceful.”
“I see; and where do we go?”
“Isle Guadeloupe, in Mer de Caribbean.”
“Why did you not let Mister Burton come aboard?”
“The man who goes to help the woman?
“Yes, of course him.”
“Captain will not allow any sick man aboard. No excuse. And he did not act sick, but dangerous.”
“Hmmf. What happens to us in Guadeloupe?”
“I do not know. Ask Captain.” He smiled and walked off.
One last thump of two hulls being pushed together by a passing wave signaled the beginning of bigger trouble for Marion, Ellen, and Neville. The distance between the two ships increased – more rapidly when Department de Landes’ sails dropped, and Speedwell fell off the wind to leave in the opposite direction. Carstens watched his ship disappear into the gathering gloom of night.
13: Swim
Speedwell’s sailors had been taken below but Neville, manacled to the foremast bitts, had enough to think about. Between steaming over his treatment and his loss of Marion, he considered his options: I can’t chase the corvette when I’m here on this ship going the wrong direction. I must get off. Why did I knock that musket down? They wouldn’t have hurt her. All my fault. All my fault, and I’ve lost her… perhaps for a long time. How do I get off this ship? Will they stop somewhere? No, probably not. And Marion should not have pulled her dagger. After she did that there was no chance to talk it out. We might still have been able to talk, if the French weren’t in such a hurry. If we put in to port somewhere, it will most likely be for what? Provisions, of course! And for those, the United States is more likely than Canada – certainly not Nassau. I could find a way off in the U.S., but that will take too long. It might be weeks, or even months, before I would be back to here – or Jamaica. Stupid. We were both stupid. And I didn’t act like any British captain, did I? No, more like a foolish schoolboy. Again, my fault. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I must do anything I can to rescue them.
Neville had noticed a young French lieutenant giving orders for the sailing of the ship. He would surely be the acting commander for Speedwell’s passage to France. The ship now held a steady course, so the lieutenant had time for other things. He walked across the deck to where Neville sat. “Je ne parle pas anglais. Parlez-vous Français? (I don’t speak English. Do you speak French?)”
Neville decided to play ignorant. If they know I speak French, they probably won’t let me see anything. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand you. I don’t speak French.” He paused a minute, wagged his finger round the ship, as if pointing at various people, and held his palms up. “Might some other person be able to translate?”
The lieutenant probably did not understand the words, but he grasped the meaning quickly enough. He walked off toward the bow. Neville heard him call someone. The two returned promptly and a translated conversation began. Since Neville understood French, he had time to consider his answer while the translator worked through the English version of the question.
“Bonjour,” said the French sailor. He put his hands on his chest. “I Robert.”
“Pleased to meet you, Robert. I am Neville.” He automatically attempted to hold out his hand, but the chain stopped it short.
“Ask him if he is only a passenger on this ship,” the lieutenant said.
Neville waited patiently while Robert repeated the question in English.
“Yes. A passenger from Baltimore to Jamaica.”
“You were with the woman with the knife?”
“Yes. She is my fiancée.”
“My Lieutenant says he offers his sorry-ness?”
“Thank you.”
“You are sick? What is the illness?”
“I am not sick now – but not fully recovered. I should have been allowed to go with my fiancée.”
“Captain never allows sick men on his new corvette.”
“So I was told. Will you stop in the United States?”
“Why would we?”
“Your destination is France, no? You will need more food and water for your passage.”
“Yes. Some of the men are unhappy they do not go to the tropical islands. We must see what is on board before we know if we must stop. If we let you loose, will you be trouble for us?”
“No. My lady is not here to defend. Where can I go? Is the doctor here?”
“Doctor? We have a doctor?”
“Yes. Doctor Stortford. I believe he came on the ship. He is also a passenger.”
“We will see. You two may be free to walk about as passengers.”
“If we stop in the United States, might we be free to disembark?”
“I will think about it. All right, I let you loose on your honor to do us no harm.
“My parole, sir.” That will work for me. He didn’t ask me for my promise not to escape.
The lieutenant and Robert nodded to each other. A marine came later to remove Neville’s manacle.
Neville passed a troubled night. In the morning he sought the doctor and then gathered with the Speedwells about their predicament. Without admitting his military status, he described for them the French reasoning behind splitting up the Speedwells crew – to help sail the ship but not to fight. He expressed his opinion that, with good behavior, at least some might be allowed to disembark in the United States.
In the morning, Neville found it possible to obtain a tankard of coffee. Taking it topside, he knew immediately what his plan of escape must be. Looming to starboard before him lay the southern tip of Aklins Island… He knew their location – on the exact reverse of the course she took on the way south. The downwind course was much more comfortable, however. She would avoid the Florida Channel and Nassau, for sure. Therefore, if she were to sail fairly close along the east of Long Island, he would simply go overboard in the dark and swim ashore, though it may be miles.
He strolled casually about the deck, looking for some available flotation device. The ship’s boat was far too big and heavy for one man to handle. There were a few spare spars but they were heavy and would take time to untie – particularly when there were sure to be sailors about. They would probably not be easily steered, either. An empty chicken coop – also not steerable. Sails and line buckets and the line itself – not good. Belaying pins? Not big enough alone, but tied together? No, not practical.
Neville continued walking about, but not much more piqued his interest.
“Good morning, Mister Burton,” said a familiar voice.
Neville started, and looked up from his scouring of the deck to see Dr. Stortford smiling at him. “I am quite pleased to see you walking about,” the doctor said. “You feel much stronger, I take it?”
“I do, doctor, thank you. What do you think of our predicament?”
“I find it somewhat interesting. Why do you ask?”
“I thought you might be outraged about the inconvenience.”
“No, no. I have been wandering of late. My practice in Baltimore did not go well. I’m not the business type, it seems. I managed to make a large fortune into a small one. I took what I had left to travel a bit, and perhaps find a place where I can be useful without the financial aspects of it being troublesome.”
“So, you did not find an unexpected patient a burden?”
“Not at all. I’m pleased you presented your case. You were difficult, certainly, and I’m not entirely sure I helped you much, but it made the passage all the less tedious.
“Well, Doctor, I’m glad I could help. But you have no concerns about going to France if they won’t let you off in the United States?
“Not at all. France will be interesting. There are several French doctors doing some exciting things I will enjoy lookin
g into. I hadn’t planned to travel to France, but why not?”
“I do feel much better, though I’m not as strong as I would like.”
“It may take some time to fully recover from such a thing, yes.”
“Doctor, may I confide something?”
“Certainly. I feel as if we are old friends.”
“I plan to jump ship.”
“In the U.S., I assume.”
“No. Here, tonight.”
“We’re not putting in to some harbor, are we?”
“No. I mean jumping overboard. Jumping, and swimming to shore on Long Island.”
“It’s a ludicrous idea, Mister Burton. I’m sure you haven’t the strength for it. Why attempt such nonsense?”
“Why? Because I have been separated from my fiancée, and it’s my fault, and I must rescue her. I can’t wait until we get to the U.S. I must jump here amongst these islands and where the water is warm. Also, I’m a captain in the British Navy. If they learn of it, I’ll be in France forever.”
“I see.” They both paused, watching a flight of petrel’s swoop along the wavetops looking for their morning meal.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I need you to stop any of the Speedwell sailors from raising an alarm when I’m found missing. When the French know, they know, but let’s not start the panic amongst our British friends.”
The conversation paused until Stortford spoke. “You need a floatation aid or I’ll wager you’ll not make it.”
“Exactly what I’m looking for. I don’t see much. A hatch cover might serve, if I can find one small enough and is also not hinged or dogged from the inside. I’ve walked around this ship often enough. I saw one, but I don’t remember where.”
“Maybe below, then?”
“I suppose. You have something in mind, and you’re willing to be my accomplice?”
“Against doctor’s orders, but yes. I noticed two things below, possibly… one for sure.”
That evening, after the sun sank in the west but before its light was gone, Neville casually sauntered to a point along the larboard rail where he could not see the helmsman. He had learned that the men on watch tended to pace the starboard rail aft. He could not be seen by them, either. He carried one two-foot canvas sack and two smaller goatskin wine sacks.
To larboard the south end of Long Island, from this distance, presented itself as a thin strip of sand, illuminated gold by the setting sun, but only vaguely visible. A white puff of cloud gave further evidence of the island. With the moon not yet up and the sun set, the stars did not yet provide their full light. He waited nervously while one of the French soldiers walked by. It was time to jump. He raised his thumb to a figure in the dark, who immediately came to him, dragging the top of a mess table.
“God’s love,” Dr. Stortford said. He threw the table overboard, as Neville rolled over the rail and fell into the water. From a ship the size of Speedwell, his fall of only about eight feet caused a splash less than that of the table top. Stortford leaned on the rail, watching Neville and the table disappear quickly behind. He was prepared to tell anyone who came to ask about the splashes that he had just seen a great porpoise leap alongside.
In the water, Neville had an urge to wave goodbye, although he knew he dared not display any flashes of white, such as the palm of his hand, in the event the ship decided to turn about for him. He saw nobody moving about during the few minutes it took for the ship to move beyond clear vision, no lights or signals other than the ship’s stern light. He heard no shouts. Soon only the sails were visible. Finally, even they ghosted into the night.
It was time to swim. He had retrieved the table top. It floated, but he doubted it would hold him afloat well, despite being about one and a half inches thick. He took a few pieces of string from his pocket, removed his shoes and trousers, and put them in the large bag. Finally, his shirt went in, and he tied the bag to a hole he had earlier drilled through the table. Next, he tied the two goatskin bags to the ends of a three-foot string and coaxed one to each side of the table. Once the bags were in place, he proceeded to fill each with water. The doctor had poured some white powder into each and told Neville to keep it dry until he entered in the water. Each bag did as the doctor described – filled with air or some gas created by the mixture – and Neville corked them firmly.
The table top floated well enough to hold Neville when he struggled aboard – or for when he tired. He paddled toward shore. He couldn’t see Long Island from his position so low in the water, but he had no question the island lay to the west. From his years at sea, he knew he was swimming in the right direction simply by taking an occasional glance at the stars. He thanked his Maker for a calm sea and paddled on. Three-foot swells crossed him from his left side, but the door rode easily over them. A few rolled over the top of him, however, causing him to stop paddling and hold tight.
In his weakened condition, he found he could only paddle for a short time, which he guessed about half an hour, before he had to rest. Currents in the area, he remembered, flowed from south to north. At this rate of speed, he risked being pushed north by the wind and current, past the southern foot of Long Island, faster than he could manage to swim to shore. Such a disaster would add hours of swimming time to reach land. If he were able to reach land as he hoped, he should be near Clarence Town and some possible help. The thought strengthened his resolve, so he began again without much rest.
He had estimated four to five hours to reach the island… quite a lot, yes, but possible. Judging by the stars which had now set ahead of him, he guessed he had been paddling about two hours. When taking a rest, he realized his inner arms had begun to chafe against the edges of the table. He had almost decided to give it a go, despite the pain, and even if he were to bleed badly by the time he touched land, when a terrifying thought leapt into his mind. Blood… Sharks!
The thought caused him to jerk his arms and legs ‘aboard’ and consider his predicament. With few resources at his command, he laid still for a few minutes, resting and pondering. Clothing was the only thing he had, so he opened his bag and took out his shirt. Using his teeth and his waning strength, he tore the sleeves off, and stuffed the shirt back into the bag. He had become familiar with the table top’s floatation quirks by then, but still found it awkward to wrap one sleeve around each of his arms. They were to act more as anti-chafe gear than as bandages, and he hoped no blood would escape. He rested a few more minutes before resuming his paddling.
Neville alternated paddling and resting for another two hours. During one of his resting phases, when he made no noise splashing his hands, he heard – or thought he heard – voices. He listened intently, even holding his breath. He was sure he heard voices. The moon had risen; only a quarter moon, but with enough light to see. He looked around for a ship. Sails should be visible – or a light. It wasn’t possible to stand, or even kneel, on a table top rolling over waves, even though the waves were now more rounded and only two feet of height. Yet he heard the voices and began to wonder if the voices were only another delirium of exhaustion. But still he heard them.
He then saw, directly in front of him, a vertical dim pillar of light – a mere flash, perpendicular to the water – but it came again. Something reflected moon light. Another flash; this time at an angle less than perpendicular. The thing appeared to be only a few inches wide, and maybe ten feet tall. Neville forced himself to admit, since he had no idea of the distance to the object, he had no actual idea of the dimensions. But voices? It must be close.
The answer dawned on him, and he yelled, “Ahoy.”
The voices stopped, but soon began again in a more excited cadence – at least two men speaking to each other, followed by quiet.
Neville yelled again, “Help! Over here! Help! Ayuda me!”
This time, his call was returned, “Who’s there? Where are you?”
“In the water,” Neville yelled, “I see your mast. You are due west of me.”
“Oi,”
one of the voices yelled.
Neville held still, and he heard clunking noises, and the sound of wood thumping against wood. Splashes followed, as if something had been thrown overboard, followed momentarily by a continuous series of double, almost simultaneous splashes.
Oars. They were now rowing. In only a few minutes, Neville saw a low object block a portion of the stars on the western horizon. The vertical flashes, reflection off the fishing boat’s mast, became steadier. “Here. Over here,” he yelled. He saw dull outlines of two men and a dark-painted small sailing craft, only fifty feet away.
“There,” yelled one of the men, “Off to the right.”
The rowing continued, and the boat and men increased in clarity and size to Neville, until he was alongside. “What in God’s Name?” asked one of them when they saw him. “What’s a naked man doing on a plank out in the ocean? Help him in, Timothy, he speaks English.”
A pair of strong arms hauled Neville aboard. He clutched his clothing bag but left the rest in the water.
“Thank you, lads,” Neville panted. “You are angels.”
“Never been called that before,” said the one who’d helped him into the boat. “Where are you from?”
“Ship captured by French. I jumped overboard… this evening after dark.”
“Jumped overboard? Into these waters? There are sharks everywhere. You still have your arms and legs, I see. Are you hurt? What’s yer name?”
“Neville. No, not hurt; just need to sleep… have any water?”
“I’m James,” the older one said. “This other is me son, Timothy.”
“All right, Neville. Here’s the water bag. You sleep. We’ll finish our fishing and we’ll go in at dawn. We have children to feed.”
“Fair enough,” Neville said. He opened his bag and pulled out his trousers and what remained of his shirt. He didn’t move for several minutes, but then put them on.
Neville awoke to the sounds of wood thumping against wood. This time it was the fishermen raising their tattered sail, with the worn boom hitting the wooden mast as the sail went up. One large tuna and several smaller fish lay in the bottom of the boat at Neville’s feet. His back hurt where he’d been lying on one of the boat’s crude frames, and his arms felt like they could only hang limp after all the paddling.