‘Why doesn’t he wear the ship? Can’t he see the danger?’ Gurvan cried. No one answered him.
Some members of the crew were lining the port rail and watching the other ship, making critical comments on the other’s seamanship.
‘Belay that!’ bellowed Murchad. ‘Stand by the halyards.’
The sailors broke off and made towards the ropes which raised and lowered the sail. Fidelma was mentally noting down this strange seaman’s jargon for she was interested in learning what was happening. She felt a sudden shift in wind. It was curious how she had now grown accustomed to noticing wind changes since she had observed how essential it was on shipboard.
‘I knew it!’ cried Murchad, almost stamping his foot. ‘Damn that fool of a captain!’
His cry caused her to look towards the other vessel which stood quite some way away. If she understood Murchad correctly, the other captain should have reset his sail and tacked or zigzagged his ship against the wind. Whatever the technicality was, she could see the result.
The wind had hit the sail of the ship with such force that it lurched forward like an arrow from a bow, pushing it directly into the low line of rocks ahead. Then a contrary wind heeled the vessel over, so far that, for a moment, Fidelma though it would turn right over on its side. It balanced precariously for a moment and then swung upright again. The wind caught once more at the sail and, even above the sound of the sea and the wind, Fidelma could hear a terrible rending sound as the sail tore across.
‘Say a prayer for them, lady!’ cried Gurvan. ‘They have no hope in hell now.’
‘What do you mean?’ gasped Fidelma, and then realised it was a silly question to ask.
For a moment or two the other ship seemed strangely becalmed and then the hanging shreds of the mainsail, and the still intact steering sail, caught in the wind and the vessel lurched forward yet again.
There was a sound the like of which Fidelma had never heard before. It was like a gigantic animal tearing through the undergrowth, splintering wood and uprooting bushes and trees in its wake. That sound was magnified a thousand times across the water.
The other vessel seemed to be hurled forward and, as Fidelma looked on in horror, it began to disintegrate.
‘Smashed on the rocks, by the living God!’ cried Murchad. ‘Heaven help the poor souls.’
She watched with a cold fascination as the distant mast suddenly splintered and crashed over like a tall tree falling, bringing the rigging and remains of the tattered sail with it. Then it seemed as if the planks were breaking up. She could see small dark figures leaping from the ship into the white frothy waters. She imagined she could hear cries and screams, although the wind and the sound of the water smashing against the rocks would have drowned out such sounds.
Within a few moments the other vessel had disappeared and around the dark jagged teeth of the rocks there seemed little but flotsam and jetsam bobbing on the water — bits of wreckage, mainly shattered wooden planks. A barrel. A wicker basket. And here and there, face downwards, a few bodies.
Murchad stood looking on as if he had turned to stone. Then, as a man rousing himself from a sleep, he first shook his head and coughed to clear the emotion from his voice.
‘Lower the mainsail!’ he cracked out.
The hands, already at the halyards, began hauling.
Cian and some of the other members of the pilgrim party had come up on deck, aware that something was happening, and demanding to know what had taken place.
Murchad stared at Cian for a moment and then roared angrily: ‘Get your party below! Now!’
Fidelma went forward, feeling embarrassed, and began to push her fellow religieux towards the hatchway.
‘A ship has just struck the rocks over there,’ she replied in answer to their protests. ‘There does not seem much hope for the poor souls on board.’
‘Can’t we do something?’ asked Sister Ainder. ‘Surely it is our duty to be of assistance?’
Fidelma glanced back to where Murchad was shouting instructions and compressed her lips for a moment.
‘The captain is doing all he can,’ she assured the tall religieuse. ‘You may best help him by obeying his commands.’
‘Bring her head to the wind, Gurvan! Sea anchors! Hold her steady. Stand by to launch the skiff!’
From the jumble of orders, Fidelma realised that Murchad was going to attempt to pick up any survivors.
Seeing her companions going reluctantly below, she turned back to Murchad. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ She asked.
Murchad grimaced and shook his head.
‘Leave it to us for the moment, lady,’ he replied gruffly.
Fidelma did not really want to go below nor return to her cabin, so she moved to a corner where she thought she would be out of the way and could observe what was taking place.
Gurvan had relinquished his position on the steering oar to someone else and had taken a couple of men to lower the longboat — the skiff as Murchad called it — into the choppy seas. Fidelma marvelled at how each man seemed to know his position and what he must do. The Barnacle Goose was now hove-to, sails down and sea anchors dragging to keep the vessel in a fairly steady position. Nevertheless, Fidelma realised that no ship could hold a stationary position for long in these waters; it was just a matter of time before Murchad would have to hoist sail and get out of harm’s way. The rocks looked so dangerously near.
The small craft had hit the waters with a smack and with Gurvan in the bow to direct them and two sailors hauling on the oars, it went slicing across the chopping waters in the direction of the rocks and the bobbing wreckage.
Fidelma bent forwards watching them.
‘I doubt there’ll be any survivors from that lot,’ said a small voice at her side.
She glanced down to find Wenbrit beside her. The lad looked very white and he held his hand to his throat, against the scar which she had noticed when she had first come on board. She had never seen such an expression of fear on his face before. She presumed that he was shocked by what had happened.
‘Do such things often happen at sea?’
The boy blinked, his voice was tight.
‘Ships going on the rocks like that, do you mean?’
Fidelma nodded.
‘Frequently. Too frequently,’ answered the boy, still not relaxed.
‘Only a few go on the rocks due to bad seamanship, due to people who have no knowledge nor respect for the sea and who should never set foot on shipboard, let alone be in charge of a vessel responsible for other people’s lives. Many more go on the rocks due to the weather which cannot be controlled, with the winds, tides and storms. A few other ships founder because the crew or their captain have taken too much liquor.’
Fidelma was intrigued at the suppressed vehemence in the boy’s tone.
‘I can see that it is a matter that you have pondered on at length, Wenbrit.’
The boy gave a bark of laughter which surprised her by its angry note.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ she wondered.
Wenbrit was at once apologetic.
‘Nothing wrong, lady. Sorry, it’s not your fault. I don’t mind telling you now. Murchad saved my life. He pulled me from the seas, from such a wreck as that.’ He gestured with his head towards the floating debris across the water.
She was surprised. After a pause she prompted him, ‘When was that, Wenbrit?’
‘A few years ago now. I was on a ship that ran onto some rocks due to bad seamanship. I can’t remember much about it, except that the captain was drunk and gave the wrong orders. The ship went to pieces. Murchad picked me out of the sea several days later. I was tied to a piece of wooden grating, otherwise I would have slid into the sea and drowned. One of the ropes that lashed me to it had slipped around my throat. I know you have noticed my scar.’