'No, a North is not like a hurricane,' answered Jezreel. 'Everyone knows of the hurricane and the downpours it brings.
But a North stays steady as long as that black cloud is there, and without any rain. But it can be just as fatal if you are on a lee shore.'
By mid afternoon the wind had risen to gale force and was threatening to pluck Hector from his perch. He felt the great dead tree vibrating in the blasts, and wondered if its dead roots would hold. If the tree were toppled, he could not see how they would survive.
'What about the others?' he shouted above the clamour of the wind.
'They'll do the same as us, if they can find a refuge high enough,' Jezreel called back. 'But it's the end of my stay here.'
'What do you mean?' shouted Hector.
'Nothing will remain after this flood,' answered the big man. 'All our stock of logwood is being washed away. Some may stay in place, but the rest will shift and be buried in the mud. It will take weeks to salvage it, and even then it will be almost impossible to bring it to the landing place. A North rarely lasts more than a day or two, but it will be weeks before the flood waters recede far enough for us to begin any recovery. Besides, all our food stores will have been destroyed, and the gunpowder soaked and ruined.'
Glumly Hector looked down at the swirling water. His mind was on Gutteridge and his sloop. Unless the captain had found a truly secure anchorage there was little chance that his vessel would survive.
That evening they ate a meal of cold meat washed down with gulps of water. From time to time they shifted position by a few inches, cautiously easing the discomfort of their perch because the gale still raged. Occasionally a bird flashed past them, swept helplessly downwind.
The gale began to slacken about the time the stars came out and, looking north, Hector saw that the long black cloud had gone. 'That means the North is finished,' Jezreel told him.
They dozed fitfully and at sunrise looked out on a scene of devastation. The flood water extended as far as the eye could see. Here and there the tops of small trees were still visible, but their branches had been stripped of foliage. The only movement was the small, reluctant swirls and eddies in the brown flood which told that the water had reached its peak and was slowly beginning to recede.
'It'll be some hours yet before we can descend,' Jezreel warned. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and there was a companionable silence between them.
'Tell me,1 said Hector, 'how did you finish up here of all places?'
Jezreel waited several moments before answering. 'Those scars on my face are the mark of my former profession. Did you ever hear of Nat Hall, the "Sussex Gladiator"?’
When Hector did not reply, he continued. 'You might have done if you had lived in London and visited Glare Market or Hockley in the Hole. It was there I fought trials of skill, gave exhibitions, taught classes too. The singlestick was my favourite, though I was handy enough with the backsword.1
'I've seen prize fights at home,' said Hector. 'But that was with fists, between farmers at the country fairs.1
'You are talking about trials of manhood,' the big man corrected him. He stretched out his hands to show the callused knuckles. 'That's what fistics leave you with, and maybe a flattened nose and mis-shapen ears. Trials of skill are different. They're done with weapons. My nose was shaped by a blow from a singlestick, and the same caused my scars. Had I received a slash from a backsword that would have left no ear at all.'
'It must take courage to follow such a dangerous profession,1 commented Hector.
Jezreel shook his head. 'I drifted into it. I was always very big for my age, and strong too. By the time I was fourteen, I was taking wagers on feats of strength - breaking thick ropes, pulling saplings up by their roots, lifting heavy stones, that sort of thing. Eventually I found my way to London where a showman promised me that I would be the new English Samson in his theatre. But I was never quite good enough, and he was a cheat.'
Jezreel leaned over from his branch and spat down into the flood water. He waited for a moment, watching the blob of spittle float on the surface. Slowly it drifted seawards. 'On the ebb,' he commented as he settled back against the tree trunk, and continued with his tale. 'I was always quick, as much as I was strong. Have you ever seen hot work at the singlestick?' he asked.
'Never. Is it some sort of cudgel?'
Jezreel made a grimace of distaste. 'That's what some people call it, but gives the wrong idea. Imagine a short sword, but with a blade of ash, and a basket handle. Two men stand face to face, no more than a yard apart, easy striking distance. They hold their weapons high and make lightning cuts and slashes at one another. Each blocks the other's blow and strikes back in an instant. The target is any part of the body above the waist. The feet must stay on the ground, not moving.'
Jezreel's right hand was above his head now and, with bent wrist, he was whipping an imaginary blade through the air, down and sideways, slashing and parrying. For a moment Hector feared that the big man would lose his balance on the branch and tumble into the flood.
'How is the winner decided?' he asked.
'Whoever first suffers a broken head is the loser. To win you must draw blood with a blow to the head, hence my scars.'
'But that doesn't explain why you are here now.'
The prize fighter waited a long time before he continued. 'Like I told you, singlestick was my favourite, but I was handy with the short sword too. It's the same style and technique but with a sharp metal blade, and when you fight for big money, the crowd wants to see the blood flow freely.'
Hector sensed that the big man was finding it difficult to speak of his past.
'I was matched against a good man, a champion. The purse was very big and I knew that I was outclassed. He need not have cheated. He cut me across the back of my leg, tried to hamstring me, and in my anger and pain I lashed out with a lucky stroke. It split his skull.'
'But it was an accident.'
'He had a patron, a powerful man who lost both his wager and his investment. I was warned that I would be tried for murder, so I fled.' Jezreel gave a bitter smile. 'One thing, though, all that exercise with singlestick or backsword will have its uses.'
'I don't grasp your meaning,' said Hector.
'This cursed flood has put an end to my hopes of making a living out of logwood. I expect my comrades will go back to what they did before — buccaneering. I think I'll join them.'
When eventually Jezreel judged it was safe to descend from their perch, Hector accompanied the prize fighter as they waded waist deep through the retreating flood water. They found their camp was wrecked. The huts still stood, though skewed and made lopsided by the current, but all their contents were either washed away or ruined. There was nothing to salvage. They made their way to the landing place among the mangroves and were relieved that the pirogue was undamaged though they had to extract it from the upper branches of a mangrove thicket where it had lodged. Just when they had succeeded in relaunching the pirogue, the two other Bay Men straggled in. They too had shifted for themselves and managed to climb out of harm's way.
'What do we do now?' asked the man with the scarred face whom Jezreel called Otway.
'Best try to link up with Captain Gutteridge ... if his ship still floats,' answered Jezreel. The little group stacked their last remaining possessions into the pirogue, then paddled out from among the mangroves, and along the coast in the direction they had last seen the sloop. They had not gone more than five miles when they saw in the distance a sight which confirmed Jezreel's fears. Cast up a hundred yards into the coastal swamp was the dark outline of a ship. It was Gutteridge's sloop. She lay on her side. A shattered stump showed where the mainmast had once stood. The spar itself lay across the deck in a tangled web of rigging. The mainsail was draped over the bow like a winding sheet.