We did, eventually; but not much, and by then the sweat had sloughed most of the powder-burn off our faces. The day grew hotter, and men took turns to collapse in the scuppers and let the deck-pumps play over them. I lay gasping among them as the stream moved on, blinking up at the sky and feeling the thin crust of salt dry almost at once on my skin; I licked it hungrily from my lips. Where were we? It felt more tropical than anything, the air warm and the sun fierce. Overhead, on the jury-rig coupled to the mainmast stump, the single sail flapped loosely as they ran it up, giving us moments of welcome shade. After five hours solid slog in the stinking heat below it was sheer paradise; I wasn’t up to the technicalities of re-rigging, but patching shotholes with planks and mallets, that I could manage. Now, though, I didn’t feel able to drive a nail through tissue-paper; getting back on deck had taken my last reserves, and I was glad enough to just elbow myself up again and wait for the next glorious blast of water. Instead a shadow settled over me, almost as welcome, and lingered.
‘Well, hi,’ came Jyp’s voice. ‘Still rarin’ t’go, are we?’
‘Bugger off,’ I croaked, blinking up at him, a silhouette edged with glowing brass. He shifted, and the sunlight clashed like a giant cymbal. I sank back with a groan. ‘No stay, I need the shade. My head’s ready to fall off and roll down the scuppers. Any more hammering and it probably will.’
‘You’ll never miss it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But we’re close to done now. We’ll be able to tack now without shipping too much water, thanks to you guys. And the new rig takes the weight of the sail just jim-dandy.’
I took the hand he stretched out and he hauled me effortlessly to my feet. He must have been working as hard as everyone else, he looked just as hot and haggard and bristly, but it didn’t seem to diminish his energy in the least. His lean face was aglow as he grinned up at the primitive lash-up made with the broken foremast. How old was he, I wondered; how long ago did he come into the world, and where? There was something about him, something the same as Mall, though less strong – an aura of energy, inexhaustible strength. They seemed completely tireless, almost inhumanly so – except that they positively radiated humanity, whether in good nature and kindness, almost overwhelmingly so to me, or in the startling ferocity they let loose on their enemies. Inhuman was no way to think of them; superhuman would be nearer the mark.
Was it their age alone, or was that just incidental to another quality, another force that drove them to live so long and so intensely? Now that I came to think of it, there was something the same about Pierce, in a more stolid way, and about other faces in the crew. But in them it was not as strong or as complete, and sometimes it did look inhuman; the limping Master Gunner, Hands, seemed to crackle and glitter with malicious destructive energy, as if he burned not food but gunpowder in his guts. As if he embodied the living spirit of his guns, with no purpose except to destroy, and no care as to what.
Suddenly I felt the lack deeply, even of a one-sided passion like that; nothing of the sort burned in me. I felt rusty and ashen and empty, like the long-neglected fireplace I’d uncovered in redecorating my flat. The need to help Clare raised a glow, maybe – no, more than that. One last fierce flame in the embers; but its lonely blaze only highlighted the empty hearth. The rest was cold.
Jyp clouted me amiably on the shoulder. ‘Hey, cheer up!’ he said, propelling me through the incredible clutter towards the quarterdeck. ‘Thought you’d like to see – we’re going to bring her head around now, let the sail catch the wind a little and if the rig holds – why, we’re cookin’ with gas!’
‘Hands! All hands!’ came the hollow roar from the bridge trumpet. ‘Man the braces! Mr Mate! We’ll have that sea-anchor in! Carry on when you’re ready, Sailing Master!’
As the mate and his party hauled in the float that had kept our nose into the wind, Jyp bounded up onto the companionway. ‘Aye aye, cap’n! Ready, helm? Bring her round then – handsomely, now – a point, a point – sheets –’ His eyes fixed on the new rig, he gave his orders in a tense monotone, hardly a shout; but the deck fell so quiet his voice carried clearly. The crude-looking square-sail began to quiver, the yard creaked; I held my breath. The canvas thrashed once, twice, then swelled taut with a satisfying thump. The mast took the strain, creaked and quivered against its stays in the play of vast tensions, like invisible fingers – and held. The deck lost its lolling motion and rose smoothly as the ship strained sluggishly forward. A great sigh went up as everyone remembered to breathe again, as if we were trying to fill the sail ourselves.
‘Steady as she goes! That’s well done, my chicks!’ The squawk of the trumpet didn’t quite conceal the relief in Pierce’s voice. ‘Very well done! A spot of refreshment’s in order, I’ll warrant! Not quite noon yet, but we’ll consider it so!’ A hoarse cheer echoed his order. ‘Up spirits, Mr Mate, and a double tot for all! Then hands to eat, by watches!’
Not quite noon? There stood the sun, all right, just off the zenith – though that might mean nothing, in this crazy world. It felt more like day’s end to me, after five hours in that hellhole – but then I’d started not long after dawn. Currents were building up in the crowd on deck, and I found myself drawn into one, headed for the foot of the new mainmast where two large barrels had been set up. Before I knew it I was gulping down a pannikin full of a potent mix; I’d never much liked rum, but even cut with water that grog was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Life flowed back into me with a rush, and I found myself grinning back at the other crewmen, and probably looking just as inane. I seemed to be getting along with them as well as with the officers, or maybe better, and that pleased me absurdly. Right from my college days I’d been always a chief, never an Indian, and there was a good side to being the greenhorn again. Not that there was much social distinction aboard; here came Jyp, wiping his lips from the same pannikin, and if the sailors cleared a path for him it was good-humouredly and with real respect.
‘Chow time, port watch!’ he shouted, and as half the hands went clattering and tumbling below he led me up to the quarterdeck for ours. He peered unenthusiastically under the covers of the elegant silver dishes Pierce’s steward had laid out on a folding table. ‘Just ships’ ordinary, I guess – beans, salt pork, German sausage, biscuit – and all cold, dammit. The galley stove went out in the last exchange.’
‘It takes five hours to relight?’
‘Out with a twenty-five pound shot, I meant – right out through the side.’
‘Umm. You know, this is just the weather one prefers a cold luncheon, don’t you think?’
‘By the most amazing coincidence’ … grinned Jyp. ‘Still, there’s rum to wash it down.’
Rum there was, in enormous tumblers, but I only managed one. Jyp swore I slid nose-down into my plate of beans, but he was exaggerating as usual; no way could I ever have flaked out before I’d finished the last one.
It was falling on me. I knew it, I could see it and I couldn’t even move, a meteor streaking down the sky, glowing larger by the minute, closer, clearer, greener till it blotted out the sky, roaring down on me in flame – a vast clutching hand. The fingers closed like falling pillars and a vast explosion tore me atom from atom and scattered me to the winds. Then, just as suddenly, I was awake, staring up at the sky, stained the deep indigo of a tropical twilight. I was glad of that; my eyes didn’t feel up to much else. The brighter stars gleamed like needles. Another blast shook me, and set the stars dancing in my head; I rolled over, found that was just as uncomfortable, and sat up with a groan. Now I was awake I knew that sound, and I fumbled confusedly for my sword.