Third-Lieutenant scanned the boiling white water along the shore and knew no better.
‘Make it so.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Myriad tugs upon ropes and minor adjustments turned their path away from immediate ruin. The sea fought them tooth and nail but the sailors had their way.
Ada, Foxglove and Julius were relegated to the skiff’s stern. Not exactly spurned, but not consulted either. It had been that way since the survivors of the mutiny were allowed over the side. Their technical proficiency gave them mastery of the vessel after the briefest of introductions. Now, following a shaky period just getting the skiff under control and ensuring survival, the former hierarchy of His Majesty’s frigate ‘The Lady Bridget’ reasserted itself.
For his part, Frankenstein marvelled at how grizzled men of far greater size and experience deferred to a beardless boy, just because of epaulets on his skinny shoulders. It reminded him of a bull he’d once seen, a ton or more of sheer muscle power, being meekly led along by an Alpine herdsman. The beast might have flung its master off the mountain with the merest flick but it chose not to, subdued by a tiny nose ring and long habit. There was a metaphor and lesson there, for those who studied humanity.
However, these were dangerous thoughts, subversive of all societal and family ties. Frankenstein consciously turned away from them lest he too catch the disease that had turned France mad.
‘Do you despair of your former ship, young sir?’ he asked.
Burdened by responsibility, Third-lieutenant appeared to have forgotten he had passengers. The youth jumped at being suddenly spoken to in non-sailor.
‘What? Oh, it’s you…’
‘You’ included Ada. Earlier she’d tried to ingratiate herself, joining Third-lieutenant on his bench. His quick scan and resultant ‘ugh!’ made her retreat to ponder how much things had changed since a flashed eyelash would open any door. She’d sulked in silence since.
But there were other strangers aboard beside her; plainly living ones. Third-lieutenant felt obliged to reply.
‘‘Despair’? Well, that’s a strong word… But, um, yes. Sadly so.’
Things weren’t yet quite as before. One of the senior seaman felt free enough to speak without bidding.
‘She’s impaled,’ he affirmed. ‘You mark my words mate: next big wave will move her along and take ‘er bottom. Poor old Bridget!’
Third-lieutenant frowned but wasn’t so sure of his authority as to protest. Maybe when they were on dry land…
‘Yes, thank you, Cowley. Steady as you were…’
‘Cowley’ recalled himself and knuckled his brow—the Service’s sign of subservience—before knuckling under.
Just on the edge of it not mattering any more, the storm showed signs of dying down. The thunder and lightning display had played itself out ages back; now ‘only’ a wicked wind and frenzied sea remaining to finish the job.
Which it would. It drove them on stronger than sail or oar could counter. Returning to open sea to sit things out wasn’t an option: proper professional seamen agreed on that and so even Ada had to believe.
The coast was very close now and the larger sand dunes discernible. But first the offshore rocks awaited like jagged teeth; a giant’s jaw line showing just above the water.
There hadn’t been opportunity before and Frankenstein’s curiosity was piqued. He didn’t want to die not knowing.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked swiftly, to keep Third-lieutenant’s attention.
There was nothing the over-promoted youth could do to materially effect things—Cowley and co. were in charge of that—and so he seemed almost glad of diversion.
‘A mutiny,’ he said. ‘It happens occasionally.’
Ada and Julius exchanged glances. Third-lieutenant’s words said one thing but his face another. Frankenstein had heard enough of England’s famous navy to know that loss of a ship attracted mandatory court martial. Third-lieutenant was probably the senior surviving officer and, should he continue to survive, must eventually give account of himself on behalf of all.
That same thought must have occurred to the youth. In giving further detail he was probably rehearsing his testimony.
‘We’re a ship of war, not a troop transporter: especially not that sort. And they didn’t supply enough chains. Plus the Lazarans weren’t broken: too fresh. Things aren’t going well in the Basque enclave, so we were rushing reinforcements…’
It satisfied Frankenstein, but not, alas, Third-lieutenant himself, who must have had the less generous audience of the Admiralty board in mind. Just like the Allies’ enclave in Spain his defence required reinforcement.
‘It was during feeding,’ he added. ‘One of them refused to eat from the offal barrel. I think it must have been an officer or gentry beforehand and had residual memories. So we made it take its turn… forced it to eat. And things went from there. The spirit of rebellion spread like smallpox…’
‘Too quick, too many,’ contributed Cowley, again without being asked. ‘No time for the swivel guns.’
Reliving the vivid scene before his eyes, Third-lieutenant may not have heard, or maybe graciously overlooked the breach of etiquette.
‘Captain Barker tried to get on deck…’ There was a catch in the young man’s voice. He was no longer before an imaginary tribunal but explaining to a wider audience, including the Almighty and himself. ‘But they got him at stairwell. They… tore him apart.’
Suddenly, he stared straight at Julius in frank appeal.
‘I fought. I did fight. But when we were trapped on the poopdeck getting off seemed the right thing to do. Yes, we left people but they just couldn’t be rescued. We only got one boat away as it was: there wasn’t room for all…’
It mustn’t have been a bad ship to serve in. The half dozen seamen, tattooed veterans all, looked on the young officer with compassion, as to a son in distress.
‘You did the right thing, sir,’ said Cowley for all. ‘Chin up, there’s a good gentleman! Stiffen y’lip. Oh—and stiff grip on the sides too, all of ye. We’re going in!’
It still looked like standard sea to Frankenstein but he submitted to a trained eye. He and Ada and Foxglove braced themselves against the stern rail.
The stranded Bridget was breaking up. Waves penetrated to have their way with her and departed taking whole timbers as souvenirs, making it easier still for the next in. Each watery inundation likewise swept up a bevy of Lazarans and sucked them into the deep. They wailed and waved until a bashing against the half-seen rocks pacified them.
Frankenstein heard the mainmast crack and saw the Union flag atop it dip in surrender. The next fluid hammer blow, or maybe the one after that, would swallow it up.
He was not alone in observing. Maybe half their new friends in the skiff had brimful eyes. Julius was torn between thinking it shameful sentiment or touching.
‘Now!’ said the man watching at the prow—and secured himself a death grip to either side.
Something implacable started to eat the bottom of the boat, chewing and spitting away splinters. It roared as it dined.
Frankenstein felt a powerful impulse to swing his feet up on the bench to escape the unseen monster below, but at the same time feared to appear womanish. Self-respect won over self-preservation—but only just.
Ada, who had a perfect excuse for effeminate acts, was reacting better than he—by not reacting at all. She sat quite still, the remnants of her parasol unfurled again, and awaited what would be. Foxglove was as close to her as decorum allowed, poised to put himself between her and harm. Lady Lovelace showed no sign of acknowledging that devotion, or indeed any external fact.