Jack quickly pawed his way down the ratline until he found himself next to Paul. It occurred to him that as he came down the line he should have passed the older sailor. He hadn’t. He too must have been swept away when the mast parted. In fact, there was only he and Paul—and something had happened to Paul. He was lying limp, one arm through the batten hole and a leg through the ladder. It had kept him from being swept away.
“Can you hear me?”
No reply.
A shout from below asked Jack if he was all right.
“I’m all right, but my mate is bad hurt.”
“Is he dead?”
“No sir, just banged on the head. I’ll try to tie him and lower him down.”
“Well, be quick about it, lad. We’re in deep trouble here and need every hand.” Jack understood that Quince thought Paul dead, but knew it would be quicker for the first mate to humor him in his attempt at rescue than talk him into deserting his friend. Below was a scene of snapped timbers, twisted canvas, blocks, lines, blood, and broken bodies—at least five on the deck, and more over the side.
Jack saw one man in the water holding to a bit of spar attached to the debris on deck. The sailors on the quarterdeck clearing the wreckage couldn’t see their comrade. Jack shouted but the wind picked up and he couldn’t make himself heard. The man clung to the spar then broke free and drifted away, swallowed by the sea.
Jack turned his attention to Paul, talking to him. A conscious man would be easier to lower to the deck through the confusion of timbers. Paul was incoherent and Jack knew he would have no help. He stepped from the spar onto the ladder just below where Paul’s leg extended between the rungs. A line from the now missing upper works had draped itself over the yardarm next to him, and Jack looped it under Paul’s rear and around his back, taking an extra turn to widen the strain on the makeshift chair. He then cut the line, looped it, and tied a bowline in front of Paul’s waist.
He threw the line over the spar and then wrapped it again to get more friction. Pulling Paul’s leg from the ladder was difficult, since Jack had to lift his friend’s weight to free it. This done, he pulled him up once more and extracted his arm from between the sail and the spar. Now his body was free and swinging with the movement of the ship. The line around Paul’s back was too low and he hung doubled over. He swung away from Jack as the ship heeled and then was on his way back, head first. Jack lunged himself between the mast and Paul.
Suddenly, the line over the spar holding Paul’s weight slipped from Jack’s grasp and his friend dropped six feet before Jack could stop him. Jack forced himself to ignore the rope burns on his hands and kept lowering Paul to the deck. The sailors below couldn’t help, for the ratline ladder had parted fifteen feet from the deck when the mast had broken.
Jack tested his strength by holding fast with his left hand and feeding out the line with his right. It was going to work, if he could just keep Paul away from the mast. He waited till the ship shuddered and righted itself in a trough and then quickly played out the line, hoping to drop Paul to the waiting hands below. He inched his way up closer to the spar and let the line out. Still fifteen feet short, Paul’s body swung dangerously close to the mast. Jack grasped the spar with the rope around it and let go more slack. Paul dropped again, but was still several feet from the sailor’s grasp on deck. The ship heeled suddenly and the limp body swung aft.
“Catch him!” Jack screamed. Quince, on the bridge deck above the sailors, grabbed Paul with one arm and lowered him to the deck. Relief washed over Jack as he could see Paul was safely down. As the pain from the ripped skin on his hands began heating its way into his consciousness, he took a moment to rekindle his strength.
“Take a wrap under your arms and get down here!” bellowed Quince. But Jack had already begun his rappel down. Again his line was too short, but Jack dropped into the arms of a half dozen waiting sailors. A few men whispered “well done” before hurrying off to deal with the carnage about them.
Jack looked to the bridge deck where Quince and Hansumbob had propped Paul up against the compass binnacle. Paul met Jack with a blank-eyed look.
An eerie quiet settled over the ship. Jack noticed the water had become calm; several sailors stopped their work and gazed seaward. Black clouds billowed about them, but just scant miles away the sea still boiled. Jack could see the stars straight above him, as if he were peering up from the bottom of a deep bowl. They were caught in what appeared to be a lake, surrounded by towering mountains of water. Jack fell to his knees, more tired than he had ever been in his life.
There was a stirring on the bridge deck. Jack saw a figure all in white—it appeared to be a ghost climbing up the aft companionway. After a moment, Jack realized he was looking at the captain, naked, his pale skin silhouetted against the dark skies behind him. His long hair was disheveled and he had a large, blood-caked welt on his left temple, like a piece of old jewelry. Dried vomit adorned his chest and in his left hand he held a jug of grog. His right hand held a saber, still sheathed. He seemed unaware of the bodies and debris about him.
“Mr. Quince, why are we running with short sails? Damn it, man, we’re almost becalmed. Lay on the canvas, mister.”
Several of the crew dropped their heads. Jack realized for the first time how much his fellow sailors had come to believe in the hierarchy of the ship at sea. The raging of the storm and the death of their mates had shaken them, but the recognition that they were truly without a captain was crushing.
“Smithers, see that the captain is safely back in his cabin. Lash him securely in his bunk,” Quince said. He stepped toward the old man and took the saber from his hand. The captain sputtered a protest.
A rogue wave from the stern lifted the entire ship and spun her. The water carried Jack halfway across the quarterdeck. Coughing seawater over the aft rail, his hands gripped the rough carving he had seen the captain working on while docked in Massachusetts and Cuba. Salem seemed to him a lifetime ago—when he was just a boy. He ran his fingers over the intricate letters: “Captain Hans Peter Deploy. 1730–1806.” The captain knew this was his last trip.
No one manned the wheel. It spun lazily, as if detached. Then Jack realized that, in fact, it was. The pintles were sprung from the gudgeons and the rudder had come unshipped. My God, thought Jack. We’re sitting in this pond like a toy boat.
Quince bellied up to the starboard rail and stared into the blackness. In a voice full of dread, knowing he was the only one capable of command, he addressed the crew. “Quickly do what you can for the ship, lads. Then lash yourself to the pulpit around the main and foremast and pray… for we are surely in the eye of the typhoon.”
Jack secured Paul onto the pulpit surrounding the mainmast, jamming in the belaying pins upside down so that a quick pull down would release the line he had secured around both of them. Then he sat quietly against the wood as sailors all around him tied themselves to masts, stanchions, and cannon.
Talk was scarce as the sailors prepared. Quince took one last survey of the ship and tied himself in. The winds started to pick up.
Debris from the wreckage over the side pulled the ship to port, but the winds and seas were pushing back to starboard, and it was in this pattern that the typhoon found the Perdido Star. She was helpless in the heavy seas.
The seawater came over the bow in housefuls. It hit the quarterdeck then burst upon the sailors on the main deck all tethered in their spots, helpless to ward off the tons of water. Jack could hear screams as the men gasped for air and prepared themselves for the next wave. The relentless pounding loosened some of the timbers, and the noise of the waves was countered by the sound of the parting of the ship’s main cross members. She was beginning to break up.