Captain Porter, with Tommy now at his heel, came into the cabin and took the roll of maps from its waterproof sheath.
Maggie made room at the table as Porter flicked through the roll, chose a map, and spread it out on the table. Both men leant on it to keep it flat and didn’t seem to care that they were dripping all over the map and her letter.
Maggie, ignored, put her pen down, collected her pages and put them on her lap. From the inverted map, she recognised the coast from Princess Charlotte Bay down to Cooktown.
Porter pressed a wet finger onto the bite that the bay took from Cape York.
‘Get a towel, please,’ said Maggie.
Tommy looked vaguely about the cabin.
‘Over there,’ said Maggie, pointing.
Porter seemed to be willing the map to talk to him.
The water dripped from his chin, tapping a slow beat on the paper.
‘No,’ he said to himself.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
He seemed to notice her for the first time.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’
‘Make a sortie,’ said Tommy, putting the towel in front of Maggie. ‘My father always said to ride the storm out in the open sea.’
Maggie and her husband looked at him. Tommy’s father had drowned doing just that.
Porter shook his head and turned back to the map. ‘Too late for that.’
‘Too late?’ responded Maggie.
The lightning filled the cabin and they all tensed in the seconds of quiet that followed. God thumped his hand on the deckhouse roof, shaking the table and making them jump. Alice murmured in her cot in Maggie’s cabin.
The wind caught the schooner again and Maggie could feel it strain against the anchor.
‘It’s not blowing hard yet, though,’ said Maggie.
‘No.’
‘Flinders Harbour,’ said Tommy, pointing to a channel between Stanley and Flinders islands, three miles north.
Porter actually appeared to consider it, but said, ‘There’s not enough room to swing on the chain. And we could be trapped between two lee-shores.’
‘Right,’ said Tommy. ‘Right.’
‘What are the others doing?’ asked Maggie.
‘Mrs Porter! The same thing we are,’ said Tommy, as he searched his pockets for his tobacco tin.
Porter said, ‘Tommy, would you go and find Mr Jones? I want you to both go out in the whaleboat. Do a round of the luggers. Warn them to put out more chain. And say they must get some damned distance between them. Go now. We might not have much time.’
Tommy left, bounding up the stairs.
‘We’re better off where we are,’ Porter told Maggie.
She nodded, but the uncertainty still showed in her husband’s face.
‘The mountains,’ Porter pointed at the Cape Melville range and the Barren Hills—‘give us some protection from the south and most of the east. I’d be more concerned if we were north, here with the
Olive
—’
‘Oh my God. You mean Steve and Edwin…?’
‘…or south of the cape.’ Porter forced a smile. ‘Anyway, it may well skip down the coast.’
‘Do you know where the eye of the storm is?’
Porter rubbed his beard and studied the map.
‘East. A bit north of east perhaps.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Buys-Ballot’s Law,’ said Porter. ‘When a storm is near, if you stand with your back to the wind, the lowest pressure is at your right hand.’
‘And what does that mean?’
Porter tapped the map. ‘That’s where the centre of
the storm is. If the wind’s from the south and your back’s to the wind, the storm’s in the east, at your right hand. See.’
‘And at the moment, the wind’s…?’
‘South. More or less.’
Maggie looked at the map.
He pointed: ‘Five schooners and sixty luggers are over here in the Claremonts. Exposed. And here’s where we are. Four schooners and forty luggers in Bathurst Bay. Here’s the lightship in the channel.’ His finger then moved down the coast. ‘God knows how many small boats are down south towards the Howicks. Powell and the
North Wales
are probably there. They can’t have gone too far.’
For Maggie, there was some comfort in knowing that there were so many experienced seamen in the area. Surely if it was unwise to stay, they wouldn’t still be here.
‘So it’s east. Which way is it going?’ said Maggie. Porter said, ‘Well, the wind’s been from the south to the south-east all day. And the pressure’s falling.’ ‘Which means?’
‘Which means,’ he said, ‘it’s coming closer. Obviously.’
The lightning flickered around them again and the thunder rattled the boards beneath her feet.
Maggie followed her husband out through the cabin door. As she stepped on deck a lighting bolt struck the sea in front of Pipon Island, revealing a thick line of leaden clouds. A few men cried out.
The crew were all leaning on the railing, their hands still cupped around cigarettes even as the light rain drifted down on warm gusts. Porter hadn’t stood them down, though they had little more to do. He’d locked away the liquor and none of them appeared to have taken a drink.
There was still some music and hesitant laughter out in the bay, but it had become unusually quiet for a Saturday night. Maggie imagined all the men in the fleets, more than a thousand pairs of eyes along fifty miles of coast, looking east.
She heard the clack of oars and Tommy crying out among the luggers, ‘Batten down, batten down. Storm’s coming. Mr Mendoza! Get some distance between those boats.’ There was some jeering accompanied by cries to shut up.
Porter went to the railing and yelled into the night: ‘The skipper’s ahoy. Lock up that grog and prepare for a hurricane. You hear me? Batten down! For Christ’s sake!’
The wind hit the
Crest of the Wave
again and she swung slowly. To Maggie the myriad lamps around them seemed to be involved in an elaborate dance, moving in different directions, crossing paths, disorientating until another flash lit the scene, the bay full of masts and grey hulls and dark figures on decks.
Leaving Porter by the wheel in his oilskin coat, Maggie went below, just before the squall hit.
The rain roared down, the noise filling every space in the cabin, and then abruptly it passed. The schooner
continued to sway, the wind pushed at the hull and sang through the rigging above her, a high whine. Flashes of lightning lit the cabin through the portholes.
Porter came back down.
‘Perhaps that’s all,’ said Maggie.
Porter shook his head, the water streaming from him as he stood in front of the barometer. He might have been willing it back up. His silence disturbed Maggie, and she tried to return to her letter.
The schooner shook as another gust hit, and she felt it roll.
‘Will it be bad?’ she said, not looking up. ‘We’ve been through rough weather before.’ ‘Poor Tommy can’t swim.’
‘It doesn’t damned well matter if he can’t swim,’ said Porter. ‘If he’s in a position where he has to swim then he’s no help to us anyway. And I’ll need all the help I can get tonight.’
Maggie put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh William.’
Porter said, more softly, ‘Maggie. I meant that he won’t need to swim. No one will. It won’t come to that.’
He went to his locker and found his own bottle of whisky. He took two tumblers, poured two generous shots and thrust one at Maggie.
‘For auld lang syne?’ she asked.
‘Don’t be so damned morbid,’ he said. They clinked glasses. ‘Here’s luck.’
The thunder boomed out another warning to the world. Porter locked the whisky away and pocketed
the key and as he turned at the cabin door Maggie saw lightning crack the clouds open, leaving her with an image of her husband’s face in profile against a broken sky.
The squall stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the crew of the
Zoe
came back on deck. They wiped the top of a crate and resumed their card game beneath a lantern. The lightning was all around and there was a continuous roll of thunder to the south-east, but in Bathurst Bay it was calm again.
Sam was pacing the deck, tying off the loose ends of rope, peering over the side, checking the hatches, quoting the direst of Psalms. ‘
The voice of the Lord is upon the waters!
’
Willie lay on the skylight, aware of clouds racing through the night above him.
He’d thought earlier that the tip of the main mast was aglow, and he watched for it again. He dared not tell Sam, although there was no shortage of signs that his devil was indeed about.
They were so close to shore that he could hear the wind roaring over the top of the mountain, far above.
He was aware of the
Vision
anchored nearby, but the music had stopped. The crews could see each other when the lightning stuttered. The two luggers were so alike that Willie had the impression he was looking at his own lugger’s ghostly reflection.
‘Hey Kanaka,’ came Joe Harry’s voice in the dark, followed by something he didn’t catch, and then laughter.
Sam screamed at them, ‘
Pour out thy wrath upon the heathen that have not known thee.
’
Lightning shattered the sky and the face of Joe Harry appeared briefly at the railing of the
Vision.
Willie felt the
Zoe
tremble beneath him as the thunder bounced between the cape and Bathurst Head.
In the darkness that followed, the images of the
Vision
and Joe Harry remained in his mind’s eye.
The lightning moved away and its constant flickering showed black clouds flying overhead. They moved much too fast and Willie wondered how this might be, how the air above could be in such a rush while the air at sea level was lagging. Surely the air below would have to catch up somehow.
Willie was now convinced Sam was right about his devil. How ready were they? The lugger was in perhaps three fathoms of water, uncomfortably close to the fringing reef of the bay. It was a question of finding the best possible shelter without risking being smashed to pieces if the wind changed. ‘Maybe we, shouldn’t be in so close,’ he said.
‘No one’s going to be safe on a dead lee-shore,’ said Sam. ‘If we’re closer, we might stand a better chance if we have to swim for it.’
‘Who’s the skipper of this boat?’
‘God,’ replied Sam.
Willie had almost had enough. ‘Just keep that sort of talk to yourself,’ he’d hissed.
‘You can’t keep God a secret,’ and Sam waved his arms around at the universe.
‘You’re scaring the crew.’
But the crew appeared to not be listening as they dealt another hand. Someone placed a bottle beside the table.
Sam moved towards them, and Willie said, ‘Leave them alone.’
There was more laughter from the
Vision.
Sam sat heavily on the roof of the cabin. ‘No one’s afraid enough. They should fear the devil.’
‘If Joe Harry’s also the devil, why should he be scared?’
Sam said, ‘Because he’s worked over on the west coast, in the Cossacks. He knows what’s about to happen.’
Willie thought he might be dreaming, so strange were the night’s revelations. ‘Are you saying that you knew Joe Harry from Broome?’
Sam was about to say something, but the lightning answered for him. The bolt struck near Boulder Rocks, sending a ball of white fire skimming over the sea.
There was a cheer from the crew of the
Vision
, but the
Zoe
’s crew were silent, until Charley fell to his knees and cried out something in Malay.
Willie heard a noise that sounded like rolling wagons coming down the mountain slope and then the squall hit, drenching him instantly. The
Zoe
gave a moan and a shudder and started to list as the crew lunged for the hatch.
Sam cried out, ‘The devil is here!’
Willie found the hatch, slipped and fell into the
Zoe
’s dark hold.
Maggie Porter had folded her letter, and sat at the table beneath the swinging lantern watching the shadows piling up against one wall and then collapsing onto the floor.
She was never seasick, she reminded herself, but her stomach felt each uneasy lurch. She put the letter away and staggered as if drunk to her cabin. Alice was still asleep and she found an extra pillow, tucking it tightly between the child and the wall. Maggie then lay down in her bunk and closed her eyes against the motion. Was it the child inside her or the sea? She placed a protective hand on her stomach.
She must have dozed off briefly and was startled awake by a deep boom. White light from some dynamo flickered through the cabin’s square window. As it twisted, the
Crest of the Wave
made a thousand small noises, but above it all she heard the main door opening with a rush of pressure and noise, footsteps on the ladder, a
drip drip dribble
, then the door closed. She put
on a dressing gown and went into the main cabin. The lantern swung in a great arc. ‘William?’
‘It’s Tommy, Mrs Porter,’ said Poor Tommy, leaning against a wall for support. ‘I thought you were asleep. Captain Porter wanted to know if you’re all right.’
‘What’s happening out there?’
‘Wind’s stronger, Mrs Porter. It’s coming from the south-west.’
‘The south-west?’
‘Captain Porter says that’s good,’ said Tommy staggering towards the barometer. ‘Down two points, though.’
‘But what about Buys-Ballot’s Law? Doesn’t that put the storm south-east of us?’
‘Oh. I suppose it might, but I wouldn’t take much notice of what Buys-Ballot says,’ said Tommy, the expert in weather now. ‘So you’re right, then? I’ll tell the captain you’re comfortable?’
‘I’m not comfortable, Tommy. I’m alive.’
‘Good-oh.’
‘I’m coming up.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘Is it raining?’
‘Squally.’
‘Now?’
Tommy went to the door and opened it a crack. ‘No.’ ‘I’m coming up.’
‘Please, Mrs Porter. The captain gave strict orders
that you were not to go up on deck.’ ‘Why not?’
The ship gave a tremendous heave, and without waiting for an answer Maggie staggered across the cabin and clung onto the ladder.
She opened the door. The deckhouse protected her from the worst of the wind and she was unable to get her bearings until the scene was illuminated in a series of quick flashes. Porter was at the wheel, his head bare, with Daniel Jones beside him. A mist of sea spray swirled around them. Behind him she saw the masts of the other vessels swinging wildly, the quiet bay now a confused sea with waves running against the wind and their tops breaking backwards.
‘Get below,’ she heard Porter cry, but it came to her faintly against the wind.
She stood transfixed at the hatchway until Tommy took her arm and pulled her back.
‘Mrs Porter! Strict orders.’
‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
Tommy recoiled and Maggie went below and sat on the bolted chair at the table in the main cabin. The door banged shut.
‘I’m sorry, Tommy,’ she said. ‘I’m not well.’
‘Is there a match, I wonder?’ Tommy found a tin and lit his cigarette.
Maggie noticed that he was hatless for the first time, his hair plastered flat. He appeared to be quite unconcerned and this gave her some comfort.
‘How long will this last, Tommy?’ ‘Mrs Porter, I don’t know. The captain says this may be the worst of it if the wind turns west. Do you see?’ She shook her head.
‘The centre of the storm might pass south. But if the wind goes south or south-east then it will likely get worse,’ said Tommy with such complete authority that Maggie wondered where
Poor
Tommy had gone.
‘I thought you said you weren’t much of a sailor,’ she said.
‘I never said that. Been at sea since I was a boy.’
The schooner lurched suddenly and Tommy fell to his knees. Maggie had both arms on the table and Alice gave a short cry.
Tommy staggered to the cot in Maggie’s cabin and held onto the side, giving it a good tug. It didn’t move. He absently tucked the baby in, saying, ‘Mrs Porter. I’ve taken the pearl out of the safe.’
‘The pearl?’
‘The pearl I showed you. In case we have to abandon ship. If she goes down, the safe goes with it.’
‘Tommy, for God’s sake!’
He dipped into his pocket, came over and put the pearl in her hand. ‘Four thousand pounds, Mrs Porter. Keep it with you.’
As he left her cabin, Tommy said, ‘Mrs Porter, stay here. Strict orders.’
Spray blew in as he opened the door to the deck, and it lingered in the air after he was gone.
The schooner heaved. Maggie went down on her knees and crawled back to the cot, to find Alice still asleep, oblivious to the terrible new rhythm of the world.
She felt beneath the mattress and pushed the pearl into the folds of the tightly tucked sheet. Why on earth was she entrusted with such a thing?
She sat beside the cot, clutching the sides, leaning over it so that she could feel the breath of Alice on her cheek as the rain roared and the wind bore down on the deck above.