10. Hard to Port

Boccherini’s beautiful, tender minuet was irreverently interrupted by a loud knock on the cabin door.

‘Come,’ Jack called, irked, for he was just beginning to understand how Cat’s subtle timing worked, and they had after some initial fumbling found the right pitch and, well, feeling together to really bring the piece to life. Playing like that always was a joy to Jack and he had let himself go completely, eyes closed, a lively, animated passion playing over his face in time with the music.

Stephen had laid his bow aside and had watched his friend immerse himself in his playing, thinking how wrong anyone would be to believe Jack was a simple, almost two-dimensional soul. There was a complexity to him that surprised even Maturin, who knew him so very well after all their shared adventures. Jack rarely showed it; in essence a cheerful, good-natured creature, if somewhat given to silliness from time to time, he always seemed to be either sailing hard, or fighting hard, or getting very drunk and making a fool of himself. Stephen however could not doubt the depth of his friend’s feelings now, nor the subtlety. His playing betrayed him.

While she played, Cat had been quietly observing Jack as well, and when they had found each other inside the music something had quietly clicked between them, something deep-seated and inexplicable had slotted into place. Stephen had seen it happen, and he had allowed himself a small, very private smile, considering how this might be exactly what the girl needed to bring her back from the brink of catatonia, and how at the same time it may be exactly the right medicine for his dear friend, designed to free him of the blue devils. He could prescribe blue pills, or black drops, or any other medicine, as much as he liked, but he was quite certain the simple workings of nature, of human nature to be exact, were unparalleled where it came to healing the soul rather than the body.

Jack now slowly lowered his fiddle as the door opened and Bonden entered, hat in hand an apologetic look upon his face.

‘Begging your pardon, Sir, and sorry to interrupt…’ his eyes locked onto Cat and he fell silent, mouth hanging open.

‘Mister Bonden!’ Jack snapped, at which Barrett shuffled his feet and looked down at the deck.

‘Sorry Sir,’ he muttered, ‘it’s just that I ‘aven’t seen ‘er before and I ‘eard the ‘ands what ‘ad seen her say as she was the most beautiful woman in the world…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Jack said impatiently, ‘out with it, man, you did not come here just to stare at Doctor Maturin’s patient, did you?’

‘No Sir, um, masthead’s spotted the island, Sir. You said to send for you directly, so, um. Sir.’ He fell silent again, turning his hat around in his hands and stealing another glance at Cat, who was indeed the veritable image of beauty with the late sun playing through her hair.

‘So soon,’ said Jack, disbelief plain on his face, ‘the air must be uncommon clear. I had not expected us to raise Isla Fortuna before dusk.’

‘Well, Franthis din’t see the island proper,’ Barrett confessed, ‘just the cloud.’

‘Ah. Just the cloud. Well, I will be on deck presently. Thank you, mister Bonden,’ Jack nodded and Bonden tugged his forelock and disappeared.

Two hours later, dusk was upon them and Jack, having climbed high into the mizzen top, used the last light to ascertain his approach to the island. There was a treacherous stretch of rocks blocking off a perfect bay for hauling the Surprise ashore. Jack considered: he would jump at the chance to inspect the copper on her bottom and give her a good careening while Mr. Woodring and his crew removed all the damned gold from bulkheads and hull. On the other hand: if he miscalculated like he had miscalculated their course, he would rip open that very same bottom on those rocks as easy as kiss my hand.

‘On deck below,’ he roared, ‘lead-man in the chains.’ He heard his order drift back up to him in the form of the bosun’s whistle, and shortly after the sing-song of the sounding followed. …by the mark five… floated by on the dying breeze where Jack sat in the cross-trees. He was deep in thought, sitting very still – that is to say, the pitch, roll and yaw of the ship gyrated him about in a roughly elliptical orbit with a diameter of about ten feet at its widest, so while he himself sat very still, he was in constant motion through the air. His hair, nonchalantly bound in a loose ponytail with a bit of string, trailed behind him, but he did not even notice. To him, the sea was calm. The weather benign. The impending sunset threatened to be breathtakingly beautiful, almost as beautiful as young Cat, sitting in his cabin, and a gentle smile softened his face and crinkled the corners of his bright blue eyes.

Cat, beautiful Cat. Who was she? No port trollop, that was for sure. Port trollops did not play the harp, and even if they would have, they certainly would not be as accomplished as Cat. Her tone, her articulation betrayed an education no ordinary girl would have access to.

Had she been in any way connected to the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough then, since she had responded so strongly to that name? Perhaps she had been the Duchess’ handmaiden. Or a, what was it called, a lady-in-waiting of sorts? A young girl from a good family, entrusted to the Duchess in the hopes of finding her an appropriate husband? In all probability she had been part of the Duke and Duchess’ retinue when they were captured, and LaSalle had kept her at his side, for her beauty… If only she could remember who she was, and what had happened to the Marlboroughs…

Stephen had gently tried to probe her mind, but all she remembered was her name, the name Marlborough, and the Duke. Speaking of it had brought the fear back, and after a while she had started to cry again, silently, and she had not said anything else. Stephen had given her a little laudanum to make her rest easy, and Jack had carried her back to his cot, holding her as close to his heart as he’d dared under the circumstances.

Jack now shook his head, banishing her from his thoughts as best he could (with only a very meagre result), and he took one last look at the rocks looming ahead while his hand reached behind for the backstay. He’d spent so many years on the Surprise, he knew his way around her blindfolded. And as he was wearing his comfortable loose ducks instead of that tiresome and much too hot uniform, he did not have to fear Killick’s wrath if he’d slide down the stay like he used to when he was a young mid, skylarking. So, with a great boyish grin that entirely ruined the gravity he normally attempted to maintain as a Captain, he swung his legs around, clapped onto the stay, and shot down towards the deck like a very large yellow-topped, linen-clad cannonball.

It proved difficult sailing, and Jack was at the wheel himself. The sounding went on continuously and the wind had almost died away. He just had steerage, but it was enough to get him into the bay. The boats were out front rowing though not yet towing, ropes slack, but they would be at the ready the moment the Surprise would lose what little way she had on her.

Jack expertly navigated between two razor sharp rocky obstacles and gave the order to take in everything apart from topsails. He had the tide just where he wanted it: high tide was almost at its cusp and he had just enough time to have the Surprise towed ashore and have Woodring and his crew go out and fell a few prime trees to her the struts she needed to stay upright. And then the water would ebb, giving the men time to set up camp on the beach and rest before the ship would fall dry and they could get at her bottom in the early morning. Jack suspected some of the copper sheeting may have come off during the Surprise’s time in French service – here, Jack quietly and subconsciously stroked her steering wheel to comfort her for the hard times she must no doubt have endured at the hands of LaSalle – and he was with child to set her right. Restore her to her old glory; bring her true sailing qualities back out again.

He still had not thought of a way to get the gold out of the ship and inform the crew in the right manner, and devise a way to transport it all back to England without his men mutinying on him or he himself being accused of disobeying his orders, of fraud, or God forbid, of treason. If they’d hide the gold on the island and the men knew, it would come out soon as they reached a port, any port, where they would get very drunk very soon. Drink and sailors did not mix into anything resembling wisdom, especially where matters of prize money were concerned. And the moment Harte would get wind of it, it would be Jack’s head on a platter. Quite literally; treason was a hanging offence after al.

Jack sighed, blinked and hoped an idea would come to him before it was too late. ‘Boats to stretch out,’ he calmly commanded, knowing that his words would be relayed without delay. ‘Mr. Woodring to stand by soon as we’re aground. And Mr. Pullings?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Tom stepped up to stand beside his Captain.

‘Make sure you erect a tent for the Doctor, and a tent for his patient directly alongside it.’

‘And you, Sir? We are rather rich in sailcloth, I dare say…’

‘Yes. We are. Well, do what you think is right, Tom. I must think, and think hard, the moment I can set foot ashore, but I dare say I shall find a way out of this quandary. I dare say I shall.’ And with a ferociously determined look upon his face, Jack handed over the wheel to his first Lieutenant and thundered down the companion ladder.

Chapter Eleven

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