The sea spread out before them in a blanket of blue tops and grey rollers, with a backdrop of stars and inky clouds behind it. Fast, oh so very fast in the darkness, their ship surged through the chaos of the ocean, with only the wind whistling, banshee-inspired, through the canvas to remind them they were truly alive. There were four of them, if you did not count a babe. Five if you did – Sally Jones from Portsmouth clutched her son to her bosom, fear and a certain weariness staining her youthful face. The child seemed to have finally forgotten to cry; for a while, the gale and it had competed, one against the other, for the most audible wailing on the waves. The creak of wood and beam, the slosh of water on hull, were only distant noises long made common place and unimportant. The other three passengers were sea-stained sailors, faces lined with the paths of sea and spray. Of men, they were neither the worst nor the best – they were as most are, a shade in between, one well aimed shove from good or bad. Their hands had caressed their wives' faces, just as scarred knuckles stood testament to how often they had been used to strike down their fellow man.
“Where are we now?” came Sally's timid question, quiet and nearly missed. She eyed the men fretfully, but continued. “We have been here for….a day now, maybe...maybe more. No land, no water. Our ship sunk. Where are we...do you think?”
“At sea. Far from land. No point talking – stars show the way. We go North. By the Almighty, but we will see land again if we can. Best get some rest. Long way to go. But we'll see land again.”
At this answer, from the sailor to her right whose name she didn't know, Sally subsided, clutching her son to her more firmly. It did not stir, which she found confusing – it had been wracked with a cold during the voyage, and gave loud voice to its discomfort when moved. She did not mind much, though. Everything was fine. She hugged the baby harder, holding it to her heart. Like herself, it seemed cold. No matter. Nothing mattered, anyway. Three shaded eyes watched in confusion as she tossed back her head and laughed at the dark, dark sky. No matter, not on the sea. Everything would be alright on land. She was humming as the sky grew darker, and the stars were hidden behind from view. The whistling of the wind grew higher and higher, thrumming through the ropes with vigour. The sea dogs quickly took down the sail and sat, watching the sky blacken and the mother humming.
“How is the child” came the gruff question from a sailor-shadow. A boom rolled across the waves and with it light, causing muttering among the men. “The sea is angry...must not anger….woman on board…herald of worse to come.” Water began streaming from the sky in vertical, lashing lines that struck the inky water, but in the brief lightning-granted light a sailor managed to see more than he wanted. Eyes open, staring sightlessly. Tuft of hair, and little chest not stirring with the movements of breath. “Now listen here...” he began, stretching out a calloused hand. Lightning flashed, the wind picked up, rain beat the boards. But screams find their way into the hearts of men, no matter the noise around them. When it was over, three stood over one, bound with the ropes that the wind had so enjoyed toying with. “Only trying to help. Attacked me. Needs watched – bad luck anyway,” one said sombrely. The two others nodded slowly, grimly. The rain continued to pour on them all the same, soaking man, woman and babe; chilling the bodies of the alive and dead.
Some time later, and the sun shone. The water sparkled, oyster like in the dawn. Sally sobbed quietly in the prow, stashed like cargo to be evaluated later. One of the burly men was gone, washed over board in the night - he'd had blue eyes, Sally recalled, where the other two had brown. Her mind circled that thought, wondering how strange it was to remember that, when...her gaze fell on the babe, left on the deck like rubbish, and flinched away...the foundation of her world was crumbling. She thought how strange that thought was as well, then laughed high and shrill at her absurdity. This woke one of the sailors, who stood with a smooth flexing of muscles, stretching them after sleep, and walked easily on the boards to offer Sally a drink of water. As he looked into her eyes he saw nothing but tears without sadness, so shrugged as he quaffed the drink and turned to go. He started as he saw the boy, then carefully drew a length of canvas over him before he sat down. No man would want to sit and look into a dead child's eyes, empty as his mother's were empty.
So the day passed, until night once more came. Lanterns were lit, a space of water in front of the boat illuminated. Debris littered the deck from the previous night, and food was running low. The woman's thoughts began to turn to why her son - her dead child, who she had nursed, had formed, helped grow...whose very memory now struck at her like a thousand needles in her head - was still on deck, and flinched away from horrible prospects. A second pool of light was sighted. The sailors seemed excited, she observed, but there only seemed to be one land where she could be happy. This was not it. No land could please her now, with husband beneath the waves and child dead before life managed to colour his cheeks with self-knowledge. Why did a vessel as empty as Sally of Portsmouth still think? She did not know. All she knew was that her bonds no longer held her. A day well spent, between listening to sea-dog jests and games.
The other pool of light grew closer, and as it did the dull thunder of men's voices echoed louder in her ears. The two did not notice her, though, and if other eyes saw her, well she had worked out that other eyes always watched anyway. She went to her babe and gathered it in canvas like swaddling cloth. She took a lantern and raised it high, spread the oil stockpile along the boat in one clean movement. Such a small boat. Rough hands grabbed her and mouths contorted in speech – the other light was definitely much nearer now. She smiled – her last smile, and meant! - then dropped the lantern. Flame rose high, illuminated further than the lanterns ever could have. Sally's last sight was of burning canvas, before pain made her a vessel bound to some further shore. The men followed less quietly, thrashing and shouting – shouts answered from nearby. So close. So close. They died so close to what they sought, that death could never be a respite for them.
Aboard the nearby lifeboat, Samuel Hopkins of the sunken HMS Emily fiddled with his horn-rimmed glasses, amazed at the sight before him. He'd seen a woman lit up with fire and men screaming their last words, he was sure, through those very panes of glass, but he could hardly believe it. Laying a hand on his fellow, a sailor from his rough hands, he said “no point remaining here to stare at the dead and have the men lose morale. The coast is only an hour or two North, now. We should be on our way.” The man nodded before going about his duty, and only Samuel Hopkins looked back as they sailed on, stood mute with eyes full of wonder and despair. Drifting, charred lumps of wood made stains on the waves before they were swallowed by the night, and he spent some time pondering on their fate before his mind returned to thoughts of land and home.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 314108 times)