Sailing Home, page 36
Marin pulled his father’s compass from his vest. “According to my compass, we are heading just twelve degrees east of due north.”
“According to the ship’s compass we are heading twenty-four degrees north by northeast, Captain.”
“Bring her due north by the ship’s compass, Mister Sheets,” Marin called into the wind. “I will deal with Mister Murel. Where might I find him?”
“I believe he is in the mess, sir.”
Marin went down into the galley and found Mister Prince.
“Mister Sheets is fighting the wind at the helm. We’re changing course to due north by the ship’s compass. Give him a little foresail.”
“Aye, Sir,” Jude replied, with a satisfied grin.
“Have you seen Phillipe?” Marin asked.
“The last I saw of him, he was going to visit Mister Armstrong.”
Marin found Phillipe reading from his Bible to a sleeping Mister Armstrong. He paused and listened to Phillipe recite. When there was a natural pause he asked,
“Has he taken a turn for the worse?”
“He has a fever, and I believe his wound is infected,” Phillipe replied.
Marin gently unwrapped the wound and turned away from the noxious odor. He threw the blood-soaked shred of a sheet aside and looked around for something he could use as a fresh bandage. Nothing. He removed his coat and ripped one the sleeves from his shirt. He wrapped it around the wound and ordered Phillipe to round up material that could be used as bandages and to see to it that the bandage was changed every hour.
“Listen Phillipe,” Marin began in a voice that usually preceded a mild reproof, “I think you need to get your own bunk in the general sleeping quarters.”
Phillipe closed his Bible and drew it to his chest. He released one hand from the Bible and scratched his head as if preparing to say something, but returned the one hand to his Bible and scratched his head again with the other.
“Is there a problem?” Marin asked.
“I do not believe I am well-liked among the men,” he confessed.
“Does that really matter when you are asleep?”
“It can make it difficult to fall asleep.”
“I see,” Marin allowed, “but still, I cannot have you sleeping in the Captain’s Quarters. I will advise Mister Prince to deny you access. I am sorry, Phillipe.”
Phillipe gave a rapid shake of his head, opened his Bible and began reading aloud again.
“Phillipe,” Marin interrupted, “tend to the procuring of bandages.”
Marin went to the mess deck and found Mister Murel sitting trance-like at one of the tables. Not being sure of proper etiquette as concerns approaching someone in a trance, he sat down across from Dorian and patiently observed. After a while Dorian looked up, but said nothing.
“I have informed Mister Sheets to change course to due north,” Marin informed him. Dorian maintained his stare at Marin, but remained silent. “I was wondering what your objections might be if I were to turn, say, another twelve degrees west to three forty-eight.”
Dorian gradually become cognizant of Marin’s presence ...then he spoke.
“We are on the outer edge of a whirling mass of air. Turning westward would pull the ship into its vortex. We need to sail north by northeast until the whirlwind has passed.”
“Nor’easter? You’re saying we are on the edge of a Nor’easter.”
“I said no such thing. We are on the edge of a storm with shifting winds, and it is in our best interest to ignore its invitation to follow.”
“But it could be a Nor’easter?” Marin persisted.
“Call it what you wish, Captain.”
“It matters, Mister Murel. If it is, in fact, a Nor’easter, the winds will shift and come from the east, and we would have to sail close reach to maintain a north by northeast heading. She cannot hold that course.”
“My advice is for you to command your ship on a north by northeasterly course as long as you can Captain. Either that, or surrender her to the will of the wind and let it send her into the jagged rocks of southern Maine.”
Marin bent forward, and in a cordial but straightforward manner, asked Mister Murel, “How is it you can be so certain of that? I too have sailed these waters many times, and yet we disagree. You say your knowledge has nothing to do with magic or sorcery; if that is so, you should be able to explain it.”
“Two men can read the same book, and yet one is left with only the story, while the other carries away the meaning.”
“And how is it, Mister Murel, that the one finds the meaning, and the other one does not.”
“First, you must accept that there is meaning. Then you must admit that you do not know what that meaning is, only then can you open yourself to it, surrender, and let it in”.
“You sound like Phillipe.”
Dorian let the words fill the space between them without comment.
After a docile moment, Marin flexed himself straight up, and asked, “Do you have any idea, approximately, as to our location?”
Dorian pulled a hand drawn map from his vest pocket, spread it out on the table, and put his finger at a spot located two hundred miles equidistant, between Rhode Island and Nova Scotia.
“I have a decision to make,” Marin said, getting up to take his leave.
“Not really,” Dorian mysteriously replied.
Marin returned on deck and assisted the crew in adjusting the sails, leaving only the mainsail and the foresail in the wind. When they had finished, he took Jude aside and told him about the conversation with Mister Murel.
“Two Hundred miles between Rhode Island and Nova Scotia?” Jude scoffed. “He needs ta polish his juju. He’d have us wrapped around the rocks of Sable Island if we’d stayed his course,” Jude warned. “Cut the course to three hundred forty-five degrees north by northwest, and we’ll be in Passamaquoddy in a little over a day ...should the winds hold.”
“And what do you suppose our location to be?” Marin asked.
“Without the use of the stars, we’ve only the compass and the knots in the water. Hate to say it, Captain, but it’s hard to tell. But I can assure you we are not straddlin’ Rhode Island and Nova Scotia.”
“So, we are lost,” Marin concluded.
“I wouldn’t say lost, Captain; misplaced maybe, but never say lost.”
“A distinction without a difference, I fear,” Marin said, adding, “I need to talk to Oscar”
“He just left for the mess,” Jude replied.
Mister Oscar was seated at a long table, nibbling on a stale biscuit and cradling a cup of coffee snug against his chest.
Marin sat down across from him and remarked,
“Surely Mister O’Brien has a biscuit in the kitchen younger than that one.”
“I like ‘em stale,” Oscar replied, breaking off a piece with a canine. “They last a little longer.”
Marin’s smile could not cut through his main concern. “The winds are getting stronger, Mister Oscar, and we are pushing fourteen knots. Mister Murel says we are on the edge of a heavy storm and wants us to stay north by northeast, away from our destination and moving closer to the wind. Mister Prince favors crossing north by northwest, riding the wind to Passamaquoddy. Any thoughts?”
“I told Jude, she’s not long afloat. She’s started takin’ on water faster than we can relieve her. She’s not fit for speed, and what with a shaky rudder and a cracked Mizzenmast, not to mention the riggin’s gone lax ...and the sails ...well, they should o’ replaced before we left Sumatra. So, it’s time or speed, Captain. You pick ‘em. But too much of one or the other is gonna be the end of us.”
Marin returned to his quarters to look at the charts in an attempt to decipher the ship’s location and best choice of course. Upon entering, he saw Phillipe’s gear neatly gathered together in the corner by the door. His Bible lie balanced on top of his sea bag. The ship took a heavy roll and the Bible tumbled to the floor. Marin picked it up, carried it to his bunk and began perusing through it in no particular order. A few minutes later, Phillipe came into the cabin and saw Marin cuddled up, leafing through the book. "Looking for a passage in particular?" Phillipe asked.
"No. I'm simply trying to find something that makes
sense."
"You need only to stop anywhere and read,” Phillipe said."
Marin laughed with single burat of air, and said, "I remember as a child being told that the Bible is the word of God, and that every syllable is true. However, when I tried to read it, I couldn't understand any of it. I would turn my head away, and ask, 'Why can’t I understand any of this?’ If this is the word of God, shouldn't He have made it a little easier to understand? Am I too stupid to believe in God?”
“You have to pray for understanding,” Phillipe replied.
“But shouldn’t I first believe in God before I pray
to him?"
"Well of course you believe in God ...don't you?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm leafing through the Bible," Marin said, flipping another page.
"Well, perhaps you should nest somewhere, brother. You might begin with Matthew 7:7, where Christ says, ‘Ask and ye shall receive.’”
Marin riffled through the Bible looking for the Book of Matthew.
“It is in the New Testament, Marin,” Phillipe jeered.
“Yes, I know,” Marin replied, and finding the book of Matthew he began turning a single page at a time. “Here it is,” he said, and he read the passage aloud: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” He looked at Phillipe, and asked, "What is it that I am supposed to ask for?"
Phillipe drew in a deep breath of exasperation and slowly released it before answering. "Ask for faith."
Marin closed the Bible, marking the spot with his index finger. "Shouldn't God be asking me for faith?” he asked.
"W-H-A-T?" Phillipe blurted in disbelief.
"If I want you to believe in me, I should come to you and ask you to believe in me, and give you reason. I would not expect you to come to me and ask, ‘Will you please give me faith in you?’ As if faith were somehow granted, rather than earned.”
"My dear brother, we ask that of everyone we meet. One way or another we ask them; can I trust in you?”
"No, we ask them to give us reason to trust in them, and if we wish for them to trust in us, we are expected to give them sufficient reason. Only thieves and liars ask you to blindly trust in them.”
“Marin, what are you saying? Surely you are not calling Our Lord—”
“I am simply asking, why should I have faith in your, or anyone else’s, God?
Phillipe moved closer to Marin, and said in his Sunday best and most reverent voice, "Because of what he has given unto you. Look around you, Marin; look with the eyes that He has given you; see as you have never seen before: the earth, the sea, the sky, and the heavens. Where is it that you look, and yet you do not see him?"
Marin leaned in toward Phillipe, and in a voice void of any reverence what so ever, said, "In the outstretched hands of a hungry child, in the well-worn lines of worry, etched in the face of an impoverished mother, in the pleading eyes of a disease-stricken man, in the—"
"These are not the works of God; these are works of
man,” Phillipe objected.
"...so-you-say. And what am I to do with that?" Marin
bellowed.
"PRAY!" Phillipe implored him.
"PRAY?"
"PRAY!"
Marin settled a moment, handed the Bible to Phillipe, and said, "You do the praying. I have work to do."
Marin having decided to favor his own compass over that of the ship’s, the twelve-degree difference put them sailing north by northwest.
The longer they maintained that heading, the stronger the winds became, and the darker the lowered skies hung over the Magister Maris. By late afternoon, the icy rain was flying heavy and cold against the men on deck as they struggled against its force to perform even the most menial of tasks. The ship was approaching her top speed through the stormy water, and Jude gave the order to bleed wind from the main and foresail in an attempt to slow the ship down. Waves were breaking at ten feet and slashing across deck. Marin was at the helm, and Oscar stood at his side warning him that the loosening and resulting flapping of the mainsail was not advisable.
“We need to furl the sails, Captain,” he shouted through the wind.
“And where would I find the hearty sailors to man the yardarms, Mister Oscar?”
“She’ll not take much more of this, Sir.”
Mister Oscar’s warning proved prophetic. By evening’s twilight the mainsail had ripped loose from the clews holding the base of the sail down. It was now a useless swath of cloth flapping in the gale. The foresail was swinging wildly on the yardarm, forcing the bow of the ship to violently twist and turn in the wind. Rain, snow, and occasional hail was pushing horizontal through the darkening night air with such force, it stung the flesh with the bite of a thousand tiny shards of metal.
Marin was holding onto the ship’s wheel as best he could, but it thrust first to the port and then to starboard with such force that it would carry the captain along with it. His feet slid on the slippery deck, lending him little traction against the twisting of the helm. Suddenly the wheel flung to port with such violent force that Marin yanked with all his strength and body weight to bring her back to center. Something snapped and the wheel lost all tension, spinning freely around to starboard and sending Marin, shoulder first, down onto the deck.
“She’s lost her rudder,” Oscar screamed.
Marin managed to stumble to his feet, yelling to Jude,
“Haul the foresail and tighten her down.”
Jude and a few of the men began pulling on the lines to lift the foresail out of the wind. Marin knew that the foresail should be furled, but he simply did not have a crew that could accomplish the task in even the mildest of storms. Except for Jude, Oscar, and perhaps Mister Collier, he didn’t really have a crew at all. He watched for as long as he could as the Magister Maris began to surrender to the forces beyond his control, and when his eyes could hold no more, he repaired to his cabin with Jude fast on his heel.
“What in the world are ya thinkin’, duckin’ below and leavin’ those squid ta fend for themselves?” Jude yelled.
“I need a moment to think...”
“’Ta think?” Jude exploded. “We’ve no time for thinkin’ Captain. I’ll go aloft and assume command myself before I’ll let ya think us to the bottom of the drink,” and Jude held his pose for a couple of precious seconds before heading for the door.
“WAIT,” Marin commanded. “Brace the mizzenmast yardarms hard round. Open her sails full to wind.”
“Have ya gone a’dancin’ with the fairies, Captain? That mast won’t hold.”
“Indeed,” Marin said. “Let her fall aft. She will be our rudder and we will use the jibs and staysails to heel her into the wind.”
Jude stood dazed before the captain, unable to even move a facial muscle.
“Do as your told, Mister Prince.”
Jude followed Marin out of the cabin and they began unfurling the two top sheets of the mizzenmast into the tempest. It took but a few lashes of the wind before the mast broke about three feet from the base with a thunderous crack, as if the entire ship had split in half. The rest of the mast ripped loose from the rigging, tearing spars, lines and braces, and tugging hard against the main mast before crashing into the stern and splintering again above the first yardarm. The upper most part of the mizzenmast leaned down into the violent waters behind the ship, even as the mast as a whole remained tenuously attached to the base. Jude ordered the men to grab what lines they could in the tangle of rope, and cleat them down on either side of the ship. Marin grabbed an axe and began chopping the toppled part of the mizzen mast away from the broken base. He stationed a man on each side and had them pull and let, at his command, turning the fallen mast into a crude rudder. The sails dragging through the water slowed the ship down to a more manageable speed.
“Bring her to heel and put her in irons,” Marin hollered. Every available man aboard began following his orders to point the ship directly into the wind. The short-handed and inexperienced crew fought the wind and rain and pounding waters for half an hour before the ship sat facing the wind, and they found themselves afloat but going nowhere. The bow sliced through the oncoming surf causing the ship to teeter and totter and bob up and down as if it were but a toy caught in turbulent stream.
Dorian asked the captain, “And how long do you suppose we can idle into a storm that is shifting as we speak?”
“This is not a sloop that can maneuver on a whim, Mister Murel.”
“Captain, these winds are about to blow hither and yon. There will be no facing into a twisting twine of a whirlwind. You are merely surrendering your command to the tempest.”
Mister Collier’s voice from far up in the Crow’s Nest shrieked, “Ship ahoy. Approaching from the starboard bow.”
Marin looked out over the railing but could see nothing. “Can you make her out?” he yelled back.
“She’s turnin’ broadside. Looks to be flyin’ the Union Jack.”
A flash of orange light and a loud explosion tore through the thick dark air, and something went whistling through the yardarms, and somehow, miraculously, sailed clean through the spaces.
Jude yelled out, “Push the fallin’ mast as hard as ya can laddies. We’ve ta turn the ship broadside so the bastards can’t strafe us lengthwise.”
“NO,” yelled Collier sliding down the rope ladder as fast as he could. “They can’t hold that position broadside to the wind.”
But it was too late. The Magister Maris began to spin around counter-clockwise with such force that there was no stopping her. The men pushed against the fallen mizzenmast with all the strength left to them, but nothing could stop the ship from spinning ‘round. Another blast of a canon and the Magister Maris shook from the force of a cannon ball flying through her hull, and then another blast, and another, all flashing like orange lightning and cracking sharper than thunder. Suddenly, the symphony of cannonade became more complex, a deeper, syncopated series of blasts rumbled from farther off into the distance. The ship within their sight began running with the wind, heading north. As she passed within ten yards of the spinning Magister, Collier yelled, “That ain’t no ship of Her Royal Majesty’s Navy.”
