The Pirate

Once I dry off I face my next immediate problem, clothes, or lack of clean clothes. I’ll go without underwear until I make it home and I’m lucky to find a black T-shirt that I had left behind at the flat a couple of days before. Doesn’t smell that great, but better than the one I slept in. The trousers are a matter of real concern though. My fawn linen pair look creased and lined enough to pass for a pair of pyjama bottoms, which in a way they were, and that’s nowhere near the worst of it. Somehow, although I don’t quite remember the particular detail, I must have started with the girl last night when I still had them on. She herself, lousy bitch, presumably in the heat of the moment, or in the middle of squeezing my hand and locking on her full eye-contact number, had forgotten to warn me that she was having her period, or having it all over my fucking trousers. The shit I find myself in, desperately scrubbing the crotch of my priceless designer gear with shampoo so that a blatant red stain can become a fairly obvious maroon one. No wonder she was so fucking horny, she’d found a man who cared enough to want to connect despite all that. Or one who failed to notice. Until now. How am I going to pass this off and serve breakfasts without looking a complete dick?

This, truth be told, is the final spur to me going home that morning, going home to throw on an unsoiled pair of jeans and consign the present pair to history. That is what made me do it, to walk over to the bar with my hands covering my stained soggy crotch, open it up, wait for the cleaner, give her a note to give to Sarah telling her to do everything the best she can until lunchtime when I was planning to be back, and to ignore Herman’s note that had been waiting for me in the door like a fucking German’s beachtowel claiming the space and to just head for the jeep and then head off, away from the marina and inland, up the side of the mountain towards the villa at Paguera.

An enjoyable drive, almost an hour I recall, enjoyable up to a point, that point being when I arrived. I had never made the trip at this hour; the road was curiously quiet and slow, it was the hordes of cyclists who were responsible for the latter, middle-aged Swiss pumping their way up the incline in their Lycra shorts and gaudy jerseys. A surreal vision, bankers and credit managers acting out their fantasies of being tour professionals. I smiled for them and turned the car’s music system off. The windows were down and the air blowing in seemed to be making a better job of clearing my head than the cold water had earlier. I tried to take in the colours and impressions of the island as the bikers would have been seeing them if they had not been so intent on exhausting themselves; the sweeping verdant hills and narrow valleys filled with wild olive, pine and dwarf palms; up in the higher, drier stretches the scatterings of carob trees standing defiantly and incongruously green under the Balearic sun’s strongest rays, a hazel carpet of carob pods covering everything at ground level, insulating the earth from the heat. I passed auburn-coloured hamlets and cottages in amongst the growth as the winding route led on to Camp de Mar and Andraitx. If I stare and stare I am reminded of why it was I came to live on this island, or rather why it was I came to stay.

I turned off and headed sharp left, a new road taking the jeep uphill towards another plateau and another scattering, this time of villas, built within the last five years, built for privacy, to accommodate new wealth. The last of the three, with its iron gates and driveway pointing to the heavy wooden porch doors is the one I draw up outside. There is no other car here, I can change clothes in privacy. Then I notice the gates are unlocked and I’m annoyed, they shouldn’t have been left like this; if the house alarm has not been set I’ll be seriously pissed off. On the doorstep itself I’m relieved to see that it has; I punch in the code, find and use the key and I’m inside, walking into the cool air and on to the tiles of the open-plan hallway and lounge. Right away, I notice that something is missing, not in the sense of stolen missing that would reduce me to a panic, but missing as in not there, the things that would give this home its normal atmosphere. Yes, it’s the atmosphere that’s not here – the mess of child’s toys on the floor, the pictures above the fireplace, gone. Into the kitchen and there is no food, no fruit in the bowl or bread lying out on the carving board. Walking slower now, into the bedroom, I open the wardrobe, no clothes hanging, other than mine. I sit down on the bed and contemplate the weight of the evidence, it’s back to the dream about water and the heavy certainty of knowing events are closing in, the heaviness that could drown me then and there in this room on a mountainside. My wife has left me. My wife and child are gone.

The storm woke him from his sleep in the dead of night. Not that this had come as a sudden shock. If anything the swerving climb and pitch of the bow had imparted an almost agreeable rocking motion to the cabin and his hammock, one that comforted him in his slumbers, worming its way into his dreams and the fleeting visions of a childhood spent in churches, idling away the moments during prayer meetings. So deep was his surrender to fatigue and the serenity of his reveries that when the roar from outside finally erupted into his consciousness and brought him so sharply back into the present it took almost a minute for him to gather his wits and realize where he was. He woke alone. To be fair, there were more than a few disconcerting factors which stood in the way of a ready understanding. The first was the dark, the pitch-black which greeted his eyes. Second were the noises that he found impossible to identify: the strange sound the wind made as it toyed with Anne upon the waves, a shrill howl recognizable only to those sailors who had heard it before. To this was added the percussion of the men vomiting on the deck, retching as if in arranged sequence, bells being rung in a tower. Then, more ominously, the stirrings of the cargo in the holds, groaning like anguished souls, then thudding like the anarchic drums of a marching military band.

Martin moved to seek his breeches in the gloom, something telling him that he should be on deck alongside the officers though he knew there was little he would be capable of or expected to do.

They were three days from Tenerife, or so they had told him, progress had been swift, the tempestuous regions of the Arab waters successfully behind them. He cursed himself for believing such assertions as he fed his legs through the seat of his pants. The ship suddenly lurched to starboard, sending him falling into a collision with his books now stacked in a growing sprawl on that side of the cabin. He let go of the waistband as he steeled himself in an instant for impact with the wall and floor but his legs were trapped, as securely fastened at the ankles as if in a pair of leg-irons. He hit the floor with a whiplash force, tasting blood in his mouth immediately, before the force of the ship correcting itself sent him rolling back to the middle of the floor. To his astonishment he could now taste salt on his lips, sea-water salt – the waves had reached high inside the Anne. Everything was awash. Another curiosity. Should he live it had to be worth questioning the captain on this too.

He did not wear a hat, though it did not stop him instinctively reaching for it as the full force of the gale hit him once he emerged from the cocoon of the cabin in the quarterdeck. He smiled momentarily, realizing that to an observer it must have appeared as if he were trying to secure his very head against the might of the elements. A preposterous notion, it was as well they were all preoccupied with more pressing matters, huddled against railings, posts and the helm. Nobody stood erect, everyone crouching to present a smaller target to the angry blusters that would have them over the side.

He wanted to join them, to find out what it was they were doing, to offer his help. For weeks he had felt the outsider, the interloper with no legitimate place on board. Suddenly, with the white spray of the water lashing every inch of him he felt an exhilaration that verged upon delirium, as if the ship had been thrown into a realm of opposites where he belonged and they did not. He was calm, invisible, and comfortable in his mind for some reason that the vessel would not sink, that the waves had no quarrel nor place for her. He felt an urge to seek out the captain, to offer his services for whatever the emergency demanded. He wanted to show that he felt no fear, not of the storm, nor the captain himself, or any physical challenge that might have to be met before the night was out. As the ship fell deep into the chasms that yawned open between the rolling waters he felt the gravity keeping his boots on the timbers of the deck grow lighter, so much so that he might be left behind whilst everything else plummeted downward. Again he suppressed a laugh at the oddity of it all, wondering also in that moment if his amusement was that of a madman, for whilst he could not see the expressions on his shipmates’ faces, he could be sure that mirth would not be shared amongst them. Had he finally gone insane?

Another thunderous wave smashed into the boat on the starboard side, punching in like a left hook from a vicious opponent who had already set the target up for the hit with a delicate series of jabs to prime it into position for the final blow to strike with full force. It felt as if the Anne might topple over, might give up the fight and fully immerse her deck and masts in a desperate bid for inverted stability. Martin looked up and saw the sea above his head, the floor that was once the deck now vertical, like a wall. One more inch and she might have been tempted to revolve the full way but no, the stubborn and spirited nature of the craft suddenly asserted itself as she swung back to reverse herself with an urgency that spoke of an anger at the indignity she had suffered by baring her belly to the air. Martin slid back the full width of the bow, the momentum of the shift lifting him back on to his feet as he came to a halt. He landed right in front of a cowering nest of crew-men clinging to a rail, appearing before them like an apparition that had materialized out of nowhere. There were six of them: Wells, the first mate, Fotheringham the purser, and four deckhands in their sodden rags. They looked as one up to his figure, standing tall, unblinking, traces of a smile lurking somewhere about his eyes.

‘Good evening gentlemen,’ he said, in a voice they would recall as sounding as if he were making their acquaintance in a rowdy tavern, ‘… I think this will be a night we will all remember for some time.’

It was his second premonition. It would prove to be as accurate as the first, though it was not the night itself that they would remember, but his part within its events. This night would almost come to be regarded as the night the voyage started, for prior to it, Martin’s presence had been noticed by only the few who had shared his acquaintance in the confines of officer quarters. This was now his first moment, his real arrival. Later, during the battles that would be fought, there would be those who sought him out in the midst of the action, eager to share his space. There were those who thought him to be untouchable, blessed, impervious to any bullet or blade. This was the night that it all began, when the first of them saw a reason to follow him.

The men were gathered outside, bracing themselves against the excesses of the storm for a reason. They were under orders to check the movements stirring in the holds below. Occasionally, the ship would shudder as if she was being assailed from the deep, her bow scraped along a reef or even shaken by the tentacled grip of an aquatic monster hiding under the waves. For the captain and his crew however, the truth was all the more disturbing; the threat came from within, the precious goods that gave purpose to the entire venture had broken loose and were in danger of destroying both themselves and the ship. Captain Henry had ordered that the movement be halted and this group had gathered around the hatch that would give entry down into the after hold. None however showed any inclination to pass inside, instead they crouched with an ear to the opening as if waiting for a signal from below.

‘Is there anyone down in there?’

Martin had to shout just to hear himself in the rain-soaked gale. His question drew only a shaking of heads by way of reply.

‘What is the problem?’

Again, no one rushed to reply. Martin had the feeling he was breaking some kind of silent truce between the men. He had had enough though of being treated as an interloper.

‘I will go inside.’

He placed one leg on the iron hinge that held the hatch door open and prepared to climb down. An arm appeared to halt his progress and pull him back towards the deck. It was Fotheringham, who appeared excitable and spoke between taking in gulps of air.

‘There is no problem here, Doctor, we have been listening out for stray cargo for the last hour. Everything in this hold is properly stacked and bound, I will swear by it.’

‘Then why won’t you let me go in and check?’

Fotheringham shook his head in a display of exasperation. ‘Because you have no business down in the holds, sir. It is dark inside, there is nothing to see, and if harm should come to you when down below I have no intention of being held accountable for it.’

The look on Martin’s face made Fotheringham draw the young surgeon closer; he spoke more quietly, pressing his mouth close to Martin’s ear. ‘It is dangerous, sir … a man could be crushed … there is no point in courting danger. We must only enter if strictly necessary and that will be if we hear something that makes us feel that is an appropriate action. Then it will be one of the hands, sir; them that were responsible for stowing the cargo should also be charged with securing it when it breaks loose, that’s what the captain says.’

‘Where is he?’

‘The captain? Up on the forward hatch. That’s where it sounds as if something is happening, they will have the Devil’s job to fix that. I wouldn’t go bothering him now, and I wouldn’t go volunteering to go inside either … Unless you want to be judged a fool, or just plain impertinent, sir. Understand?’

Martin paused; he didn’t understand, but the debate hardly seemed worth entering. A fool or impertinent. Whose opinion was this meant to be, the captain’s, or his supine lackey’s? How could it be that the ship – and all aboard – were in danger, yet the situation could only be saved by those who were expendable rather than those charged with command?

The Anne rose up on another menacing swell, the surging motion passing through from side to side leaving them all clutching at the rails and each other for safety. All except Martin, who rode it in his boots, hands staying still by his side as he eyed the purser with an expression approaching distaste.

‘As long as he doesn’t take me for a coward I shall be well satisfied.’

He turned and moved forward, striding against the full force of the wind as he made his way along to join the second group of men on deck. This was much larger, over twenty gathered around the opening to the largest of the holds. As the bows were lifted by successive waves, the Anne’s prow was left high in the air, making Martin’s journey an uphill hike. He gradually edged higher, closer to the advance party clinging on near the summit. He could hear the captain’s voice as his bellowed instructions were blown down towards him.

‘No lamps … Let your damn eyes do their work!’

The tone was harsh; Captain Henry meant his men to obey. Martin saw immediately that this group had the more demanding of the deck assignments, foremost and most exposed to the elements, entrusted with the largest hold, the one that was making the most noise. Even to a novice sailor like himself, the difference between the echoes emanating from this space and the one he had just visited was distinct. Here also, the men were set about their business; desperately tying down the sails to the yards to stop them being inflated by the blasts of wind, sweeping the water from the deck that the waves sought to deposit every time they launched an assault over the bow, feeding the lengths of rope into the deep, dark, dangerous pit that was the hold where their colleagues were now surveying.

‘Captain Henry?’

The captain’s head jerked around swiftly. His mouth was drawn tight.

‘What?’ He looked at Martin with immediate distrust, as if he did not recognize him. His expression barely changed when the stranger’s identity finally registered. What use a surgeon in a crisis like this? ‘… What is it, man!’

‘I am here to let you know my services are available, sir.’

The offer seemed to leave the skipper wrongfooted.

‘Aye … Of course. We have … no need. No injuries.’

‘I will do whatever is required, please be assured of that, sir.’

The captain waved a hand, the motion almost dismissing Martin and the rain as one and the same irritant.

‘How many are down there?’

The captain ignored the question. It was left to the second mate, Gardiner, to furnish an answer. He tugged Martin to one side, perhaps fearful of being overheard by his superior.

‘Jim and Peter … the lads. It was them who was meant to have it all secured when we left port, so them ’as to sort it out, Captain says. He’s not best pleased, no, sir … Can you smell the scent of alcohol?’

Martin pushed his head directly over the hatch; a sweet odour met his nostrils, mixed in amongst the damp wood and salt spray. He nodded. Gardiner stepped closer and spoke with the voice of a man in mourning.

‘Spillage, for sure, aye. Captain Henry is not best pleased,’ he said solemnly.

The captain’s displeasure was obviously the prime concern of the ship’s senior crew, a matter more pressing than the danger of the loose cargo itself. Martin wondered how it could be that one man could impose his will so absolutely over others. Was this a hindrance or a help in this current predicament, did their fear of him lessen their fear of the storm, was that the intention of this grim leadership? Or was he a simply a latter-day Canute, trying to command the waves through the hold he had over the crew?

The Anne was gaining height suddenly, pushed upwards by a rapidly forming crest so that for a moment she was perched atop a peak within the ocean, gazing down on the waves below. Martin instinctively broke free of Gardiner’s conspiratorial embrace to survey the scene. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he scanned across the horizon towards the nearest summit. Here was another mountain, a mountain on the move towards them, built on a roaring wall of water at least forty feet high. He struggled to find the words for what seemed an eternity, eventually hearing himself screaming with all his might towards the captain.

‘Another one on the way, sir … starboard side. Haul the lads free! Get them to safety, sir!’

In reply, a flash of angry eyes, a glare to warn of future reproach. Captain Henry addressed his comments to the darkness of the chamber below.

‘Get our cargo fixed, hear me? Make it fast, damn you!’

Martin pushed Gardiner aside to gain access to the rope attached to the men in the hold. The ship was plummeting downward as he did so.

‘Pull them out!’

His hands were wrapped tight around the cord when the wave struck, his intention having been to drag the pair free singlehanded if necessary. Instead, the rope instantly became his means of staying aboard as the full might of the sea raged over and across the tossing deck. He held tight as the ship turned on its side whilst the breaking wave flooded the open hold and swept three hands over into the frothing deep. In that instant he could have been forgiven for believing that the Anne had become submerged, such was the force and volume of water that poured over her bows. Yet somehow she remained afloat, righting herself anew although rocking the stern deck free of another two crewmen in the process. No one saw them go, it was only their final cries for help that lingered.

The stinging of the sea-water acting on his raw hands brought Martin back to his senses. He felt a surge of despair as he looked into the hold, now filled to its very brim with the water that lapped at the hatch.

‘Bail! Bail out the hold!’

The shouts of the captain and ship’s mate had the rest scurrying for buckets and pails, the first of which began to dip into the watery space and relieve it of its unwelcome liquid cargo. Progress was chaotic and slow, the ship continuing to bob and pitch with such violence and unpredictability that seldom would a full bucketload leaving the hold contain more than half of that by the time it was raised clear, the rest spilling back to whence it came. Martin tugged vainly on the rope. Surely what he was watching was a demonstration of the wrong priority being exercised? He looked once more over the bow of the ship. It was now almost a minute since the giant wave had struck. In the moonlight he could see no sign of any other approaching. He would have to take his chance, and take it now. The penalty would be a lifetime of never forgiving himself for not doing otherwise.

The others, to a man, were all studying the entrance in glum silence as he stripped off his jacket. He tried to slow his breathing down, inhaling longer, fuller lungfuls as he lifted his leg on to the side of the hatch. His foot in place, a spring off the deck with the other had him skipping up and over the side and plunging into the uncertain waters of the hold. They greeted him with an icy shock. Reaching for the rope as a guide, he pulled against it to go down deeper, tentatively feeling for the top of the original cargo with his legs. He tried to open his eyes, but they were useless, blinded and stung by the sea salt. All he could do was fight his way down, groping for any kind of familiar shape in the numbing cold. He touched what he imagined to be wooden crates, barrel rims, other ropes and rigging as his discomfort and the lack of air began to bite. The darkness under the water he could have expected, the silence he did not, nor the relative peace this granted from the cacophony of storm and bellowed orders above. Of its own, aside from the cramps and giddiness he was beginning to feel, this was almost worth staying under for.

He had kicked to return to the surface when his left hand ran through what he thought was a mop. Instinctively, he stayed to explore the immediate area surrounding it, in case what he had touched was a scalp. He was floating horizontally and his by now frozen fingers met the texture of more wood, more canvas, more ragged splinters that had once been proud veneers; then shockingly, something less rigid – a substance, a shoulder, an arm, a hand that he squeezed with his. Martin tore blindly at the wall that seemed to have pinned down the components of the torso he had discovered. Was it his imagination or had the other hand sought his, had it pressed his palm in a feeble attempt to signal that Martin’s help was needed? He pulled on the rope with urgent vigour, hoping that those above would themselves take its fluctuating tension as a sign that they too should join the effort to free those trapped below. He was running out of air and knew he had to return to the surface, trailing his arm in the darkness a final time in order to deliver a departing handshake, a simple physical gesture that could perhaps impart a more complicated hope; I have found you, I won’t forget you, I will get you out. He kicked again for the surface.

As soon as his head was above water, the sound of pandemonium returned. Martin tried to shout as he regained his short breath. He had returned to the same scene as before, men vainly trying to empty the hold one pail at a time. The difference in the waterline was negligible and it was beyond belief that only one man held the rope that could be another man’s saviour.

‘He’s alive … For Christ’s sake pull him free, all of you, we cannot let them die like drowned dogs!’