The Fall of Tartarus (9 page)

After
five minutes my hands were sore from gripping the holds, my knees abraded by
the wood of the deck. The muscles of my back ached already from holding so
hunched a posture. I tried to relax; we had three or four hours of this to
endure.

We
had little to do for the next fifteen minutes. Gastarian adjusted our course
with minimal turns of the wheel, and the crew in the rigging trimmed the sails
from time to time, but we were not called upon to effect a swerve away from
projecting coral. As the other crewmen relaxed and looked about them at how the
other ships were faring, I did the same. I was surprised by how many vessels
had fallen behind. I roughly estimated that we had outpaced twenty ships; another
five or six were alongside us, and the three or four which had outstripped the
Swan
were no more than a boat’s length in front.

‘Hard
to port!’ The command was so sudden and unexpected that several of us delayed,
before throwing ourselves frantically at the gunwale and swarming up the timber
crucifixes. The ship yawed, spray soaked us in a cool shower. ‘Faster next
time. The coral nearly bit us deep! Faster!’ Gastarian called. ‘Now central,
boys, and be ready for the next command.’

I
chanced a glance astern. Only a dark discoloration in the blue of the river, an
elongated smudge, showed the position of the deadly coral.

As
the minutes passed, so our speed increased as the river narrowed and the water
surged ever faster. Our passage became turbulent, so that we had to grip the
handholds to remain in position. We were flashing past cultivated farmland,
with the occasional small figure of a farmer cheering us on. Perhaps twenty-odd
ships straggled in our wake. Two maintained positions alongside us, and another
two were out in front.

‘Remember
this: relax and we’re dead. This is the easy part. Another hour and you begin
to earn your money! Steady, now. We’re doing well.’ Gastarian manhandled the
wheel, and in the rigging tiny figures adjusted the snapping sails.

My
thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the sailor behind me. To port, the ship
in fourth place surged towards us, the intentions of its master clear: three
great beams projected from its foredeck, a crude and ugly method by which to
scupper an opposition boat.

Alerted
by the cry, Gastarian turned. ‘Evasive action! Man your port frames!’ As one we
surged in response, and only as I flung myself upon the crucifix, legs wrapped
around the timber, hands desperately gripping the cross-beam, did I realise the
danger we were in. The bellicose boat was barely five metres from us, and
bearing down remorselessly. The projecting beams raced towards us like
battering rams, threatening to tear the very timbers upon which we twelve
clung. A second after diving on our crucifixes, the manoeuvre had the desired
effect. The
Golden Swan
yawed tremendously and we brave souls flew
beneath the rams of the neighbouring ship. The
Swan
cut across its bows
- our wide stern timbers ripping a great rent in the aggressor’s flank. As we
swept on triumphant, the other ship limped to shore, its Messenger and Blackman
circling despondently. We cheered as we returned to our handholds.

Ever
the vigilant shipmaster, Gastarian warned us against complacency. ‘Minds on the
job!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘There’s corals ahead! Ready, now ... To
starboard!’ Like trained monkeys we leapt as one to the frames, feeling the
ship tip as the port side left the water, hopefully clearing the corals spotted
by the signalling Blackman. The boat tipped, and I was doused with a cool slap
of water. I gripped the cross-beam with all my strength, my ribs grating
against the timbers. ‘And back! Well done. We’re doing fine.’

The
ship in fourth position, however, was not so lucky. From upriver came the
terrible, rending screech of torn timbers, and I glanced back to see the ship
founder upon a projecting reef of rock. As we watched, horrified, the deck of
the ship parted company with its hull and sheered off into the river where it
sank in seconds. Those crewmen able to leap free did so, but the unfortunate
hands buckled into the harnesses were not so lucky. I stared and stared at
where they had gone down, willing them to surface, but to no avail. I was
reminded of our own precarious safety, the danger should we go down: how nimble
would our fingers be at unfastening our buckles then, with our lungs full of
water and the dangers of carnivorous fish ever present? Then, miraculously, I
saw two or three heads bob to the surface, and a Messenger and a Blackman swoop
down and with difficulty drag the sodden bundles through the river, deposit
them without ceremony on the shore, and return in a bid to save more lives.

We
passed through a narrow stretch of water between two forested glades, a scene
that might have been idyllic but for the speed of the river and the knowledge
of what lay ahead. Behind me, a sailor muttered, ‘Ready yourselves, lads. Two
minutes, that’s all we’ve got. Then it’s either nimble be or a watery grave.
Hark Gastarian and be ready to leap like fleas!’

‘The
first two boats are still in sight,’ someone said, ‘which at this stage is
welcome indeed. By God, if fate shines on us and keeps us dry, we can win this
one!’

‘Don’t
speak too soon. We’re not even halfway there - more die between here and the
sea than anywhere else.’

Ahead,
the two leading ships were weaving this way and that through a stretch of
boiling rapids, their masts rocking to and fro like metronomes. At times they
were almost on their sides as their deckhands scurried from port to starboard
and back again in a frantic effort to avoid the lethal corals.

I
was struck by a sudden trembling panic - soon we would be in their position,
fighting for our very lives! I was almost sick with apprehension. Glancing
around at my team-mates, I saw my fear reflected in their faces, and I was torn
between relief that I was not the only coward aboard, and fright that these
hardened sailors should so fear what awaited us.

‘Be
ready...’ Gastarian growled at us. ‘This is it! We enter the rapids!’

‘Nimble
to it lads,’ said the sailor behind me.

‘To
starboard!’ Gastarian yelled, and to starboard we leapt. I clung to the
timbers, shaking in every limb. The ship tipped alarmingly and we were
submerged. I gasped, drenched and breathless. It was fortunate that there was
no coral on this side of the ship or we would have been ripped to death in
seconds.

‘To
port!’ came Gastarian’s yell, muffled in my water-filled ears. I flung myself
left, slipping on the wet timbers, and somehow, miraculously, found myself
clutching the timber port frame as we were doused again, for so long this time
that I thought we had gone under for good. All was a chaotic maelstrom of
silver bubbling water and filtered sunlight, a roaring of the churned river and
a protracted creaking of straining timbers.

‘And
to starboard!’

‘Starboard,
lads,’ called the sailor behind me, for the benefit of those deafened by the
dunking.

We
charged across the deck, launched ourselves at the frames, and clung on for
dear life as the ship tipped quickly like a spinning top, waltzing between the
underwater hazards.

This
set the pattern for what seemed like hours. Not once did we rest, not for more
than fifteen seconds at any one time did we stay on our frames before we were
ordered off again. I lost all track of time. I seemed to have been performing
this manic dance for all my life; in minutes I had become experienced, my
concentration honed. I no longer felt fear, but a kind of head-spinning,
ecstatic excitement. No longer did I worry at what might become of me if we
went under. I lived for the second, charged with an insane confidence in
Blackman, in Gastarian, in my crewmates and myself. We worked as one, for each
other and for the ship. I realised, after what seemed like an age, that each of
us was shouting like a man possessed, echoing Gastarian’s commands, a
synchronised chant that bonded us into a well-drilled, efficient unit.

Each
second, I realised in retrospect, brought ever more near-death experiences;
every metre of water presented us with perils. I was hardly aware of individual
incidents at the time - they were over so rapidly, and the next one upon us,
that we had no time to dwell on what had been. Now I recall the highlights, and
marvel that we ever survived.

At
one point a crucifix with a sailor upon it struck an outcrop of coral and was
instantly snapped. The crewman dropped over the gunwale, and then, thanks to
his secure rope, was tossed back onto the deck, shaken and half-drowned but
otherwise uninjured. From then on he doubled up on the timber frame of his
neighbour. Repeatedly our projecting frames scraped the corals, shaving
fragments from the living rocks that blasted us like shrapnel. Soon our arms
and bodies were slick with our life-blood as well as water, and the deck would
have been awash with blood but for the regular dousings that washed it clean. I
recall, vividly, a fish flying towards us, its great mouth a thicket of barbed
fangs, a lethal man-trap that would have severed a leg in seconds. One of our
number fell upon it and clubbed it to death with his bare fists.

And,
most remarkable of all, was the wreckage of the ship we overtook. We must have
passed the stricken vessel in a matter of seconds, but so indelibly was the
picture of carnage imprinted on my mind’s eye that it seemed we dawdled by long
enough to fill our eyes with the gruesome horror. I made out the remains of a
dozen bodies impaled upon projecting spurs of coral as if for our inspection. I
swear we were washed by water tinted crimson with the blood of the dead, its
rusty iron taste filling my mouth and nose. Above the carnage, lodged
precariously on the reef like some hopeless, makeshift memorial, was the deck
of the forlorn ship with its upright masts and pathetically flapping sails.

Someone
behind me cursed, and I fought not to be sick. Then Gastarian yelled a command
and we concentrated on the task at hand.

And
then, incredibly, the sound of his voice did not come again, and the raging
water no longer drenched us, and the
Golden Swan
kept an even keel. We
knelt amidships like exhausted sprinters, our blood gathering and running down
the cracks between the timbers. I managed to fill my lungs with air for the
first time in what seemed like hours, and then I laughed in relief and joy, and
this was taken up by the others. And what a sight we were! To a man we were
blood-soaked and cut about, scrolls of skin hanging from our bodies, bruises
beginning to bloom on arms and shoulders.

Only
once more after that were we called to man our frames, something of an
anticlimax after such hectic action. I realised then that in our fight to
survive we had overlooked our position in the race.

‘Are
we ahead?’ I cried.

Gastarian
indicated forward. ‘Not quite. But look.’

Perhaps
three ship-lengths ahead of us was the leading ship, a white-painted vessel
with blood-red sails. A cry of triumph arose from my team-mates - and then I
realised the reason for their joy. The leading ship was damaged. A hole gaped
in its starboard flank and it was taking in water, listing badly though still
maintaining speed.

‘The
open sea!’ Gastarian called, and sure enough we were fast approaching the
widening estuary that gave onto the ocean. Ahead, I made out the low landmass
of St Benedict’s island. I noticed for the first time the crowds on the
headlands, cheering and waving flags in the bright sunlight.

The
damaged ship hit the open sea ahead of us, and I judged that the island was
only two kilometres away. It was now up to the crewmen in the rigging, as they
trimmed the sails to catch the available wind.

We
exhausted dozen could only sprawl across the deck and stare impotently. Bit by
bit we seemed to be gaining on the limping ship, but the island, and the
finishing line strung out across the facing bay, were drawing ever closer.
Metre by metre we gained, and it came to me that all our good work would count
for nothing, that we would come home in second place. With less than two
hundred metres to the line of bunting that indicated the race’s end, the
Golden
Swan
surged alongside the opposing boat. I stared across at the hapless
ship, its exhausted crewmen a mirror image of ourselves.

Miraculously,
the opposing boat gained speed. As I watched, appalled, little by little it
edged in front. Gastarian called out to the men in the rigging, who adjusted a
sail. Again we drew alongside, and, hardly daring to hope that we might win the
race, I looked ahead. The finishing line was but metres away, and fast
approaching.

Then,
as if the
Golden Swan
itself wished to win the race, from nowhere the
ship found speed and inched ahead. Seconds later we hit the line of bunting
barely two metres ahead of the stricken vessel, and the cries that went up from
the crew were deafening.

We
unbuckled ourselves and embraced, crying tears of joy and triumph. It seemed
that only now could I consider the danger we had passed through, and a kind of
retroactive dread coursed through me. Shipmaster Gastarian came among us,
returned to his quiet self now, and with tears in his eyes thanked each one of
us in turn. Loi descended and embraced me, her kisses smothering my face. When
she finally pulled away her tunic was imprinted with my blood.