The Wreck Of The President

Page 3

So much for hope.

The afternoon and the light were both disappearing fast, but in the last glimmer a black shape could be seen far off on the port side. Land.

After the shout went up everyone who could move scrambled across the decks to peer out into the early evening dark. It was land certainly, but which land? Muttering, chattering, argument and finally some sort of agreement – it was the Lizard Point it had to be, those who were most familiar with the Cornish coast were sure of it. If they turned slightly to the north they would be heading for Falmouth, they could cover much of the distance before stopping for the night.

Foolish but desperate. To try for Falmouth, or any port for that matter, they would need to know the tides and the coastline but after all that they had been through were they even sure which day it was? And the Manacles, the lethal rocks off the east coast of the Lizard, these were dangerous waters.

The ship drove on, committed now, there could be no turning back, this was it, the final dash.

They didn’t know it, but the land they had seen wasn’t the Lizard at all. They hadn’t turned toward Falmouth but instead were heading across Mounts Bay. Several miles ahead in the darkness a deserted rocky coastline stretched right across their path.

Down below amongst the other sick the Captain drifted in and out of consciousness. He barely understood what was happening. If he were still in command he would have told the men to drop anchor and ride out the storm where they were. He had his orders, and his common sense together with years of experience and they all said the same thing:

“Stop! Drop the anchors here now, and try to reach port in the morning.”

Jonathan Hide had been the master of this ship for almost six years, serving on her before that in the position of First Mate. He had taken over command on an earlier voyage when the previous captain, his father, had died while they were in India.

As he lay on the gun deck helpless from sickness and starvation he could hear the poor wretches above arguing. They were in control now, they hadn’t mutinied, he was simply unfit to command his vessel and he knew it. The trouble was there was nobody really in charge up there. They would probably decide to drop the anchors after all in a few minutes, he just hoped it would be in time.

The President was pitching and swaying more violently and the waves were breaking over the decks. It was fully dark and the only light came from the lanterns swinging madly as if they were trying to escape from the doomed ship. Everyone up on deck was wet through and frozen to the bone. A few had collapsed, they had given the last of their strength to help get the ship home and now all they could do was crouch in the corners and hope to survive. Others had found new reserves of strength and were working harder than ever.

Up on the quarterdeck the argument had stopped and several men started shouting and waving to those who were away forward on the forecastle. With the constant deafening roar of wind and sea in all their ears it was almost impossible to understand a shout from a few feet away let alone half the length of the ship. Several began to descend the steps to the main deck and to fight their way to the forecastle carrying with them the new order: “Drop anchor”.

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