Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘It is a large island,’ the captain replied to Fidelma’s question. ‘And a dangerous one. I think we shall be lucky, though.’

Fidelma glanced at him in surprise.

‘Lucky? In what way?’

‘This haze … it could easily develop into a sudden fog, which is frequent around Ushant, and there are strong currents here and innumerable reefs, added to which, if the wind is harsh one stands in danger of being hurled, if not onto the reefs, then onto the rocky, broken shore. A blow here can last a week or ten days without letting up.’

Even in the haze there seemed something sinister about the low black outline they were approaching. There was no sign of any hills. Fidelma estimated that the highest point of the island could not be more than two hundred feet, but there was still something very threatening about the distant crash and hiss of the waves breaking on the rocks along the shoreline. It seemed an island full of menace.

‘How do you know where to land?’ she asked. ‘I can see only an impenetrable wall of rocks.’

Murchad grimaced.

‘We certainly won’t attempt to land on this coast. This is the northern coast. We must sail south, around a point into a broad bay where the main settlement is situated. There is a church there which was set up a century ago by the Blessed Paul Aurelian, the Briton.’

He pointed.

‘We have to round that headland over there — do you see? Where that ship is standing out towards us.’

Fidelma followed his outstretched arm and saw that a distant ship had appeared from behind the dark headland and was beating around towards them. A voice cried from the masthead.

Murchad took a step forward and shouted back in annoyance: ‘We already see it. You should have let us have a holler ten minutes ago!’

Gurvan appeared from the bow of the ship.

‘She’s a square-rigged ship out of Montroulez.’

‘That’s the type of ship. It doesn’t tell us who is sailing her,’ replied Murchad. ‘A lookout is useless unless he keeps the deck informed.’

Fidelma could make out the square-sail rig, similar to some extent to The Barnacle Goose with its high prow.

Gurvan, who had joined Drogon at the steering oar, was peering forward, straining to take in the details of the approaching vessel.

‘I think there is something wrong with her, Captain,’ he called.

Murchad swung round frowning to examine the other vessel.

‘Her sail is badly set and pulling her too close to the wind,’ he muttered. ‘That’s bad seamanship for you.’

For her part, Fidelma could see nothing wrong with the ship itself but accepted that the trained eyes of Murchad and Gurvan could pick out the faults of their fellow seamen.

Then Murchad let out an uncharacteristic exclamation which caused Fidelma to start.

‘The fool! He should be wearing the ship now. That onshore wind is going to turn the vessel towards the rocks.’

The two vessels were drawing closer together, except that TheBarnacle Goose was standing well out to the west of the grim line of rocks, with plenty of sea room to manoeuvre. The other vessel was straining under the wind towards the shore.

‘Why doesn’t he wear the ship? Can’t he see the danger?’ Gurvan cried. No one answered him.

Some members of the crew were lining the port rail and watching the other ship, making critical comments on the other’s seamanship.

‘Belay that!’ bellowed Murchad. ‘Stand by the halyards.’

The sailors broke off and made towards the ropes which raised and lowered the sail. Fidelma was mentally noting down this strange seaman’s jargon for she was interested in learning what was happening. She felt a sudden shift in wind. It was curious how she had now grown accustomed to noticing wind changes since she had observed how essential it was on shipboard.

‘I knew it!’ cried Murchad, almost stamping his foot. ‘Damn that fool of a captain!’

His cry caused her to look towards the other vessel which stood quite some way away. If she understood Murchad correctly, the other captain should have reset his sail and tacked or zigzagged his ship against the wind. Whatever the technicality was, she could see the result.

The wind had hit the sail of the ship with such force that it lurched forward like an arrow from a bow, pushing it directly into the low line of rocks ahead. Then a contrary wind heeled the vessel over, so far that, for a moment, Fidelma though it would turn right over on its side. It balanced precariously for a moment and then swung upright again. The wind caught once more at the sail and, even above the sound of the sea and the wind, Fidelma could hear a terrible rending sound as the sail tore across.

‘Say a prayer for them, lady!’ cried Gurvan. ‘They have no hope in hell now.’

‘What do you mean?’ gasped Fidelma, and then realised it was a silly question to ask.

For a moment or two the other ship seemed strangely becalmed and then the hanging shreds of the mainsail, and the still intact steering sail, caught in the wind and the vessel lurched forward yet again.

There was a sound the like of which Fidelma had never heard before. It was like a gigantic animal tearing through the undergrowth, splintering wood and uprooting bushes and trees in its wake. That sound was magnified a thousand times across the water.

The other vessel seemed to be hurled forward and, as Fidelma looked on in horror, it began to disintegrate.

‘Smashed on the rocks, by the living God!’ cried Murchad. ‘Heaven help the poor souls.’

She watched with a cold fascination as the distant mast suddenly splintered and crashed over like a tall tree falling, bringing the rigging and remains of the tattered sail with it. Then it seemed as if the planks were breaking up. She could see small dark figures leaping from the ship into the white frothy waters. She imagined she could hear cries and screams, although the wind and the sound of the water smashing against the rocks would have drowned out such sounds.

Within a few moments the other vessel had disappeared and around the dark jagged teeth of the rocks there seemed little but flotsam and jetsam bobbing on the water — bits of wreckage, mainly shattered wooden planks. A barrel. A wicker basket. And here and there, face downwards, a few bodies.

Murchad stood looking on as if he had turned to stone. Then, as a man rousing himself from a sleep, he first shook his head and coughed to clear the emotion from his voice.

‘Lower the mainsail!’ he cracked out.

The hands, already at the halyards, began hauling.

Cian and some of the other members of the pilgrim party had come up on deck, aware that something was happening, and demanding to know what had taken place.

Murchad stared at Cian for a moment and then roared angrily: ‘Get your party below! Now! ’

Fidelma went forward, feeling embarrassed, and began to push her fellow religieux towards the hatchway.

‘A ship has just struck the rocks over there,’ she replied in answer to their protests. ‘There does not seem much hope for the poor souls on board.’

‘Can’t we do something?’ asked Sister Ainder. ‘Surely it is our duty to be of assistance?’

Fidelma glanced back to where Murchad was shouting instructions and compressed her lips for a moment.

‘The captain is doing all he can,’ she assured the tall religieuse. ‘You may best help him by obeying his commands.’

‘Bring her head to the wind, Gurvan! Sea anchors! Hold her steady. Stand by to launch the skiff!’

From the jumble of orders, Fidelma realised that Murchad was going to attempt to pick up any survivors.

Seeing her companions going reluctantly below, she turned back to Murchad. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ She asked.