Ross King - Ex Libris

'Bastard,' he breathed through gritted teeth, leaning backwards on his haunches. The point followed him, pressing deeper, breaking the skin. A bead of dark blood appeared and then scuttled into his collar. 'Devil. Murderer!'

'Rowley!' Quilter was now pushing his way through the throng. 'For God's sake, we've been bilged.' He was trying to push them away from the wall, away from the backed-up trio. What was the matter with everyone? Could they not hear the roar of the water in the bilges? The breach was only a few feet below them, the inrushing sea deafening as rolls of thunder. Any second now the water would surge into the hold and the Bellerophon would sink like a stone. 'Do you not hear me? The cargo must be shifted! Now! Before we sink!'

Still no one moved. Then the ship gave a laborious shudder and heave as the keel scraped over a sandbar and tipped violently to starboard. The crewmen slipped across the cluttered deck and tumbled like lovers into each other's arms. Quilter, too, lost his balance and, before he could right himself, felt someone fall and brush against his leg. He turned to help but, saw a pair of sightless eyes goggling at him from inside a leering mask. The creature, dislodged from its coffin, had rolled to the floor. He kicked it in the belly, sending it into ever more frenzied throes. When he turned round he saw someone else-Rowley-also contorting on the deck.

It had all happened very fast. The midshipman had seized his chance a second earlier, lunging forward with a cry, the bodkin aimed at the stranger's belly. But his enemy was too quick for him. As his two companions dived backwards the man took a half step sideways and then with a few lazy flicks of his wrist inscribed another set of initials, this time in red across the midshipman's Adam's apple. Rowley coughed as if choking on a fishbone, spattering the front of his killer's coat with flecks of blood. Then he dropped the bodkin and toppled to the wet boards, where he lay twitching, pawing feebly at his throat and rolling his glazed eyes-the very twin of the hideous gargoyle thrashing and quivering only a few feet away.

Quilter was picking himself up from the floor, watching as the man stood over Rowley, cleaning the blade of his weapon and frowning at the blood on his coat as if wondering whence it had come. His companions still cowered in his shadow, while Rowley lay motionless, a vermilion puddle enlarging about his head.

'Well? Any other arguments?'

The small crowd had taken a step backwards. The man was fitting the sword carefully into his belt. The sound from below was growing louder, like the growl of a beast clambering up from the bilges, fangs flecked and eyes aglow.

'No? Then I propose that we assist the Captain.'

Quilter was standing shakily erect by now, his incredulous gaze travelling from the weltered corpse to the figure standing over it. For the first time he forgot the in-rushing water, the fact that in less than a quarter of an hour all of them would be crushed to death or drowned.

' Assist-? ' He was panting with exertion and rage. 'Who the devil do you-'

But no sooner had he opened his mouth than the deck teetered sideways a third time. Rowley rolled with the motion, flinging one limp arm through the air before flopping on to his back as if he too had been inspired by the malevolent sorcery of the man still straddling him. The bewildered sailors stumbled another pace backwards. Then the first of the water gurgled into the hold.

The precise nature of the dispute below decks Quilter learned only later, though he had guessed much of it already. It seemed that the men, seeing the books and specimens-these devil's relics, as Quilter was to think of them-had blamed Sir Ambrose Plessington (as the man later introduced himself) not only for the storm but also for the sudden attacks of fever. How else could these tragic fluctuations of fortune be explained except as the judgement of the Almighty on the devilish books and monsters in their midst? And how else could they be diverted, and the ship saved, except by tossing the offending crates overboard?

Sir Ambrose had taken exception to this particular line of reasoning. He claimed that the men were looting the crates, though Captain Quilter failed to understand why anyone-even someone who kept in his locker the caul of a newborn child-should wish to avail himself of those grisly treasures. But in the end he supported the claims of his passenger, ordering that the ninety-nine boxes stay in the hold. They would yet provide ballast for the ship if moved-but quickly , quickly -to the port side.

So for the next half an hour, as the noxious water crept steadily across the deck of the hold and collected foot-deep in the corners, a team of men laboured to shift the crates to higher ground. They were resealed after their gruesome contents had been replaced-a horrifying task, one before which even the boldest of sailors queasily shrank-and then carried to the port side, stacked on pallets, lashed tightly together and packed with shattered timbers and other bits of dunnage scavenged from the deck. Another team of men was assigned the task of cutting scuttles through the decks so that a third team with canvas buckets at the ready could begin the job of bailing. But all of these frantic efforts were for naught, Quilter realised soon after he and the other half of the crew had scrambled up the ladders to the fo'c'sle, for the Bellerophon was listing as badly as ever. It was only a matter of time, a few minutes at most, before she went down, cargo and all.

The rain had ceased at last, but the northeaster was blowing as hard as ever. Humpbacked waves were rushing at the ship with their white scythes of foam. Pinchbeck and a handful of men were gathered on the fo'c'sle deck, attempting to stanch a leak in the starboard bow. Two of the hands were plunging a canvas-wrapped basket into the water near the hole, using a long pole, hoping to get the basket close enough to the breach for the rope-yams inside the basket to be shaken loose and drawn inside to plug the leak. Pinchbeck had already tried, without success, to pass a sail under the bows of the ship. Now the canvas was floating helplessly away from the port quarter, an enormous squid billowing its tentacles and returning to its subterranean lair. Three men had been sent to the sail-locker for another, but Quilter could see how hopeless all of it was. He could make out, a short distance away on the leeward side, an enormous sandbar, the Margate Hook, half-exposed by the ebbing tide. There was no hope now, he realised. The ship would break apart on the reef by the time the men returned.

'Not nearly enough water, Captain,' the bo'sun screamed over the howls of the wind as the basket was thrust below the water for the tenth time. 'Low tide! Barely four fathoms! We've run aground! Couldn't get the sail to pass under her! Too much wind!' He paused to point to where the men, their hands red and stiff in the cold, were grappling with the basket. 'The basket neither!'

'Keep trying!'

Quilter held his breath as the basket disappeared from view with a muffled splash. The Bellerophon had tipped further sideways by now, her foremast, bent awry at the top, was almost touching the water. It was impossible to stand on the mountainous slope of the slick fo'c'sle deck without clutching something for support. Already the first waves had begun flooding over the starboard gunwale. The shore wavered and beckoned on the port side, dangerously close. Quilter could hear the call of gulls and thought he smelled the scent of pastureland. So was this where death would claim them, no more than a musket-shot from shore? Within sight of trees and in view of flocks of sheep calmly chewing their cuds? A few seconds later the basket bobbed uselessly to the surface to a chorus of curses.