Neil Hanson - The Custom of the Sea

The heart of the storm rolled over the ship. It was as dark as dusk. Torrents of rain cascaded from the gleaming sails, flooding the deck, and lightning forks counterpointed each peal of thunder, which came so hard and fast that it sounded like one long, booming concussion.

Even amid the clamour of the storm, Tom heard little Julian’s insistent cries. He cursed himself for bringing Philippa and the baby with him instead of leaving them safe at home in Sutton, but the chance of a cruise on the yacht without the inhibiting presence of its owner had been a rare opportunity. He was also anxious to spend every possible minute with Philippa before their parting. In seven years of marriage, she had grown accustomed to his absences at sea, but even during the racing season, when regatta followed regatta around the coast, Tom was never more than a day’s sail from port. He would often catch the mail train, arriving home in the early hours to snatch a day with his family before the next regatta began.

This time was different, a voyage of over ten thousand miles to deliver the yacht to its new owner in Sydney. Like Joe Frost, some of Tom’s friends had tried to persuade him not to make the voyage, predicting danger and possible disaster, but other captains had made similar voyages in even smaller ships, and in over twenty years at sea, Tom felt he had learned enough to find a safe passage to Australia.

The potential dangers of the voyage worried him less than the separation from his family. Once the Mignonette sailed from Southampton, Philippa would have no word of him other than a letter passed to an inbound ship, if they chanced to meet one, until they made port. He would have no way of knowing if his wife and children were well or ill until he reached New South Wales, and it would be approaching a year, perhaps even longer, before he laid eyes on them again. Whatever happened to them in the meantime, he would be powerless to provide help until they too, arrived in Sydney.

He pushed that thought away as soon as it formed, gripping the helm so hard that the veins stood out on his arms. The storm rolled past and the thunder faded to a dull, distant rumble, losing itself in the empty reaches of the North Sea. The rain eased as the sky lightened, but the wind and the swell kept up their twin assaults on the ship.

The Frost brothers still stood in the bow working the pumps and foul bilgewater spewed from the side in a steady stream. Tom called to Philippa. ‘What is the level now?’

‘The same.’

He frowned. It was a problem that would have to be addressed, but for the moment he had his hands full simply holding the ship to its course and fighting the violent kick of the rudder as the yacht met each wave. His gaze raked the mast-top, the rigging and the straining sails, then returned to the grey march of the waves ahead of the bow. He thought about reducing canvas still further, but the gale seemed to have reached its peak and the sheltering east coast of Kent was now not far away.

He saw Margate off the starboard beam, and a few minutes later the coastline to the south began to open up. He called the Frosts back from the pumps. ‘Ready to go about.’

They released the canvas of the mainsail and held it taut ready for the swing of the boom.

‘Haul sail.’ They released the bracing ropes, the boom swung over and the sails filled again with a crack.

‘Well all.’

They returned to the head and bent once more to the pumps.

The edge of the wind was blunted and the swell lessened as they sailed into the sheltered waters of the Downs, between the Goodwin Sands and the Kent coast. Scores of other ships had also taken refuge there from the storm.

Tom kept the sails close-hauled and called Jim back to take the helm. The acrid smell of vomit filled his nostrils as he went down the companionway. He carried a stinking bucket on deck and tipped it over the side, then went back below.

Philippa was sitting in Tom’s cabin nursing the child on her lap. Both were wan and drawn. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel a little better now.’

He took her hand in his and stroked the baby’s cheek, then moved away through the below-decks, scrutinizing the planking. There was a small leak around the base of the bowsprit, but the ship’s carpenter had not been born who could stop water coming in there in a heavy swell. More worrying was the steady trickle of water through the garboard strakes — the planking near the keel towards the stern of the boat.

He watched it for some minutes. It was no more than a slow trickle for most of that time, but when Jim allowed the bow to come round a little and a big wave caught them more towards the beam, the planking seemed to twist as the hull flexed and water poured through the seams. As the ship was righted, the leak again dwindled to a slow seepage. Philippa was watching him. ‘Is it serious?’

He shrugged. ‘It will be, if it’s not repaired.’

‘But the boat was fitted out at Brightlingsea.’

He nodded. ‘I know, I know, but ships are like sailors. Some faults only show themselves when you’re at sea.’

He paused, studying the leak again. ‘We’ve seen the worst of the weather for now. We’ll make for Southampton as planned and I’ll have her hauled out and repaired there. It’ll eat into the profit on the voyage a little, but there’ll still be a handsome return — enough to buy us a new house for a new life in Australia.’ He stooped and kissed her brow. She gave him a weak answering smile before he went back on deck.

Tom had spent his first six years at sea on fishing smacks and coasters, working his way up from cabin boy to ordinary seaman, then able seaman. When he was fifteen he joined his father as a crewman on a Clyde racing yacht, the Condor , under Captain Mackie.

There was the inevitable talk among the crew that he only had the berth because of his father, but one day they were caught in a full gale coming through St George’s Channel and had to run before the wind. The yacht was heeled over so far that the boom was half submerged and ploughing its own parallel white furrow through the water. When the others refused orders to go out along the boom to reef the sail, Tom crawled to the end of it and did the job himself. After that there was no more talk of favourites.

During the winter he worked as cook-steward on a trading schooner, the Lady Rodney , out of Salcombe. It was a curious position, outside the normal chain of command of the ship. He was responsible only to Captain Cowling and had sole charge of the food stores; no one else was permitted even to enter the pantry. Like many other ships of the time, it carried live animals as part of the foodstores and Tom had to learn the craft of butchery.

The first animal Tom slaughtered was a pig. There was no one to teach him, only the instructions outlined in a dog-eared copy of The Steward’s Handbook :

It is very essential that livestock before being killed must not be given any food for twelve hours. Plenty of water must, however, be supplied to them to prevent the blood from being loaded with an excess of food matter and thus rendered difficult from being eliminated from the smaller blood vessels in the flesh. In this condition it would very rapidly commence to decompose. The water must be given in abundance in order to keep the temperature of the blood normal and thus render it more fluid for clearing out the blood vessels…

Tom had given the pig copious quantities of water and ignored its ever-louder clamour for food, but when the time came to despatch it, he found ways to postpone the event by checking his stores, sharpening and resharpening his knives.

At last he could delay no longer. He tied a rope around the pig’s neck and bound it down to a ringbolt in the deck. It took an effort of will to move to the next stage, for the pig kept up a terrible, almost human squealing, as if realizing his intentions.