Lightning thrashed at the sky, tearing a gaping hole in the clouds that immediately filled with wind, driving rain and tempest fury. The waves rolled and boiled, rotating the hapless 230 ft clipper ship like a toy top tottering on its axis. The old timber that had shone with a dull gleam only days earlier were groaning now, letting out high-pitched screeches and elongated moans as they were twisted. Each twist creating gaps. Each gap letting in more and more sea water.
She had not foundered, not yet. But she was struggling.
Aboard her were 32 souls. Thirty-one men already exhausted by nearly 14 hours of labor, on pitching decks in freezing rain. With naught to cling to but the walls and a slim hope..for they weren't yet sunk.
Twelve were below decks desperately fighting the warping, rusting arms of six pumps, meant to assuage the sea water that was pouring into her depths, to keep the clipper afloat.
Amid ships, those that could had found the tiniest of corners and wedged themselves in, desperate for what little rest they could get. Only by spelling one another on the pumps, or in the driving storm on deck, would they survive.
It was only the ship's galley that seemed at rest. A hot fire was impossible and foolhardy with the constant change of pitch. What could be saved of the ship's stores had been placed as securely as possible in the galley and crew quarters. Only the ship's cook and two ship's boys ventured away from their posts, and only to bring up the barest of supplies, which could be passed uncooked to the crew.
In the three feet of sloshing water, the frozen Atlantic turning his legs and feet numb, his arms and shoulders burning, his brow sweat covered with fever, his teeth gritted against the grinding and stubborn progress of the bilge pump, Jim West, secret service agent for the United States government was plotting a murder.
This murder would happen by his own hands, he decided, but hands that would have to heal first, considering the myriad of salt-water soaked and broken blisters covering his palms.
The handle he was struggling with operated vertically turning in a clockwise circle in opposition to a similar handle on the other side of the pump. West was working with a man, no, not a man but a boy of perhaps only 16, who couldn't have weighed more than 120 pounds, even in his saturated condition, and hadn't been more than moral support for the shift they shared. On a clear day in the rigging the kid, Liam, was fast, faster than any other man from the main deck to the crow's nest. But speed on the lines meant nothing in the face of the menial grunt work that could be their deliverance, and if Jim was exhausted he knew the kid had to be more so.
The only thing that kept West going was his plot, his enraged murder plot. By his own hands, he thought forcing the handle toward himself gritting his teeth as skin tugged and tore. Around his target's throat just above the band of his tan silk Ascot tie. Jim forced pent air out of his lungs and lunged forward, forcing the handle outward and then down, the canvas and wire hose inhaling and expunging water from the hold.
Four of the five other pumps and the men who manned them, labored similarly. The odd pump out had refused to move an hour ago and now the even odder member of the crew was bent over it, digging with a wood worker's chisel into the very heart of the machine to clear the debris that had gummed up the works. Nearly engulfed by tar and canvas fisherman's waders, a knit wool cap pulled tight over graying curls, and the fitted blue wool jacket of a midshipman, Eleanor Creely, ship's navigator, at 50 years of age cursed vehemently at the vile pump, the rag that had become wedged in the mechanism and the storm that held her clipper, Flying Cloud in thrall. The pumps, according to one man in particular, were supposed to have been brand new, a major factor toward convincing Jim that the ship was perfectly sea worthy.
Not a man among them reacted to the string of epitaphs escaping Mrs Creely's mouth, some even added a few of their own. Jim was surprised to hear something of a low nature come from Liam just before he gave up the ghost, slumping against his handle and sliding towards the filthy bilge water. Jim lunged over the machine managing to cram one of his swollen hands under the kid's arm pit before he went under. West swore under his breath at the man that had convinced him to board the ship, before shouting for Haversham to come help.
The giant red-haired mule of a man high stepped through the deep water and scooped Liam up effortlessly, moving gracefully with the keel of the ship, heading for the hatchway.
Jim West clung to the pump as the boat rolled, fixated in his exhaustion on the sight of the Widow Creely, valiantly fighting the handle on one side, while two of her men fought on the other, finally forcing the stubborn mechanism back into action. They were too tired to cheer, and what had seemed like endless energy exuding from their erstwhile leader, turned grey in her cheeks as Eleanor straightened and stepped away from the pump.
Jim dragged his numb legs against the tidal pull of the water getting to Mrs. Creely's side in time to support her as she stumbled.
"Oh...Jim" She sighed, an unexpectedly powerful, yet feminine hand falling against his soaked chest as he supported her, guiding her toward the same hatchway. "You've got to be exhausted." She finished after another deep breath.
"There must be something about a woman carving up a bilge pump that gives a man an unexpected boost." Jim gave as much of a smirk as he could manage and they took the swaying steps up together, clinging hard to the soaked railing.
For a moment West thought she was gasping, but realized as they gained the mid-deck hallway that she was laughing. His smirk broadened to a smile and he found himself wheezing as well a moment later, a comforting sort of madness creeping over his mind and body. As a wave rocked the ship sweeping their feet out from under them they landed together in a heap, Jim desperately throwing out his hands to keep from crushing his charge until the ship righted itself, and then swayed the other way, sending them both tumbling a few feet down the hall. Jim's back and head came to rest against a heavy, briny pile of canvas and rope, Eleanor, still laughing, landing against his chest.
He threw his arms around her before she could roll away again and a temporary lull in the movement of the ship gave him time to wind his hand into the mess of rope and cloth, anchoring himself as much as possible.
When the next wave hit they only shifted a little. The spot in which they had landed was damp, but shielded from the onslaught of sea water traveling through the ship like it were made of cheese cloth. As good a place as any, he thought, only to realize that Mrs. Creely had already thought of it, and was unconscious in his arms.
He wasn't far behind, he knew, and afraid that once he lost consciousness he might let her go, Jim wound his other hand into a loose loop of rope, twined weary legs around the frail woman's torso and locked his ankles together.
His final, feverish thought as he lay, watching the waterfalls of rain tumble down the groaning walls, was of the other 30 souls aboard, one of which he thought, had better damned well survive, because Jim West was going to kill him. And not even Nature herself was permitted to take from him that satisfaction.
