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6 Masters of the Ship

The coup had succeeded. This first part of the drama had been accomplished in all its horror and under conditions of extraordinary audacity.

After the Halifax, Harry Markel was now the master of the Alert. No one could suspect anything about the drama that had just taken place. No one would be able to denounce the crime committed in one of the most frequented ports of the United Kingdom, at the entry of Cork Harbor, host to numerous ships sailing between Europe and America.

At present, these criminals no longer needed to fear the English police. The latter would not track them down on board the Alert. They would now be able easily to take up once again their old habits of piracy in the far regions of the Pacific. They had only to weigh anchor and sail for the open sea. In a few hours, they would be outside Saint George’s Channel.

To be sure, when the students from the Antillean School arrived to embark on the Alert early the next morning, the ship would no longer be at its anchorage, and they would look for it in vain in Cork Harbor or in the port at Queenstown.

And then, once this disappearance was recognized, what explanation would they imagine to account for it? What hypothesis would come to mind? Had Captain Paxton and his crew been forced to set sail, without even waiting for their passengers? But for what reason? It was not bad weather that had forced the ship to leave Farmar Cove. The breeze from the open sea was barely noticeable as it reached the bay. The sailboats were still. For the past forty-eight hours, only a few steamers had been able to go in or out. The night before, the Alert had been seen at that spot, and, to suppose that, during the night, it had been boarded or that it perished in an accident from which remained not a single piece of wreckage—this all seemed far too implausible.

It seemed that the truth would not be known very soon, that it might never be known, perhaps, unless one of the cadavers, found on one of the shores, happened to reveal the mystery of this horrible massacre.

But it was important for Harry Markel to abandon the anchorage of Farmar Cove as soon as possible so that the Alert would no longer be there at sunrise.

If conditions were favorable when leaving Saint George’s Channel, instead of steering southwest in the direction of the Antilles, the Alert would steer to the south.

Harry Markel would be careful to remain out of sight from land, to stay away from the regular nautical routes taken by the ships that descend toward the equator. Under these conditions, leaving quickly would prevent him from being caught again, in case an aviso¹ was sent to look for him.

Besides, nothing would lead anyone to believe that Captain Paxton and his crew were not on board the ship chartered by Mrs. Seymour. For what reasons it had taken to the sea, one could not know, and it would be best to wait at least a few days.

Thus, Harry Markel had all the luck in his side. His nine men would suffice amply to maneuver the Alert. They were, as stated before, very good sailors, and they had an absolute trust in their captain, which he had earned.

Accordingly, everything was falling into place to assure the success of this enterprise. A few days from now, the ship having not reappeared in Cork Harbor, the authorities would be inclined to think that, after having taken to the sea for reasons unknown, it had perished with all hands in the middle of the Atlantic. It would never occur to anyone that the escapees from the Queenstown prison had seized it. The police would continue their inquests and would extend them to the outskirts of the city. The county would be submitted to a very meticulous surveillance. They would also give the surrounding countryside the alert. In short, there would be no doubt that this gang of criminals would be caught without delay.

What was going to aggravate the situation for Harry Markel, however, was that the circumstances were not favorable to an immediate casting off.

In fact, the weather had not changed at all, and it did not appear that it would. That thick fog was still falling slowly from the lower zones of the sky. The stationary clouds seemed to come down to the surface of the sea. For a few moments, even the flashes from the lighthouse at the mouth of the bay were hardly visible.

In the midst of the deep darkness, no steamship would attempt to enter or leave. It would have run the risk of running aground by failing to make out the lights on the coast and on Saint George’s Channel.

As for the sailboats, they were no doubt at a standstill a few miles out in the open sea.

Moreover, the sea “felt no motion.” The bay waters were hardly undulating under the action of the rising tide. There was scarcely the mutter of a light splashing on the side of the Alert. The rowboat was barely swaying at the end of its mooring line at the stern.

“Not enough wind to fill up my hat!” exclaimed John Carpenter, accompanying this remark with the most frightful profanities.

They could not even consider casting off.

The inert sails would have hung from the masts, and the ship, pulled by the current, would have simply drifted across the bay to the port of Queenstown.

Generally, when the tide begins to be felt, the waters from the open sea bring a small breeze, and, even though that breeze would have been in the contrary direction, Harry Markel, by tacking, would have tried to depart.

The boatswain was familiar enough with that region so as to not compromise its course, and, once outside, the Alert would have been able to hold a good position in order to take advantage of the first gusts of wind. Several times, John Carpenter climbed to the top of the mast. Perhaps the cove, sheltered by high cliffs, was stopping the wind. No, nothing, and the weather vane on the mainmast remained still.

However, all hope was not lost, even if the wind did not pick back up before daybreak. It was only ten o’clock. After midnight, the tide would switch. At that moment, taking advantage of the ebb tide, would Harry Markel not try to reach the sea? Aided by its smaller boats, manned by the crew who would use them to tow it, would the Alert manage to leave the bay? No doubt Harry Markel and John Carpenter had thought about this measure.

What would happen if the ship remained immobile? When the passengers could not find the ship, they would come back to the port. They would learn that the Alert had cast off. They would look for it in the bay. And what if the Naval Bureau sent a fishing steamboat to meet up with it beyond Roche’s Point? What dangers would Harry Markel and his companions run then? Their ship, stationary, would be recognized, seized, searched … It meant an immediate arrest. It meant the police learning of the bloody drama that had cost Captain Paxton and his crew their lives!

One can see, there was a real danger in leaving, since the Alert was not certain to get very far; but there was yet another risk, no less real, in delaying their departure and remaining in Farmar Cove. At this time of the year, moreover, the calm periods extend sometimes for several days.

In any case, they had to make a decision.

If the breeze did not increase during the night, if casting off was impossible, would Harry Markel and his companions have to abandon the ship, board the rowboat, row to the back of the cove, run up into the countryside in the hope of escaping the police searches, and, if this attempt failed, try another? Perhaps, after having taken refuge in some shoreline cave for the day, they could perhaps wait for the wind to pick back up and, once night had fallen, return on board?

But when the passengers, early the next morning, would find the ship abandoned, they would return to Queenstown. Men would immediately be sent to seize the Alert and bring it to port.

It was then that Harry Markel, the boatswain, and Corty conversed about these different questions, while the others stayed together on the forecastle.

“Bloody breeze!” repeated John Carpenter. “There’s too much when you don’t want any, and not enough when you do!”

“And if the tide doesn’t bring any wind,” added Corty, “it isn’t with the ebb tide that it’ll blow from land.”

“And the skiff that’s going to arrive tomorrow morning with its passenger cargo!” exclaimed the boatswain. “Will we have to wait for them?”

“Who knows, John?”

“After all,” admitted John Carpenter, “there are only about ten of them, according to what the newspaper says. Young men with their professor! We were quite capable of getting rid of the Alert’s crew, and we’ll be able …”

Corty was shaking his head, not that he disagreed with John Carpenter, but he thought it necessary to voice this reflection:

“What was easy during the night will be less easy during the day. And then, these passengers will have been brought by people from the port who may know Captain Paxton! What will we answer when they ask why he isn’t on board?”

“We’ll tell them that he went ashore,” replied the boatswain. “They’ll come aboard. The skiff will return to Queenstown. And then …”

It is certain that, in this deserted Farmar Cove, at a moment when no ships would be in sight, these desperate men could easily have their way with the passengers. They would have no hesitation about committing this new crime. Mr. Patterson and his young companions would be massacred without even being able to defend themselves, as had the men of the Alert.

However, as was his custom, Harry Markel was letting them talk. He was reflecting on what had to be done about this very threatening situation in which they now found themselves because of the impossibility of reaching the open sea. He would not hesitate, but perhaps it would be necessary to wait until the following night, yet another twenty-some hours. And then, there was still the serious complication that Captain Paxton would be known by one of them, and how to explain his absence on the very day—one may say, at the very hour—when the Alert was supposed to cast off?

No, what was best would be for the weather to allow them to set sail and get away, in the darkness, some twenty miles to the south of Ireland. It was a great misfortune that they were prevented from raising anchor and escaping any pursuit.

After all, maybe it was only a matter of being patient. It was not eleven o’clock yet. Would not a modification in the atmospheric conditions occur before dawn? Yes, perhaps, even though Harry Markel and the other seamen, accustomed to observing the weather, could not make out any favorable signs. The persistent fog caused them very legitimate concerns. It indicated an atmosphere soaked in electricity, one of those “rotten weather” spells, as the sailors say, from which nothing can be hoped and which might last for several days.

Be that as it may, the only thing to do, for the moment, was to wait; Harry Markel responded no more than that. When the moment came, they would decide if it was best to abandon the Alert and seek refuge in some point of Farmar Cove in order to reach the countryside.

In any case, the fugitives were stocking up on food, after having helped themselves to the money locked in the Captain’s drawers and in the sailors’ bags. They would wear the crew’s clothes, found in their quarters—a less suspect attire than that of escapees from Queenstown.

Thus armed with money and provisions, who knows if they would not succeed in eluding the police searches, and in embarking on a ship at some other Irish port, and then in making themselves safe in another continent?

So, there were five or six hours yet to pass before a decision had to be made. Harry Markel and his gang, hunted by the constables, were exhausted when they arrived on board the Alert. In addition, they were dying of hunger. Consequently, as soon as they became masters of the ship, their first priority was to get themselves some food.

The one among them who was naturally designated for this task was Ranyah Cogh. He lit a lantern, searched the kitchen, then the storeroom, situated under the wardroom, to which there was access through a hatch. The hold was heavily stocked in view of the round-trip voyage and would be enough even if the Alert went as far as the Pacific waters.

Ranyah Cogh found everything that was needed to satisfy the hunger of his companions, and their thirst as well: there was no shortage of brandy, whisky, and gin.

That done, Harry Markel, who had eaten his share of the meal, gave John Carpenter and the others the order to go put on the clothes owned by the sailors whose bodies were lying on the bridge. Then, they would go to sleep in some corner, while waiting to be awakened if there was reason to hoist the sails and weigh anchor.

As for Harry Markel, he was not thinking about resting at all. What seemed urgent to him was to consult the navigational charts from which he would no doubt be able to gather certain pieces of information. He entered the captain’s cabin, lit a lamp, opened the drawers with the keys taken from the pockets of poor Captain Paxton and then, after having removed certain papers, he sat behind the table, all the while maintaining his sangfroid, which had been put to the test so many times before during his life of adventure.

Ranyah Cogh inspected the storeroom.

Understandably, the various papers were in order, since the casting off was supposed to take place the next day. By consulting the crew assignment sheet, Harry Markel was able to confirm that all the sailors were present when the ship had been taken over. There was then no reason to fear that some of them, on supply duty or on leave in Queens-town, would come back on board. The crew had been massacred down to the last man.

Harry Markel, checking the cargo manifest, noticed as well that the ship was stocked with enough preserved meats, dry vegetables, hard tack, salted meats and fish, flour, etc., to allow for at least three months of navigation. As for the sum of money that the cabin’s safe contained, it came to six hundred pounds.²

Now, Harry Markel thought that he had better know about Captain Paxton’s past voyages on the Alert. In the course of their future travels, it would be important for the ship not to go back to any ports in which it had already stopped over or where its commander may be known.

With his habit of trying to foresee all eventualities, Harry Markel was not a man to shy away from the most extreme caution.

An examination of the ship’s log provided him with information he needed.

The Alert was three years old, built in Birkenhead in the yards of Simpson and Company. It had only made two voyages to India, to Bombay, Ceylon, and Calcutta, and then had returned directly to Liverpool, its port of registry. Since it had never been to the South Pacific, Harry Markel could be entirely reassured on this point. If need be, he could even pass for Captain Paxton.

Further, the captain’s previous voyages as recounted in the ship’s log also indicated that he had never made any trips to the Antilles—French, English, Dutch, Danish, or Spanish. If he had been chosen by Mrs. Seymour to take the Antillean School students to this destination and if the Alert had just been chartered for this voyage, it was uniquely upon the recommendation of a correspondent in Liverpool who answered for both the ship and the captain.

At half past midnight, Harry Markel, leaving the cabin, went up to the poop deck, where he met John Carpenter.

“Still dead calm?” he asked.

“Still,” answered the boatswain, “and no sign that the weather may change!”

Indeed, the same foggy mist was gently falling from the low clouds, stationary from one side of the horizon to the other, the same darkness on the surface of the bay, and also, the same silence that the slight sound of waves did not break. They were at riptide, not very strong at this time of the year. So the swell moved slowly across the harbor toward Cork and only came up two miles into the Lee River.

Tonight, the tide was supposed to be slack at around three o’clock in the morning, and it is then that the ebb tide would begin to be felt.

John Carpenter had good reason, of course, to curse their bad luck. With the falling tide, even if the smallest breeze had been present, and from whichever side it might blow, the Alert could have set sail, contoured the headland of Farmar Cove, reached the narrows—even if it did risk scraping a few sandbanks—and would have found itself outside Cork Harbor before sunrise. No! It was there, anchored, immobile like a buoy or a dead body, and there was no reason to expect that it could soon cast off under these conditions!

Therefore, they had no choice but to wait and continue champing at the bit, without much hope that the situation would change when the sun rose high above Farmar Cove!

Two hours passed. Neither Harry Markel nor John Carpenter nor Corty had thought to take one moment to sleep, while their companions were sleeping for the most part, stretched out at the bow along the ship’s rails. The sky’s outline was unchanging. The clouds were motionless. If at times a slight wind blew in from the sea, it stopped almost as quickly, and nothing indicated that the breeze was going to start back up again soon, either from the sea or from the shore.³

At three twenty-seven, as some luster of daylight was beginning to lighten the horizon to the east, the rowboat, driven by the ebb tide tight at the end of its rope, came to strike against the hull of the Alert, which soon began to swing on its anchor and turn its stern to the open sea.

Perhaps one could hope that the falling tide would bring a little wind from the northwest, which would have allowed the ship to leave its anchorage in order to reach Saint George’s Channel; but that hope soon dissipated. The night would end without it being possible to weigh anchor.

They took the longboat to the other side of the headland.

It was now a question of getting rid of the corpses. Previously, John Carpenter had wanted to be sure that a swirl would not group them in the middle of Farmar Cove. He and Corty descended into the rowboat and noticed that the current was running toward the headland that separated the cove from the narrows, since the ebb tide was pulling the waters in that direction.

The rowboat came back, drew alongside, across from the mainmast, and, one after the other, the bodies were placed into it.

Then, as an extra precaution, they took the rowboat to the other side of the headland, on the banks against which the current might have cast them.

John Carpenter and Corty then threw them one after the other into the tranquil water; their splashing was barely heard. The cadavers sank at first, then came back to the surface, and, caught by the ebb tide, disappeared out into the depths of the open sea.