Mr Corbett's Ghost by Leon Garfield

Author:Leon Garfield [Leon Garfield]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RHCP
Published: 2013-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

‘The mainmast! D’you see? They’ve got the mainmast!’ muttered Krebs, his face white even in the reddish glare of the encounter. ‘Shrouds and halyards cut through—murder, for them on deck! Slices them in two and three parts! Murder, it is!’

The Willelm was still firing—but not full broadsides. Half her ports must have been shattered.

‘They’ve got to heave the dead out of the way!’ Krebs said very urgently—as if it was his immediate task. ‘Can’t get to the powder quick enough with all them dead tangling up the trunnions . . . got to heave ’em out . . . Cap’n’ll be down there now—he’ll be doing the right thing—’

Another flash and roar from the Englishman: not so vast as the first. Was she disabled, too?

‘Quarter-deck cannon,’ mumbled Krebs, suddenly scowling. ‘Now you’ll see—’ Again, she roared. ‘Upper deck cannon . . . fourteen killers there!’ A third blaze and roar. Krebs nodded. ‘Lower-deck. They know what they’re at. Give no chance . . . no chance at all . . .’

The Willelm seemed to have stopped firing. ‘Look! Poor devils up in the cross-trees. D’ye see? Firebrands! Nought else left! But they’ll never reach to the Englishman. Poor devils! Oh, God! She’s afire herself! Keep your heads down, sirs! She’ll be going up in a minute! A-ah!’

Even as he spoke, the fire must have reached the Willelm’s powder store. There was a glare and a thunderous crackling sound like the end of the world—as indeed for many it was. With a shriek of terror, Mynheer Tripp—who’d been extraordinarily absorbed throughout the encounter, oblivious to everything but his rapid, intent drawing—flung himself to the bottom of the boat: a quaking bundle of disgusting rags. Then the great light went out of the sky and the air was full of smoke and the sharp, bitter smell of spent powder and burnt out lives. Pieces of wood began to kiss the water about us. When at last the smoke drifted up to the moon, we saw the guilty hump of the Englishman sliding away, leaving nothing more behind than a tom-up patch of sea, rough with driftwood and darknesses.

‘Oh, God! Now what’s to become of us?’ wept Mynheer Tripp. I begged him to be quiet, for things were bad enough without his assistance. Krebs had been hit in the neck by a flying piece of iron and was bleeding like a pig. If he wasn’t bandaged, he’d die. Mynheer Tripp plucked at one of his shawls—not offering it, but indicating that, if pressed, he’d part with it. It was filthy enough to have killed Krebs outright: by poisoning. There was nothing for it but to use my shirt; which I did, watched by Mynheer Tripp who snarled when I tore it into strips:

‘I hope you know that was your best linen, Vaarlem!’

Which mean remark did nothing but gain me unnecessary thanks from Krebs who could scarcely speak: his wound having severed a tendon and opened a great vessel. He lay in the bottom of the boat while I took the oars, watched by that dirty jelly in the stem.

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