William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

wheel and slowly turned her to catch the wind in one sail, then the next. It was hard work—and, with only two of them, dangerous. As the canvas billowed out and they picked up speed Monk turned to look at Durban. It was a kind of insane and terrible triumph. They were sailing a drowned ship on a sea of gold, heading towards the shadows of the east and the dying day.
    “It’s time you went,” Durban said, raising his voice above the wind and the water. “Before we put on speed. I’ll help you launch the longboat.”
    Monk was stunned. “What do you mean? If I take the longboat now, how will you get ashore?”
    Durban’s face was quite calm, the wind burning his cheeks to scarlet. “I won’t. I’ll go down with her. It’s a better way than waiting for the other death.”
    Monk was too shattered to speak. He opened his mouth to deny it, to refuse to grant the possibility, but it was foolish even as the thought entered his mind. He should have seen it before, and he had not: the sweating, the burning cheeks, the exhaustion, the carefully bitten-back pain, and above all the way Durban had kept a distance between himself and Monk, even his own men, recently.
    “Go,” Durban said again.
    “No! I can’t . . .” They were near the rail; the ship was gathering speed, the water churning alongside them. The words were the last Monk said before he felt a weight jolting hard against him; the rail had caught him in the back. Then the water closed over his head, cripplingly cold, smothering, drowning out everything else.
    He fought to hold his breath, to beat his way up to the surface, for seconds the will to live driving out everything else. He broke into the air, gasping, and saw the huge bulk of the
Maude Idris
already fifty feet away and moving faster. He shouted after it, no idea what he was saying, just bellowing in fury and grief. For an instant he saw Durban’s figure in the stern, his arm lifted in salute, then he moved away and Monk was left to thrash around and think how he was going to make his way to shore without being drowned, run down by another ship, or simply frozen to death.
    He had swum only a few strokes, hampered by his sodden clothes, and was already overwhelmed, when he heard a shout, and then another. With a mighty effort he twisted around in the water and saw a boat with at least four men at the oars bearing down on him rapidly. He recognized Orme leaning over the side of the bow, arms out.
    The boat reached him, and even though they shipped the oars, the speed of it made it a desperate, arm-wrenching struggle to grasp Monk. It took three men to haul him on board. Then, the moment he landed, they threw their weight behind the oars again, hurling them forwards after the
Maude Idris
, which was going ever faster as the wind filled her sails.
    But she was a heavy ship, and the lighter boat was closing the gap. Monk sat in the stern, shuddering with cold. The wind was making his wet clothes feel like ice on his skin, but he was only peripherally aware of it; all his thoughts were on Durban. Would it help to rescue him? It was the action of instinct, of the heart, the driving compulsion of a friend, but was it really the best thing to do? Did honor and dignity not require that he be allowed to die his own way? Is that not what Monk, or any of these men around him, would choose for themselves?
    Did they know? Had Durban told them? No—he couldn’t have, or they might have prevented him, guessing what he might do. They would not believe the enormity of plague, the certain death, the hideousness of it. Dare he tell them now?
    They were still closing on the
Maude Idris
. The lowering sun made her spread sails gleam like the wings of a great bird as she cut through the water. They were clear of the Pool of London and the other ships were behind them. She was heading down Limehouse Reach past the Isle of Dogs, but it was a long way to the sea, with many places where she would have to come about and go on the other tack. Could Durban manage alone, guts apart from his weakened condition; could any man? Perhaps Orme guessed! Was that what these men around him, breaking their backs at the oars, really wanted—to make sure that the
Maude Idris
did not crash into a pier or another ship, or run aground?
    He hoped not; he prayed it was out of concern for Durban.
    Durban was struggling with another sail. Slowly, agonizing with the strain, it went up the mast, a foot at a time. Monk did not even realize