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PANDORA SINKS
To James Morrison the first strike of the cat seemed little more than a playful tap and he relaxed wondering what all the fuss was about. It was only after the third that he realised the cumulative horror of what was in store for him. On the fifth strike his skin broke and he felt the rawhide cut into flesh—and the exposed nerve ends registered their total and utter disbelief. He remembered thinking, what if a lash strike the exact spot again. James Morrison gasped and wondered if he really could survive. He remembered the whip-around and the bit down on his wooden peg
Then as the mate's arm paused in the backstroke of the sixth stroke, the faintest of breezes stilled and the ship was lifted up. It was as though responding to the climax of the days proceedings time itself paused. Suddenly it was premonition time—a time the lucky survivor will always remember. He might say to his grandchildren, 'I knew somethin' was go'in to happen, Aye all day I knowd, I just 'ad this ere premonition—an' I ain't never been superstitious neither!"
HMS 'Pandora' rose—was in fact lifted high, and a little sideways, by one of those long innocent swells that occasionally sweep across the wide Pacific. The ones you never see coming until you feel the elevation pull on your stomach. Pandora didn't lurch or sway she just got up, rose up, higher and higher. The older tars shifted nervously and turned to each other, their alarm suddenly etched deep across weather beaten brows. Then she began to drop. The hundred and fifty foot schooner went straight down and settled herself on one of the many reefs that barred the entrance to Endeavour Straits. No doubt from a distance it could have appeared the ship rose into the air and stayed there but it was merely an illusion given by the wave falling from the reef leaving the vessel stranded above her normal waterline. For a while Pandora sat balanced and motionless. No one moved, nor dared move. Then slowly, creakingly, painfully slowly, she leaned a little to starboard.
The lookout, caught unawares was sitting dozing against the mainmast. He slid, slipped, and screamed too late and plummeted to his death striking the quarterdeck between two marines.
"Damn me if it ain't old Billy McCray fallin' out of the sky." said one too shocked to realise what had happened. It broke the spell for everyone else however, for suddenly there was pandemonium. Everyone grabbed for the nearest support and held on.
George Passmore instantly knew they were settled on something but what? Was it a reef, a sand bank, or had they hit the back of a whale? He hoped for anything— anything but a reef—and waited for any telltale sounds. He hoped to hear the comfortable creaking of planks settling and not the other, the unthinkable! Soon he heard what he feared the most. He heard the sounds of rupturing timber, splintering wood. He listened in horror as razor-sharp coral pierced the copper-sheathed underbelly of his ship. He heard the terrible sounds of splitting, tearing, rupturing wood that struck fear into his soul.
English oak, hewn half way across the world, was now speared and ripped by a million tiny rainbow coloured knives, set one atop the other, until they built a cathedral under the sea. The tiny coral crusts cut like sabre points through butter, never yielding an inch to Pandora's copper sheathed timbers..
"How far will she settle, how deep was the water around the reef, how strong the current, how far the closest land, how many ship's boats available and how many left over after they are filled?" Up on deck the pale-cheeked, wide-eyed the crew made their private calculations with the certain knowledge some of them would never make it back to England.
Edwards was too shocked and confused to speak. White-faced, white-knuckled his fear competed with his outrage at his bad luck. He clawed at the rail and watched as his prized silver cane as it rolled in slow-motion across the deck. Then in a thousand to one chance, as an arrow would strike a tiny target dead center, it slid untouched through a scupper and speared into the sea. No one even tried to save it Edwards thought sourly.
Again the great ship shuddered, rolled, stopped, rolled a little more, lurched, balanced and once more everyone grabbed hard for the nearest support. In their dark hole the prisoners slid across their slimy floor until the bolted chains brought them to a painful stop. Since they were in their box and attached to the deck they became the first to feel and hear the ship's timbers rupture, the joints spring, the coral crunch. So it was even worse for them. In their darkness, most cried out while just a few began to pray. 'Dear God have mercy on me' cried the fiddler Byrne as he clung to his neighbour. "Dear God please stop the noise." Nobody heard their shouts. No one was even listening..
At last the rending sounds abated and the naval schooner ceased rolling—'a reprieve until the next swell?' Passmore wondered. "Mr Cunningham!" The gavel-like voice of the sailing master sought to bring some order to the chaos.
" Mr Passmore sir?" replied the boatswain, steadily.
"Take four men and go below—find the damage and report to me."
"Aye aye sir".
Passmore hesitated then turned to his captain and asked. "Shall I order the pumps sir?"
"Yes ... order the pumps Mr Passmore."
"Shall I order soundings taken Captain?"
"Yes ... soundings."
"Shall I order the top-gallant yard down and the masts struck?"
"Yes, yes—yes! Mr Passmore, damn you, order what you will!"
Passmore, grimly but efficiently, made the orders and the men hurried off grateful to be active. Passmore knew Edwards for what he was, a moderate fair weather sailor and nothing more. He bit his lip as he called the boatswain and ordered two of the boats to carry out the anchors and make ready to pull the ship off the reef. "And clear that body off the deck." He pointed to the dead lookout.
"Where to sir?"
With a snort and the toss of his head Passmore indicated over the side.
"Sharks sir?"
"You don't say."
"A quarter less two fathoms on the larboard side and three fathoms on the starboard side," the boatswains mate shouted from the bows.
"Reef or sand?"
"Sorry sir—sand."
Damn! thought Passmore, too shallow! We'll be torn to pieces and if the sea gets up she'll be torn to pieces even sooner. Then for the first time he noted the band of dark clouds forming on the horizon.
A head emerged from a main deck hatch and shouted toward Passmore. "Eighteen inches of water and flooding sir ... should we bail out the hatches an' the pumps?".
"Good thinking Mr Wilson,—round up some men."
Wilson was pleased by the compliment and hurried off. Steady officer that Passmore he thought.
All about the ship the activity was now furious. The crew, mostly non-swimmers, fought to save the ship and their lives as well. Way down below the water continued to pour in. An hour and a half later the water in the hold had reached eight feet and was still rising.
At ten that evening, in frightening tropical blackness, the reef finally released the wounded vessel. "The small bower anchor—let it go! Now clear the cable." Passmore shouted his orders in the dark. Forward under a lamp the men dropped the bower anchor and found fifteen fathoms.
"Fifteen you say?"
"Aye sir."
"Good, maybe just deep enough to try a thrummed sail." Passmore ordered more cannon rolled out and pitched overboard. He felt the schooner steady. A thrummed top-sail was dragged up from the sail locker and laid out on the main deck ready to haul over the side and under the keel. Ropes were slung fore and aft and men at the ready. The plan was to use the canvas to try and plug the leak from the outside. Meanwhile, in the holds, extra pumps were made ready to save the ship if the plan succeeded. The sail went over but was immediately torn away by the strong current.
"Leave it." Shouted Passmore worried some of the men might hang on too long and be dragged away.
After twelve panic-stricken hours the hatch finally creaked open in the ceiling of Pandora's Box. The black tropical nigh swirled in and swallowed the escaping cries of the despairing inhabitants. Some were so desperate they had torn their fingers bloody on the rough walls and sharp chains. Then a blacksmith descended with his tools
"Only Coleman, McIntosh and Norman," yelled Hayward. "Make sure, just them and no one else." He had named those prisoners whom he disliked least.
"For God's sake Mr Hayward we can all help with the pumps," begged a voice.
"Aye, aye" chorused the rest.
Hayward ignored the pleas and shouted, "Ellis, Keggs!"
"Sir?"
"Do your duty and shoot any prisoner who attempts to escape, and look alive!" He peered into the blackness and sneered. "Try to escape and you will all be shot or drown like rats." Sure of his Captain's support he thought himself, 'and nobody will blame me if that is their fate'.
Twenty minutes later the hatch slammed shut to pleas and cries of despair emanating from the nine remaining prisoners.
For the first time young Tom Ellison felt fear. Not the fear of dying but that of dying slowly, like drowning. It had always frightened Tom to imagine himself dying slowly maybe there was some pain. 'What should I do when I am waiting?" He asked no one in particular.
Millward was puzzled. "Tom, why are you waiting?"
"Why, for the long sleep of course."
"Ah, the long sleep," said Milward. "It will come soon enough."
So the longest night of the prisoners lives began; a night of unbelievable terror and waiting. The ship rolled and shackles bit their flesh, from time to time some cried out for mercy or just relief. Three panicked and actually managed break free. Torn, bleeding and desperate they waited their chance huddled close beneath the hatch. At two o'clock a sentry checked and discovered them to be loose and just managed to slam down the hatch. He reported to Lieutenant Hayward who, under the muzzles of marine muskets, had the three sobbing men brutally re-shacked.
"Nest time a prisoner breaks free shoot him," Hayward ordered the guard.
The morning dawned with a faint breeze and sky the pink of a milkmaid's cheeks on a cold European morn. It revealed 'Pandora' as a water-logged hulk with the failed thummed sail floating uselessly alongside. It was obvious to Mr Passmore as well as his Captain there remained no hope of saving the ship. Passmore, hands on hips, stood on deck defeated. He had tried everything he knew a few things he made up—and he was bone tied. He was wet and exhausted and all his exhausted helpers stood around with heads bowed finally realising their leader's despair and that the ship was doomed. They just waited for him to give up; to tell them it was so. Water poured through gun ports, worn out pumps stood idle. Passmore thanked them and turned away. They were now released to find their own salivation.
Captain Edwards, having recovered his poise and arrogance, stood impatiently tapping his toe on the quarterdeck. The ship's log under one arm and his prized possessions secure in one of the three large chests nearby. His three favourite Lieutenants, and a few warrant officers, stood attentively by his side. What did the regulations say about abandoning ship, Edwards asked himself. "Abandon ship!—even the thought of the two words caused his temper to flare. He could hardly believe his rotten luck. His mind was exhausted from the long night spent writing up his log. It had been difficult and frustrating and no matter how many times he tried re-drafting it there seemed no way of escaping some of the blame. Of course many of his officers were negligent—and Edward's notes reflected that; even the ambitious Passmore had failed to save the ship. But his greatest disappointment was to return home without Fletcher Christian, without the Bounty and now without his own ship—it would not be so quickly and easily forgiven by the Admiralty.
"Damn!" he muttered before silently admonishing himself for his little heresy. He was, after all, a devout Christian and prayers would soon be needed.
"All our boats are all launched sir," pleaded Lieutenant Hayward who was eager to leave.
"Good".
"She shall go quickly Captain," said the exhausted Passmore as he slowly climbed the steps to the quarter deck.
"When?"
"Any time now—shall I order the prisoners released?" he glanced past Edwards at the box. "They are making a fearful row sir."
"Not yet." Damn the prisoners Edwards thought—it was mostly their fault anyway; if we had not spent so long searching for the rest of the scum this would not have happened. Then another thought struck him—maybe he had forgotten some possession in his haste to pack. Something he might need in case he came to a civilised society. He had checked his charts and found the Dutch East Indies not an impossible voyage. He sent a steward darting back below to make sure all his belongings were in his three large chests.
At six thirty in the morning HMS Pandora's hold was flooded as the water surged between decks, it also poured out through the upper deck hatches. The ship was on the point of sinking. Men began to leap overboard. They surfaced and drifted to the stern where a few boats waited to rescue them. Two of the boats, filled to the gunwales with soaked sailors and officers were ordered to a small island on the distant horizon.
Still locked in their box the terrified prisoners alternately cried, prayed and begged any passer-by to have mercy and to release them. Hidden the Edwards and his little group of officers Mr Passmore climbed over the roof of the prison and let duplicate keys fall through a small scuttle.
One by one, but still not fast enough, the terrified prisoners undid their chains and tossed the keys to their comrades,. Fumbling fingers failed and dropped the precious keys as prisoners scrabbled in the dark, then, finding them they renewed their frenzied attempts. Those free stopped to help, others clawed at the hatch and somehow forced it open. Skinner was one of the first to reach the outside but was in such a blind panic he jumped into the water forgetting his wrists were still manacled. Morrison watched horrified as Skinner sunk and saw the very instant his friend realised his error. But there was nothing he or anyone could do and, with the box almost completely submerged, it was every man for himself.
One by one the naked prisoners emerged until the hatch grew level with the ocean.
Then Pandora heeled and lurched to port. Head down and stern rising she began to slide beneath the surface.
From a boat nearby Passmore watched. He had seen many a man-of -war destroyed in battle and big ships always seemed to slide away. They never plopped straight down like a stone in a pond. He listened to the shrieks of the dying; the cries of many drowning men. They were sounds he knew would live in his mind long afterwards. He tried to shut them out. Nearby a bubbling cry, off to one side a faint convulsive gurgle as if someone was caught in the jetsam. A good swimmer drowning? He looked over the side and saw in the depths a chained man being dragged along in the current by thick rusty links. For an instant a ship sink can understand the emptiness that sits on such a sudden silence in a wide open sea thought Passmore.
Tom Ellison was the last to free himself and only barely made it to the sea. Bubbling to the surface he gasped at the air the pale face and wide blue lifeless eyes of Skinner looked straight up at him. Then there came the silence and a deathly circle of calm swept in from the edges of the sea and met over a small spume that was once a proud ship. The schooner 'Pandora' was gone. Only those few who have witnessed and began swimming. Every so often he saw men in their boats as they bobbed above the chop of the sea. Then he glimpsed Morrison swimming toward one of the boats dragging Peter Heywood along behind. Tom was a poor swimmer and was beginning to lose hope when a plank broke the surface nearby. Tom thanked God and rolled over and held on to its edge.
Some way off a shark detected a faint trail of blood and with a flick of his muscular tail changed direction. In a boat, and safe Captain Edward's watched. Lieutenant Hayward sat dutifully by his side. Edward's thoughts turned to revenge. "If any mutineers are still alive pick them up," he ordered.
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