HMS Plenipotent
Anders Ross
We have decided to take a day of rest, and on the contrary, it has not been. Seventy-eight days sailing, a preponderance of which have been through the dullness of calm, open sea, out where even the birds, having lost interest, deserted our gunwales long ago, has meant any vision of dry land—or hope therein—comes as welcome respite.
It was Sagan who first sighted the breakers crashing against an invisible coastline several miles ahead. His being the very eyes, however bleary and sunburnt, that gave our ship—HMS Plenipotent—its nautical aegis. A local boy raised in the drydocks of Plymouth, his chapped lips split into a joyful smile as he cried from the bow, ‘Land! Land ahead!’
I had been sat at the time, despondent more than one would have liked, in my quarters below deck. A game of backgammon tormented me in its half-finished state, as Jenkins busied himself in the furrows of the last dry map laid upon our communal writing desk. We scarcely glanced up as Sagan stood in the threshold of the room.
‘Sir, I come bearing news. There is land, for which I am sure, is a safe harbour for us to enter.’ He spoke with the urgency of a schoolboy running a fool’s errand, lookout’s cap in hand to reveal a rain-drenched forehead. He puffed twice before continuing, ‘I believe this to be the start of the ninety-mile beach we were told existed.’ He unfurls a scrap of parchment for both Jenkins and I to see. Jenkins takes the map and studies it for a moment without speaking, before nodding his head and congratulating the young charge. He looks to me. ‘Sir, we will make the necessary arrangements for an expeditionary party. We leave at dawn.’ A vivid diarist is Jenkins, the use of the spoken word by him is economical at best. That night it seemed as if all the stars were watching over us, peeking out from their blue velvet blanket before the southern sky. We had been encouraged by the successful dropping of anchor and, hitting the seafloor, celebrated above deck as the light was good, the wind down enough to light candles as we dined. I took this bonny opportunity to recount the past three months to the dozen men of the crew. This time bid fair the great achievement we had made in spite of rampant grief in the first weeks. There were torn sails from overzealous rigging and men overboard, to seeking repair in the commercial port of Marseilles and later, becoming stricken along the coral reefs off Western Australia. Betwixt the ham hock soup and poached pheasant, the men shared their respective fatigue and dreams of dry land. ‘Mercifully ‘tis fresh this time,’ Gurney said, saluting the shimmering centrepiece upon the makeshift table we had fashioned out of camp beds and spare capstans. ‘It could well be our last square meal for some time,’ he spoke with an elegiac look crossing his crag-like face. The Plenipotent begins to list in the gentleness of the early hours; there is no sound from the wind. Jenkins and the senior charges, I can see through the mullioned window of my quarters, are preparing the rowboats for the dawn mission.
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