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.
7 The Three-Masted Schooner Alert
The Alert, a three-masted small schooner weighing four hundred and fifty tons, built, as has been stated, in the boatyards of Birkenhead, sheathed and pegged in copper, marked number 1 at the Bureau Veritas and sailing under the British flag, was getting ready to embark upon its third voyage.
After having crossed the Atlantic, passed the tip of Africa, and navigated the Indian Ocean during its first two voyages, this time it was going to head directly southwest to the Antilles, at Mrs. Seymour’s expense.
The Alert was a smooth vessel, held its sails well, possessed the remarkable qualities of fast clippers in every way. It would not take more than three weeks to travel the distance that separates Ireland from the Antilles, if the lack of wind did not cause any delays.
From its very first voyage, the Alert had as commander Captain Paxton, as mate Lieutenant Davis, as crew nine men—enough personnel to maneuver a sailboat of this tonnage. At the time of the second crossing, from Liverpool to Calcutta, the personnel had not been modified: same officers, same sailors. Such it had been, such it would be for this trip between Europe and America. Entire confidence could be placed in Captain Paxton, an excellent mariner, conscientious and prudent, about whom the best references had been provided for Mrs. Seymour. The young students and their mentor would find onboard the Alert, en route to their destination, all the comfort and also all the safety that their families could want. The round trip would take place during good weather, and the absence of the nine schoolmates from the Antillean School should not last more than two and a half months.
The port of Queenstown (photo by W. Lawrence of Dublin).
Unfortunately, the Alert was no longer under the command of Captain Paxton. His crew had just been massacred at the anchorage in Farmar Cove. The ship was now in the hands of the pirate gang of the Halifax.
At the first light of day,1 Harry Markel and John Carpenter examined in detail the ship of which they had made themselves masters. From the first glance they recognized its nautical qualities: the finesse of its forms, the excellent contour of its waterlines, the sharpness of the bow, the clearance in the stern, the height of its masts, the ample crisscrossing of its yards, the depth of its draft which allowed it to unfurl a great spread of sail. Surely, even with a light wind, if it had left the night before at nine o’clock, it would have crossed Saint George’s Channel during the night, and at the break of day, would have been at some thirty miles off the coast of Ireland.
At dawn, the sky was showing a cover of low clouds, or rather of light mist, the kind that a light wind would have dissipated in a few minutes. The haze and the waters merged together at less than three cable lengths from the Alert. In the absence of wind, whether this humid fog would disappear when the sun became stronger was doubtful. And, as a result, casting off seemed impossible. Harry Markel probably would have preferred the fog to make the ship invisible on its anchorage.
This was not at all what happened. At around seven o’clock in the morning, and without anyone feeling a gust from land or sea, the sun’s rays began to burn off the haze, which forecast a hot day that the wind would not cool down.
Soon the bay had completely cleared.
Two
