“So be it,” said Libby. “Carry on!” But the helmsman was already swinging the wheel, making the course change, the ship shuddering into a turn.
Even as the Pembroke Castle turned, however, a cry came up from the watch at the bridge wing: “Surf ahead!”
The captain wheeled about, staring through his spyglass. Silently, Pendergast crept up behind. There, ahead, the faintest smudge of white seemed to float on the darkness of the waves.
“Hard right rudder!” Libby roared. “Reverse engines, full astern!”
The order was transmitted to the engine room while the helmsman leapt to obey the wheel order, but the ship was heavy, it was long, and it was fighting a beam sea. The white smudge grew brighter, and a sudden tongue of lightning revealed them for what they were: the Skullcrusher Rocks.
“It’s impossible we’re so far off course!” the navigator cried.
“Full astern!” the captain shouted again, even as the laboring rumble from the engines vibrated the deck. But the crew of the bridge, and Pendergast, could see it was far too late: the horrid rocks loomed up out of the driving rain, surrounded by exploding surf…
…And then there came a shuddering crash as the bow of the ship was thrust violently upward onto the rocks. A massive sea broke over the port rail, bashing through the bridge windows and carrying the first mate and navigator overboard with it.
“Abandon ship!” Captain Libby called out to the second mate. “Crew to stations, lifeboats away, women and children first!”
“Abandon ship! Crew to stations!” The orders went echoing down the line of command as the crew leapt to obey.
Once again the scene dissolved in a second cloak of darkness, Pendergast’s mental point of view returning to the party on the beach. The men were standing, horrified and silent, at the spectacle of the great ship, barely a hundred yards away, as it was thrust up and over the rocks, pounded by the thunderous sea, its back breaking, the stacks coming down, muffled explosions coming from the boilers as seawater rushed in through the breached hull. The violence of the ocean, the distant cries and screams, seemed almost beyond comprehension. The men were struck dumb, aghast at what they had wrought.
There was an effort to lower lifeboats, but the ship was violently careened on the rocks, swung back and forth by the sea, and the effort was almost impossible, the lifeboats bashed to pieces on the rocks or driven into the ship’s hull, spilling their passengers into the sea.
Within minutes, the driving wind and storm surge began carrying wreckage ashore—spars, planks, barrels…and then survivors. A ripple of surprise went through the group standing on the beach. Instead of well-dressed officers, what appeared out of the dark and the storm were young women—some grasping babies or toddlers, still others clinging to debris. They struggled through the surf and onto the beach, crying piteously for help, soaked to the skin, bleeding from scrapes and cuts. Other bodies, already drowned, were washed up the strand and deposited in grotesque, wanton poses. Among them were the bodies of men in dungarees—crew.
Pendergast turned his attention from the wreck to two of the men onshore, so alike they must have been brothers—the one with the stopwatch, the other with the spyglass. Their faces registered confusion and surprise. They clearly had not expected the ship to be laden with so many passengers—especially not women and children. The other men were shocked as well. For a moment, all were paralyzed, unable to act. Then, on impulse, one broke for the water, preparing to help a woman and baby ashore. As he ran past the man with the stopwatch, the leader angrily seized him and threw him to the ground. Then he turned to the others. “These are witnesses!” he cried, addressing the crowd. “Do you understand? Witnesses! Do you all want to swing for this?”
The only answer was the howl of the storm and the piteous sounds of drowning and desperate women and children, struggling up through the surf.
And then, coming in through the waves, Pendergast beheld a remarkable sight: a large dory, crammed with women and children. A lifeboat had managed to survive. Captain Libby stood at the bow, holding a lantern and giving orders, two crewmen at the oars. As the group onshore watched, Libby brought the boat expertly through the surf, and the women and children poured out onto the beach even as the captain jumped back into the boat and ordered the men back to the wreck in a heroic effort to save more. The survivors swarmed toward the guttering bonfire, believing themselves saved.
The leader of the mob was enraged at this development. “That’ll be the captain!” he said, pointing with a shaking finger. “That’s the man we want! He knows where the loot is! Get him—now!”