The Mahogany Ship (Sam Reilly Book 2) Read online

  The Mahogany Ship

  By

  Christopher Cartwright

  Copyright 2015 by Christopher Cartwright

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  This one’s for my children. Elise and Matthew, who are by far the greatest challenge and rewarding adventure of my life.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Prologue

  Southern Ocean, December 22, 1812

  Muttering a vicious oath, Jack Robertson threw up. Again.

  It was the most violent storm he’d endured since leaving England almost eight months earlier. The experience confirmed his vow that once he arrived at the settlement in Sydney Cove he’d never take to the sea again.

  The Emily Rose shuddered dramatically as her entire bow lifted, losing contact with the white frothy water. It dropped off the edge of an enormous wave, before the following one swamped the entire back deck.

  From below, Jack fell to the wooden floor hard. Then he vomited twice more before continuing to man the pumps.

  Jack worked on his assigned pump throughout the night and into the following morning. His eyes drifted downwards. He, among so many others, had spewed until all contents of his stomach had been removed. This had then mixed with the sea water, which now mingled where his unsteady legs stood.

  Jack could have guessed at the filthy state of the pump room by smell alone. Even so, he smiled. The watermark had been reduced by an entire foot from their efforts. It was disgusting, dirty work, but they were going to survive.

  “Well, I’ll be the son of a whore!” Jack said.

  “Pardon me, sir?” Mr. John Langham asked.

  “I said, God be praised,” Jack replied, dutifully.

  The ship turned abruptly, rocking onto its side, causing a number of people to fall.

  What now?

  Leaving the others to continue pumping, Jack ran up the ladder to the deck and immediately saw the cause of the sudden change.

  A massive squall was coming directly from the south, and the helmsman was struggling with another on the wheel to maintain an easterly course.

  High in the rigging above, a number of men were aloft, trying to quickly reduce sail area.

  Boom!

  Lightning struck the mast just before the fore topsail. The five men who had been attempting to furl it were killed instantly. Above them, another three men were trying to climb back down when the now damaged mast snapped under the force of the wind. All eight men fell into the water below.

  The top half of the mast crashed into the water, but remained partially attached high up in the rigging. The sail area, having fallen into the water, was caught by the current. It was pulling the entire ship towards the rocky shore.

  Jack could hear the screams of the men in the water below, desperate for someone to help them. On deck, he saw the other sailors’ eyes were wide open, their faces contorted in horror, helpless to save the men.

  “Mr. Mills,” Captain Baxter’s voice boomed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you be so kind as to take some of your men and finish what God started on my mast before the damn thing drags us aground?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Jack watched as the young midshipman – maybe just fifteen years old, certainly no older – eyed the damaged mast, which looked as though it could snap at any moment in the squall. Mr. Mills organized a rope and pulley from the main mast to take the weight of the damaged foremast. Next to him, a man started to swing an axe as confidently as if he were on the ground in order to sever the remaining shards of wood.

  Within seconds, the man had managed to cut through it and the massive broken mast swung from the rope, looking as though it was going to clear the deck. But at the last moment, the rope and pulley became entangled on the very tip of the yardarm.

  “Christ, almighty!” the sailor with the axe cursed.

  The rope needed cutting, but it was going to be a much harder, more dangerous job. The yardarm was basically a large tree log that sat perpendicular to the mast at various points to form a cross. From it, men in the rigging could unfurl and furl sails that sat directly underneath.

  The problem was, now that all the areas above this yardarm had been destroyed, any person trying to get to the end of it would have nothing above to hold on to.

  Through the downpour of rain, Jack could just make out the breaking waves upon the jagged shoreline. They were being dragged towards land. The sailor above must have seen it too, because he appeared to let go of all reservations and run along the yardarm.

  The man pulled the axe up, ready to swing.

  At that very moment, a large wave struck the starboard side of the ship and the man slipped into the violent sea below.

  Jack looked to see who would now risk his life to save the ship.

  No one moved.

  Men were yelling orders everywhere and the Captain, whose voice was normally so calm it appeared malevolent, was screaming for the young midshipman to find a replacement to cut the rope.

  And still, nothing was being done.

  All right God, I’ll go and save this ship – but then we’re even.

  Jack was an atheist, but fools who are willing to risk it all believe in hedging their bets.

  He picked up the fallen axe, which had landed unceremoniously, lodging itself into the deck where its previous owner had fallen to his death. It took the strength of both his arms to pull it free. And then he started to climb the rigging thirty feet into the air where the others were trying to create a roping system to support someone when they climbed out onto the edge of the yardarm.

  “Out of my way,” Jack snarled.

  No one questioned his authority.

  Although no one on board could have guessed as to the extent of his violent past, most men aboard the Emily Rose kept their distance. There was something about him that suggested danger.

  Jack crawled along the yardarm, his stomach churning. The damn ship seemed to sway even worse from thirty feet in the air. Crouching at the very end, he pulled the axe up and swung it at the rope.

  The blade only cut one of the three main strands of the rope and then slipped past, the weight of it very nearly dragging Jack down with it.

  He caught himself at the last second and braced himself.

  Without waiting, he pulled the big axe once more and swung it down upon the rope. This time it connected perfectly, and the remnants of the massive mast and sail broke free. Below, he could hear the helmsman cry “Huzzah” as he regained control of the ship.

  That was close. Christ, but I do hate sailing.

  Jack shuffled back until he could hug the top of the survi
ving mast and then climb down to the deck below. He was greeted by the multiple pats on his back by the sailors who had failed to reach it.

  “Well done, sir,” the Captain said.

  Then came the sound no sailor ever wants to hear.

  Wood scraping along the jagged rocks below the keel.

  *

  John Langham heard the sound.

  No sooner had its meaning registered in his mind than he saw the water spurting through more than a hundred holes below the bilge.

  He stopped working the pump, a wasted effort. The ship was going down and quickly.

  Instead of running up towards the deck, he turned and ran aft where the water was now already waist deep. It was cold, but he’d been working the pump long enough that it didn’t matter much to him.

  John knew he was risking a lot to reach it, but after all the pain he’d caused to reach this point in his life – somehow he knew, as though God had told him, that it was important to retrieve it and save it from a watery grave.

  Worth risking his life.

  He found his sleeping net swinging in the sinking ship. Sitting loosely on top he saw what he was after, his Bible.

  He took a moment to inspect the vital contents within, then tucked it on the inside of his trouser pants. John looked at the companionway he’d come from. Water had now flooded that part of the ship, which creaked as if it were close to tearing itself apart.

  His eyes scanned the other direction.

  The water was so deep he would have to hold his breath to swim through some of the passageways, but it would be his only chance. He cursed himself for his stupidity and continued pushing through the now flowing water that was trying to drag him back down towards the ballast of the ship.

  There was a loud crash, followed by the harsh vibration of the bow of the ship grating along sand and rock, which ended when the ship no longer had any forward momentum.

  She’s hit solid rock.

  John pulled himself up through the final hatch using a rope to overcome the weight of the water, which flowed over him from his chest down.

  He saw the captain’s eyes – they told him everything he needed to know. They were done for. The Emily Rose was going to sink. His eyes cast into the distance – no more than three hundred feet away, he could see land clear as day.

  Well, that’s something, that is. But where on God’s green earth are we?

  Almost in response, the ship broke in two.

  John fell into the water.

  His hands thrashed about, trying to reach anything that might keep him afloat long enough to survive. His head went under. As the next wave pulled him up, he managed another gulp of air before being dragged down once more.

  It was dark, and the wave had spun him around several times before his hand reached hold of something solid. It was wooden. Perhaps a barrel? He gripped it with all his might and, despite being a poor swimmer, held on until he reached the shore.

  There he quickly stumbled up on land. Sick and exhausted, John looked back at the wreck of the Emily Rose for the first time. Only the bow remained, sticking several feet out of the water.

  Heads were bobbing near the wreck site. Some of them were accompanied by the frantic movements of arms attempting to stave off drowning, while others no longer moved at all.

  Lord have mercy.

  Lacking strength to help any one of them, he pulled out the Bible from inside his trouser pants and opened to the middle of the leather bound book.

  Inside the cut pages, he was relieved to see that it was still there. A single gold ring, a small ruby embedded on top.

  He held it up towards the light so that he could read the inscription.

  Rose Mills 1810.

  He thought about the promise he’d made to the woman to whom that ring had belonged.

  He would not dishonor his sacred oath.

  *

  Jack Robertson met the morning’s sun with the confidence of a man who knew that he’d cheated death once more. Of the entire 138 people aboard the Emily Rose, he was shocked to discover that fewer than thirty had survived.

  They spent the next few days collecting whatever supplies they might utilize to reach Sydney Cove. He found a strange happiness in their plight. A thousand-mile adventure through an uncharted territory. It was the easiest way to forget about what he’d done back in England.

  The days were long and hard. They had to carry large amounts of food stores using packs. Water was scarce, the vegetation sparse, and the trees enormous. The country had a number of unique animals. Although plentiful, the animals had little meat to offer. What meat they found was tough and gristly. It wasn’t an easy life, but they’d be able to sustain themselves.

  After a week, the small party settled into the routine.

  Occasionally, Jack caught a glimpse of a native watching them from afar. In general however, the aboriginals keep their distance.

  It wasn’t until their third week that Jack first laid eyes on her.

  The Mahogany Ship looked like a mirage in the distance.

  She was so large that her prominent bow and stern were visible hours before the survivors reached her. From that distance, she looked like a grand ship sailing through the mountain. At first, Jack mistook their distance from the ship. It wasn’t until he was closer that he realized just how large the ship was.

  “Christ almighty, I think we’ve just found Noah’s Ark!” Jack exclaimed with awe.

  Chapter One

  Gulf of Mexico, Present Day

  The day was warm, even for summer. Sam Reilly looked at the sea below; it was calm, the rays of light glistening off the ripples beneath the helicopter blades. It was still too early for hurricane season, but all the same, he was keen to complete this case in time to be far away before they came.

  In the water up ahead he could see what he was after.

  It was painted sky blue. And along the ship’s steel hull, in large emerald writing, were the words MARIA HELENA and below in smaller writing – Deep Sea Expeditions. From the distance, it looked like nothing more than an oversized tugboat or possibly an old icebreaker converted into a science vessel. On the aft deck a helipad could be seen – the only indication that it was anything more than a tugboat.

  What couldn’t be seen were the two most advanced submarines in the world. Both stored in its hold, Sea Witch and Rescuer One accessed the sea through a moon pool below the waterline of the Maria Helena. Nor could a casual observer know that it was loaded with some of the most advanced naval and observational equipment in the world, some of which would make the U.S., Russian, and Chinese navies jealous.

  The sight of his ship made him smile.

  Minutes later he was landing on the aft section of the ship, where several engineers eagerly awaited his arrival near the small helipad. Sam turned the main switches to off and waited for the whine of the rotary blades to settle, while his skipper, Matthew, approached. The man’s shaved head ducked well below the spinning blades high above.

  Matthew’s hazel eyes and ordinarily serious face displayed a generous smile alongside his genuine pleasure. Holding out his hand, he said, “Welcome back, sir.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be back,” Sam replied as he shook the skipper’s hand and then climbed out of the cockpit, beaming with pride.

  At six feet exactly, Sam Reilly had a physique more resembling a gymnast than a marine biologist. He was solidly built, with perfectly proportioned muscles, the result of a lifetime of strenuous activities. Of all of his adventures, the ocean had the strongest pull. He had brown hair in wavy ruffles, which softened his piercing blue eyes. Underneath which, he wore a smile, which most adequately portrayed a man who had it all, and was smart enough to know it.

  He’d missed his ship and the people who served aboard. The man was by far the most conservative of his crew. Somehow, Sam had often thought, he seemed to take the responsibility of the safety of all persons aboard, as a skipper is obliged to, much too seriously. Their views had come to
blows a couple times in the past year as a consequence. That aside, he respected the man very much, as the expert he was.

  “So, this is our new helicopter?” Matthew mused.

  “Sure is. I’ve just taken possession of her at Florida Keys. A Sikorsky MH-60, AKA, ‘Knight Hawk.’ Her long range fuel tanks will come in useful, since Tom destroyed the last one a few months ago. It’s a little larger, and much more up to date. It also has a few additional toys, which Tom will like.”

  Entering the maintenance deck on the way towards the mission room, Sam handed the helicopter’s maintenance book over to Veyron Blanc, his chief engineer. Having no relationship to the car whatsoever, the French engineer held a separate Doctorate in Mechatronics and in Submersibles. He was also one of the sharpest minds Sam had ever encountered, and in his line of work there were an abundance of extremely intelligent people. The man had little to do with the maintenance of the helicopter, but liked to be kept up to date with anything within his fleet of expensive machines.

  Veyron took the logbooks, nodded at Sam, a gesture that he’d come to understand meant, I’ll talk to you later – I have a new toy to look at. Like many engineers Sam had met, Veyron had more interest in mechanical contraptions than people. However, Sam was starting to discover that there was a lot more to his engineer than an almost autistic obsession with machinery. It was a side of him that few on board the Maria Helena realized.

  Sam made a mental note to catch up with him shortly.

  Genevieve Callaghan approached with thick European hot chocolate. “Here, boss. I thought you might like one of these after your flight.”

  “Thanks, Harry – you’re wonderful. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you,” he said, embracing her tightly and kissing each of her cheeks.

  “I missed you too, handsome.” Her big brown eyes and long lashes, like those of a gazelle, greeted him with a look that appeared almost seductive with affection. Although, Sam knew that she, of all people on board, had no interest in him that way. “Of course, what you meant to say was that you missed my cooking!”

  “That too.”

  Genevieve was a kind of Jack of All Trades on board, who managed the kitchen with an ability bordering on divinity. She’d once trained under a Three Michelin Star chef, but that was where, much to her parent’s chagrin, her feminine attributes finished. Everyone on board called her Harry – after the violent cop, Harry Callaghan, AKA Dirty Harry – whom her personality and surname more accurately reflected. She was excellent at everything she did, an expert martial artist, athletic, and short-tempered as hell. For some reason that no one aboard had yet to determine, she also spoke perfect Russian.