What follows was a Feghoot story written by a work colleague with whom I had many a merry exchange of puns, acrostics and the like, and who sadly died young. In his memory I present one of his best moments.
William sat on the beach. His lips were dry and his skin had started to blister.
He'd noticed the barrel bobbing in the shallow surf about an hour ago, and had managed to wrestle it a few metres up the soft sand. It lay beside him now, its short shadow not quite covering his feet. He looked at it again; there was anger in his eyes, and sadness...perhaps a note of frustrated resignation.
Four months into her voyage, the barque HMS Cork had been low on fresh water. When the lookout had sighted the green flush of vegetation rising on the horizon, the Captain had ordered a slow and cautious approach to the uncharted island.
White water had hinted at the jagged and stabbing fingers of submerged reefs, but their need had been dire. They'd had no choice but to risk the reefs and make for the safety of the lagoon, and from there to launch parties in search of mineral springs or other sources of fresh water.
The crew worked well together. They were all experts in their trades; the carpenters, the shipwrights, the bosuns, the coxswains, the officers...each man jack highly skilled, but only really effective when working as a part of the whole...as a part of the crew.
William had been a boy seaman, serving as a domestic hand and keeping the Cork's accounts. But he'd always felt himself to be a part of the crew. He'd never felt alone or afraid at sea, because he'd believed his crew to be capable of anything.
Cork had struck the reef during the first watch. William had felt and heard the horrible rending as the Cork's wooden hull had been opened by a submerged enemy. He'd been thrown from his chair at the work table as the reef grabbed hard and slowed the vessel's progress. Shouts had broken out immediately as the hands assessed the damage and tried to stem the flood of Pacific water. But to no avail. The ship had gone down in minutes, and the crew had been forced into the unwelcome embrace of the roiling white waves.
55 men had gone into the water, but only one had survived the crashing waves, and the cutting coral, and the hungry predators. Only one had made it to shore. And that one had been William. He was lost and alone now, unsupported by the crew that had been his strength.
He looked again at the barrel, and wondered about the rum that it contained. He ached for its taste. He ached for the oblivion that its sharp and sugary promise might bring. The barrel was sealed with a single, and small, stopper and William knew he couldn't remove it alone. He'd tried. He'd struggled with the cursed thing without success.
And now he knew he needed help to remove the stopper. He needed his shipmates. If he was ever to remove the plug and access the rum, he would need the Cork's crew...
