by Dudley Pope
“Not enough experience!”
“He’ll be as good as you or me! He’s fresh. We’re both worn out: only a matter of time before we make a bad mistake.”
“Very well, he can relieve you.”
“Let him take the conn and I’ll walk the deck for an hour,” Southwick said. “I’ve had a lot more sleep than you.”
Ramage shook his head, but Southwick bellowed: “You’re asleep on your feet, sir. You’ll make mistakes. The Topaz depends on you too and after an hour in your cot you’ll be some use again …”
His voice and the noise of the wind and sea faded and again Ramage felt himself falling asleep and knew Southwick was right.
“All right, send for Appleby.”
“He’ll be glad, sir. It’s too much to expect a man to stay below in this weather if he can’t sleep.”
It took Ramage ten minutes to get to his cabin and he found everything wet: drips from the deckhead showed how much the ship was working. The noise of the wind was too loud for the creaking of frames and timbers to be very noticeable.
He sprawled over the table, felt a tugging at one leg and looked down to see his steward trying to get a boot off. It was all such an effort; it was all so useless; anyway he was so tired …
Hours later his steward shook him awake. The cot was wonderfully warm and, although it swung so wildly it almost made him dizzy, the motion was definitely less than before and the wind less loud.
“Captain, sir, Mr Southwick’s compliments and it seems to be easing up. I brought you some food, sir.”
Ramage saw a big metal basin jammed in the seat of the armchair.
“And I’ve put some dry clothes out, sir.”
The wind easing? The eye of the hurricane must be approaching!
Quickly he scrambled out of the cot, took the glass carafe of drinking water from its rack, poured it over his head and towelled vigorously. Then he dressed as the steward passed dry clothes to him.
As he began eating slices of cold meat, bananas, an orange, biscuit and a small carafe of fruit juice, he realized he had been so hungry he had a pain in his stomach. When he had finished he saw he had made very little impression on the food and he had a pain from eating too fast.
“Put it in Mr Southwick’s cabin. Wedge it well,” he told the steward, “so that …”
He broke off: stewards were experts in wedging articles so they did not capsize as the ship rolled.
He wrapped a thick towel round his neck and pulled on his oilskin coat. The steward handed him his sou’wester and Ramage ducked out of the cabin.
The wind had certainly eased a lot. Appleby was tired but alert; Southwick’s eyes were bright though bloodshot from a combination of salt and weariness.
Southwick greeted him with a grin.
“The eye of the storm will give us a wink soon, sir.”
“Thanks for letting me have a sleep first!”
They were in the eye now: there was no doubt about that. The rain had stopped, the wind was blowing now at about fifteen knots, and the cloud was breaking up overhead.
There was a curious noise, a distant roaring. He looked questioningly at Southwick.
“It’s coming from all round us, sir. Heard it just as the rain stopped and the wind began to ease. Could it be the wind blowing outside the eye?”
Ramage found it hard to imagine, but realized they were inside a sort of cylinder forming the eye where the wind was little more than a breeze, and overhead patches of blue sky showed up, while outside the cylinder the wind would still be hurricane strength. The Triton would be back there as soon as the eye moved … Ramage reached for the telescope in the binnacle drawer and Southwick said: “The Topaz is still there, sir; nothing else has parted—not that I can see, anyway.”
He could see the Topaz now, and more light was getting through as the blanket of thick cloud broke up overhead.
For a moment he was shocked at the way the merchantman was labouring. He watched her stern appear to dig into the forward side of a big wave, then saw the crest rushing forward, balancing the ship for a brief moment like a seesaw as the crest held her amidships, and then the bow dropping and digging into the after side as the wave swept on. Then he realized she was not labouring much more than the Triton; no more than one would expect with a heavy cargo down in the holds. In heavy weather it always looked as if the other ship was suffering more than one’s own—but she rarely was.
Southwick should have a rest. He worked his way along the lifeline.
“Have a spell below.”
“No thanks, sir; I’d sooner be on deck till this has passed.”
“What, the hurricane?”
“No, sir, the eye.”
“Don’t worry, Appleby and I …”
“Not exactly worried, sir: I don’t like the idea of being below while it’s passing—I shouldn’t sleep, and I’m learning something up here.”
“I know what—”
Ramage broke off, appalled by the look on Southwick’s face. The Master was staring over Ramage’s left shoulder at something a long way off, and the only distant thing in that direction was the Topaz.
Swinging round, the telescope still in one hand, Ramage looked over the larboard bow, but stinging spray blinded him for a moment. He wiped his eyes and saw what by now he expected: the Topaz had been dismasted. She was just a stubby log, with her masts and yards lying alongside in the water in a tangle of rope and spars.
Gradually the wreckage, along the starboard side and acting as a sea anchor, made the ship swing round to starboard like a dog on a leash until she was lying broadside to the waves and rolling so violently it seemed she must capsize.
Plans flashed through Ramage’s mind and were rejected as fast as a card player shuffling a pack. Finally one idea kept recurring. It was probably hopeless; but he tugged Southwick’s arm, shouting: “Main storm trysail—can we hoist it?”
“We can try, sir.”
“Do so, then.”
As Southwick waddled forward holding the lifelines (the wind inside his oilskins inflating them like a bladder), Ramage doubted if the men could get it done in time. If they can get the sail hoisted, would the flax stand when the eye passed?
With the sail hoisted and holding, he hoped he could turn the Triton and heave-to near the Topaz. He was not sure there was really any point in doing so. It all seemed hopeless, almost stupid. There was no hope of passing a hawser to tow, and in this sea the idea of towing was ludicrous anyway. Could he take everyone off? The odds on a ship o’ war surviving were slight; the chances for one of her boats was minuscule. But no one knew how long the calm of the eye would last. He might have half an hour.
Southwick was signalling and Ramage was surprised to see that he had a couple of dozen men on deck, each with a rope round his waist secured to something solid. The trysail was slowly going up the stay.
The Topaz was abeam: now every moment would put her that much farther to windward.
He turned to Appleby.
“I’ll take over here: check that the men at the relieving tackles are standing by. Tell them to be ready for a turn to larboard. Then stand where you can see me and when I signal—I’ll point to larboard with my arm—the helm goes over. Then we heave-to on the larboard tack.”
Appleby staggered below and Ramage looked at the four ratings at the wheel. They were strong and steady men. He told them what to expect in a minute or so, saw Southwick looking aft and indicated by signs what he was going to do, and then noticed Appleby standing halfway up the companion-way.
Ramage turned to look aft and suddenly realized that the distant roar of wind, which had been coming from all round the horizon, was now much louder from right astern. He couldn’t work out the reason for it, and anyway he now had to wait for a smooth—a sequence of one or two, and hopefully three, waves less high than the others, so that he could start the turn.
From watching the tumbling waves astern he glanced up to see the main trysail was hoisted and sheet
ed home. It was tiny, only a handkerchief, but it had an immediate effect—he could see the wheel reacting to it. Then he looked aft again. The wave crest immediately astern was lower, and so were the ones beyond: he jerked out his left arm for Appleby’s benefit, pointing to larboard, and bellowed at the men at the wheel.
They struggled and strained to turn it. After a few moments it became easier as Appleby passed the order to the men at the relieving tackles. The distant roaring was getting louder, and he glanced up to see that the few patches of clear sky had vanished: the thick low cloud was back.
The rudder, the wind on the main trysail—which was abaft the ship’s centre of balance—and the wind blowing on her quarter, were all working together now to shove the Triton’s stern violently over to starboard and pivot the bow round to larboard. The seas, too, were now on the larboard quarter and adding their quota of thrust; in a few moments the Triton would be beam on to the seas and as she continued turning they’d be on the bow. There, with the helm hard over to counteract the main trysail, she should lie hove-to.
Ramage watched her turning, alarmed by the roaring, which seemed to be getting very near, and glanced back aft to see if—then the wind came: it suddenly increased and simultaneously veered twenty or thirty degrees: instead of coming from the quarter it was abeam; its sudden and enormous pressure was trying to capsize the brig. The eye had passed; they were back in the hurricane.
Looking astern, Ramage knew his manoeuvre was doomed. It was like staring up from a valley at the side of a mountain collapsing on to him: a series of great waves was sweeping down on the quarter. They might not have been bigger than the worst of the earlier waves, but because they were coming on the quarter and would catch the brig when she was completely vulnerable, halfway through her turn, they were potentially lethal. Catching the little Triton on the quarter, adding their quota to the beam wind on the spars and trysail, they would make her broach.
“Stand fast everyone!” he found himself bellowing, although only the helmsmen could hear him. As he looked forward he was glad to see that several of the men had already seen the danger and were grabbing rigging, eyebolts on the deck, the carronades or anything that was firm.
When the first of the great waves arrived, the whole larboard side, as high as Ramage could see, seemed to be a wall of water. He found himself fighting for his life, gasping, swallowing water, blinded by the salt in his eyes, coughing, winded by a tremendous blow on the chest, swimming upside down in the dark, suddenly snatched into light, drowning, kicking and struggling, clutching a thick rope with all the strength he had. He just managed to wrap his legs round the rope before there was the sharp cracking of breaking timbers. The rope he was holding went bar taut, then slack, and then taut again … The deck, already moving wildly under his feet, seemed to have slid up vertically and back again.
The sound of pouring water: a cataract, tons of water swilling and spilling … Still blinded by water, finding it hard to breathe, coughing and coughing, with water like acid at the back of his throat, he held on to the rope so hard it was part of his body. Such a bloody waste to die in a hurricane; just wind and rain and mountainous seas and achieving nothing; no enemy beaten, no prize, just a bloody waste …
By now the noise was lessening and the cataract had stopped. He could hear the drumming of the wind, and miraculously, unbelievably, the ship was still afloat. Afloat but dead in the water, wallowing broadside on, as if pausing a moment before sinking. Perhaps he wasn’t going to die after all. Perhaps there was a chance for the ship and for the Tritons.
He stumbled to his feet, shaking his head and blinking to get rid of the salt sting: until he could see he dare not let go of the rope. As he regained full consciousness he realized that he had nearly drowned while still on board. As his eyes cleared he saw that the ship was just a hulk covered in a complicated web of ropes. There were no masts, no yards and no wheel … Men were lying flat on the deck or crouched down, but the masts and spars were all in the water on the starboard side, attached to the ship by the web of ropes which had been shrouds and halyards, sheets and braces, lifts and purchases a few moments ago. It looked as if a giant in a fit of rage had plucked them out of the ship and flung them into the sea.
Muzzily he realized that the series of cracks and thumps he had heard were the masts going by the board as the ship … he began to reconstruct what had happened.
By a dreadful triple coincidence the Triton had begun her turn as the eye of the hurricane passed, bringing with it not just wind but those enormous seas which, coming up on the larboard quarter, had picked the ship up and shoved her stern round so hard she’d gone flat. That must have been when he thought he was sinking and drowning. In fact he’d been swamped but still on board, and probably flung against a shroud he’d managed to grab. That would be the thump on the chest, and the rope that was suddenly bar taut—the ship went over on her beam ends—and then slack as the shroud parted and the masts went by the board—or the masts went by the board and the shrouds parted—or the shrouds parted and …
Just before he passed out he was violently sick. When he came to a few moments later he felt fresher, the outline of the hulk was sharper and he could think again.
Instinctively he picked himself up and turned to the binnacle, meaning to use it as a rallying point for the men. The binnacle box was not there, nor was the wheel, nor were any of the men who had been steering. The capstan was still there, however, ahead of where the binnacle box had been, and ahead of the capstan was a three-foot-high splintered stump of what had been the mainmast, and beyond that a similar stump that had once been a foremast.
He held on to the edge of the capstan barrel and waved an arm at the men forward. Several were already making their way towards him, and the nearest was Southwick …
“Thank God, sir,” the old man bawled. “Thought you’d gone!”
“So did I! And you?”
“Got wrapped round a carronade. Luckily it held when we broached and thank God the hatch covers held.”
Ramage glanced at the hatchways—battens, tarpaulins and wedges all looked as if they’d just been fitted. The old man was dazed, and seamen were gathering round. Jackson, Stafford and others were holding axes they had collected from their special stowage places.
He shaped his hands into a speaking-trumpet.
“Come on, men; we have to cut those masts adrift before they smash through the hull planking. Start with the mainmast: chop through the lanyards first!”
Several men scrambled over to the starboard side; others went to fetch more axes.
The wreckage of the masts, still tied to the ship by the rigging, made the Triton behave like a wild animal with one end of a rope round its neck and the other end tied to a stake driven into the ground.
The wind increased in strength every minute and the seas slowly drove the hulk round to starboard, radiusing on the wreckage. As she turned, more men crowded along the bulwarks, slashing away at the rigging.
Ramage found Southwick beside him and saw that the old man had recovered.
“Five minutes!” he said. “Then we’ll get rid of the foremast. Sound the well—there must be a lot of water down there.”
Southwick nodded but shouted back: “I don’t think there’s much, sir: the hatches held. She doesn’t feel waterlogged.”
Nor did she, Ramage realized; the dead feeling was caused more by the wreckage of the masts, whose weight still bore down on the starboard side.
Then Ramage remembered the Topaz. He had almost lost his sense of direction, first looking over the larboard bow. Of course he could see nothing, and the shock of thinking the Topaz had sunk was almost physical. Ramage turned away, not wanting to look at the area of surging water that marked where she had gone down. A moment later he felt Southwick tapping his arm and, glancing where he pointed, saw the Topaz less than three hundred yards away, dismasted and lying to the wreckage like a thick stick held in a mill-stream by pieces of string.
Southwick ga
ve a tired grin. “Hope they realize we’re standing by them!”
Ramage began laughing and knew he was close to hysteria.
He turned to the men chopping at the shrouds.
“Come on, men; lively there!”
Southwick beckoned to a couple of men and went below.
Relieved to find the Triton still afloat, Ramage began trying to relive the sequence of events that had led to the Triton broaching. Although he had at first thought his mind was clear, he found he was still dazed from the noise of the wind and tiredness. The Triton had broached because he’d handled her badly, and now he would not be able to help the Topaz. Even after the hurricane had passed he would not be able to be rowed over to the Topaz to discuss what Yorke might need, since the broaching had cleared the Triton’s decks of her boats as well as of everything else. The boats had been stowed, along with spare spars, over the hatchways.
The Triton and Topaz were now tiny, insecure and isolated islands in the Caribbean. Each had to be sufficient unto herself. He did not know what had happened to the rest of the convoy or how many men the Triton had lost when she broached. There would be time enough for checking on that, he thought bitterly; the most important job now was to safeguard the men left alive by making sure the ship stayed afloat. There was no chance of rescuing anyone who had been washed overboard. He was making a mess of everything and he knew it, but he seemed to be trying to think through a thick fog.
He imagined himself facing an examination board: now Lieutenant, you are commanding a brig, you’ve just broached, your masts have gone by the board, you’ve nothing suitable for setting up a jury rig, the wheel and binnacle were swept over the side, and you are still in a hurricane. What do you do?
To resign from the Service would be the most sensible answer, he thought, but the timing is inappropriate. Set the men to cutting the masts adrift to free the ship from the wreckage, at the same time sound the well and start men pumping if necessary. That’s all being done. What next … ?
