Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  In response, Nikolai Isaakovich turns the wheel and steers away, along a passage so narrow even our tiny skiff couldn’t navigate through it.

  Kotelnikov points, his sizeable trunk pressed into the bulwark. “Look out! Look out! Are you looking out?”

  Sobachnikov cries, “A sandbar!”

  We’re pushed even closer to shore.

  I listen for the sound of a scrape. I listen for the splintering of wood. But neither come. The brig remains afloat.

  “Drop anchor,” my husband orders. The men release an anchor hooked to the aft of the brig. It splashes and the sea gulps it down. I hold my breath—we all do—but the anchor doesn’t catch. The water is still too deep. The brig continues to drift toward shore, waiting for that anchor to reach bottom or hook onto something.

  As the hazards slide into view the crew calls out: “Rock!” “Sandbar!” “Reef!”

  Nikolai Isaakovich turns the wheel to port and to starboard as he’s directed. The guidance comes fast, and he must concentrate.

  Then, he orders again, “Drop anchor!” The second anchor goes over. It’s slightly smaller than the first but fitted with the same pointed flukes, so perhaps it will work. We wait to feel the brig slow and stop, but no. We still drift.

  “Again!” my husband orders. “Drop anchor!” This time surely we’ll be successful.

  But the brig lurches toward shore on the surf. “It’s not working! Navigator!” cries the apprentice.

  My husband orders for the last time, “And again!” That’s our fourth anchor. There are none left.

  Then—merciful God—the brig stops.

  A cheer erupts. The crew members embrace, slap shoulders and backs. I catch the eye of Nikolai Isaakovich. He smiles weakly from behind the wheel. Zhuchka runs back and forth, nudging us with her nose as she passes. She yaps and though I know she can’t possibly understand the peril we’ve evaded, to whatever extent is possible, I believe she feels our joy.

  I turn my attention back to the water. Where are we? We’re ringed by rock stumps. Not far from the bow of the vessel lies a patch of pale sea, visible even in the dim light. It’s a broad shoal on which we would have run aground had we not halted when we did. Beyond this patch of sea lies a narrow, sandy beach that stretches away from us until it reaches the mouth of a river—the river we saw as we drifted in, the river that seemed to be pulling us ashore.

  Tomorrow, the wind will return, and we’ll reverse our feat. Nikolai Isaakovich will navigate back out through the rocks, and we’ll safely return to our mission.

  But the crew members haven’t budged from their places ringing the brig’s bow. They’re quiet and watchful.

  “Look,” cries the apprentice Kotelnikov. He points.

  The sea heaves. The swell is even stronger this close to shore. It lifts our brig, then releases it. Lifts and releases. Over and over again, and with each rise and fall, the brig strains against the creaking anchor cables that hold us steady. But one anchor cable rubs against a rock as the brig falls with the sea.

  Timofei Osipovich and his faithful Ovchinnikov rush to the bulwark. Timofei Osipovich shoves the apprentice aside as Ovchinnikov brushes his hair from his eyes like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  “Pull,” cries Timofei Osipovich, and he and Ovchinnikov reach over and wrap their hands around the cable. I lean out over the bulwark so I can see what they’re doing. Their fingers tighten around the cable. They twist and pull, trying to shift it away from the rock. They’re fighting not only the cable. The brig and the sea pull against them, too.

  “We need help,” Timofei Osipovich shouts. Yakov and the Aleuts squeeze in beside them, but there’s only so much room. One of the Aleuts climbs over the bulwark and hangs upside down, while Ovchinnikov holds him by the waist of his trousers. The Aleut stretches toward the cable. Perhaps from that precarious position he can add force to the others’ efforts.

  But whatever they do, it’s to no avail. We helplessly watch strand after strand of the anchor cable wear through, each one shredding then snapping until only one fibre remains. When it goes, the broken cable flops into the ocean like a snake and the brig pivots. The ship comes to rest, held in place by the remaining cables.

  Our new position is no better. The second cable ends up similarly compromised. The American, John Williams, climbs over the bulwark and gingerly steps onto the cable. He holds the railing, and the weight of his body is supported by the cable. He springs on it, gets it bouncing up and down.

  “Be careful,” says Yakov.

  “Get back on board,” orders Timofei Osipovich. “You’re making it worse.” He reaches for the cable. His hands are bleeding. The Aleuts are at his side once again.

  This cable doesn’t last as long as the first, and it soon breaks, leaving us with only two anchors.

  Night has fallen. Nikolai Isaakovich calls for the lanterns. Sobachnikov takes the first one and leans out as far as he can—farther than anybody else can reach since he’s so tall—and dangles it from a crooked finger, casting light and shadows in the area around the third cable. Eventually, under the weight of the lantern, his extended arm begins to shake, until he has no choice but to retract it. The men take turns and struggle, fighting against what I now believe will be our fate.

  When it’s completely dark and Orion is directly overhead, visible without the telescope, I find the three stars of his belt. As if to mock us, strong and solid, it fixes him and his sword to the firmament forever. We don’t need forever—we just need the cables to hold until the wind comes up.

  Then the third cable snaps.

  As dawn approaches, Orion slips down toward the sea. He’ll disappear soon, as every astronomer knows. But on this occasion, his looming departure feels prophetic.

  Then—wait! “Commander!” shouts the American. He’s not the only one who’s noticed. A nearly indiscernible breeze has come up from the southwest. Nikolai Isaakovich jerks to attention. He scans the sails, looking for response, but they only droop. Still, each little gust tickles my cheek, and each time, it feels slightly stronger than the last. Silently I urge: blow, wind! If not now, then when?

  We finally lose the last anchor. Whatever noise the severed cable makes when it gives way is consumed by the sound of the surf; I feel the loss immediately as the brig pivots like a dancer unleashed from the grip of her partner.

  This breeze is the only thing that can save us now, this inconsequential and capricious breeze blowing from the southwest—that and the skill of my husband. Nikolai Isaakovich orders the sagging sails hoisted. Again, he leans into the wheel and spins it all the way to one side. Stout Kotelnikov thrusts a flickering lantern as far out over the bow as he can stretch, but his reach is inadequate. As the sky brightens in the east behind the black trees, the light his lantern casts is faint, too diffuse.

  “Can’t you hold it farther out?” says Yakov. “The navigator can’t see.”

  He presses himself tighter against the bulwark until his round body bulges against the wood. Eventually, his lantern lines up with those of Yakov and the American, and I can’t help but feel glad to see Orion’s belt mirrored here on the brig. Maybe we’re going to make it.

  The sails flutter in the light wind. There’s a hopeful rattle from the rigging.

  “This passage is so narrow,” declares Timofei Osipovich, “no navigator but ours would dare to attempt to find a path through it in the light of day, let alone now.”

  For once, there is nothing in his words for me to disagree with.

  We pass rock and shoal and rock and reef again. With each wave that breaks, I’m buoyed. I wait for the thud, the splinter, the crunch—but they don’t come. We’re moving into water that’s increasingly deeper. My husband sends the apprentice for the leadline. “I want to know how deep it is before we extinguish the lanterns,” he says. He’s beaming—he knows we’re safe.

  Behind the wheel, he stands tall and navigates through what may be the trickiest passage of his career, the most awkward, w
ith the greatest stakes. Dear Nikolai Isaakovich, you’re proving your worth to the company. How I wish Chief Manager Baranov were here to witness your astonishing skill! I squeeze Zhuchka until she coughs and squirms.

  But then, the sea and the wind are nothing if not unpredictable. I’m a fool to forget this.

  With a groan and a crack, the foreyard breaks.

  Twenty-two sets of eyes roll up, drawn to the noise. A length of the yardarm falls and swings, attached only by shards of wood. The once-billowing foresail collapses and flutters uselessly.

  Sobachnikov, the main rigger, dashes to the base of the mast and, like a spider, begins to pull himself up.

  “Stop! Wait!” cries Timofei Osipovich. “There’s nothing you can do now. We have no spare.”

  The brig was to have dropped anchor several days ago so the crew could go ashore to replenish our supplies. The barrels of fresh water needed topping up. The promyshlenniki were to take Zhuchka hunting for ducks or, if they were lucky, a deer. Nikolai Isaakovich also wanted them to cut a few timbers that could be used to repair or replace the masts and yards if they should break. The weather prevented us from getting close to shore that day. The next day, there was no acceptable place to anchor. I don’t remember what happened the third day. The water barrels were low, but the situation wasn’t desperate. Then the brig was becalmed.

  “But—” cries John Williams. “You can’t tack against this without the foresail!”

  “Our fate is sealed,” Timofei Osipovich declares. For once, there’s no mockery in his tone.

  The crew tries valiantly. They manipulate the sails as best they can under the direction of my husband, with Timofei Osipovich offering assurances and advice. Even I, knowing nothing of sailing, can see the futility. Without the foresail, we can only head in one direction. For a long time and a short time, the surf pushes us toward the shore.

  Mid-morning, a swell lifts the brig—the most powerful swell to hit us all morning. We rise, rise, rise—and pause. The brig teeters. My husband freezes, his hands clutched to the wheel. Old Yakov removes his cap and blesses himself. Then, with a whoosh, the water recedes. We fall gently. The hull grinds into the sand. The brig stops. We meet our fate.

  It’s not noisy. It’s not dramatic. It is merely the end of our voyage.

  Zhuchka gives a joyful yap, happy perhaps that we’re finally not moving.

  But her joy is short-lived. The surf, finished its inhalation, now exhales. The waves strike us broadside. The brig tilts. Seawater sprays the deck. I flinch when it hits me. Then the water rushes out and the brig levels. A moment later, the waves crash against us again. Our vessel groans. How I wish the force were strong enough to dislodge us from this sandy perch and carry us back out to sea. But we have no such luck.

  Then the ship is struck by two terrible waves in succession. There’s no lull, no time to catch my breath. The brig tilts to shore at such a precarious angle that I’m certain we’ll capsize. I press my body against the foremast and hold with all my strength. The ship tilts to the other side when the water recedes. Poor Yakov slips on the wet deck and falls. His cap goes flying. His body slides until it hits the bulwark. Sobachnikov rushes over, helps him up and hands him his cap.

  Nikolai Isaakovich should give orders, but latched to the wheel he’s like a sleepwalker—his eyes open and staring but vacant.

  “Navigator!” Timofei Osipovich cries.

  His one word forces Nikolai Isaakovich from his stupor. He surveys the questioning faces on deck and shakes his head like he’s coming out of his dream. His confusion slips away, replaced with an authority he must have learned in the naval academy.

  He calls on the ship’s carpenter, Ivan Kurmachev. “Is there water in the hold?” Kurmachev scurries below deck as fast as he can, given his age. His footsteps bang down the ladder.

  Then he addresses Timofei Osipovich. “Where in the name of heaven are we?”

  “We’re north of Destruction Island,” he replies.

  “I know that,” my husband says, exasperated. “Does this place have a name?”

  Timofei Osipovich shakes his head slowly. “It might. You could check your charts.”

  Just then, Kurmachev comes clattering up the ladder. “Commander! She’s filling!” he shouts hoarsely and pants.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Not long.”

  “Then we have no choice. We must abandon ship,” my husband says. He leans in and renews his grip on the wheel, contrary to what he’s just said. The members of the crew are equally insensible. They continue to cling to the bulwark, the masts, or whatever holds them steady. The waves continue to wash in and out.

  “Abandon ship!” he insists. Again, no one moves.

  Timofei Osipovich intercedes. “First, the arms and the ammunition,” he orders. “Keep the powder dry.”

  “We can’t take the skiff out in this surf,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov.

  Timofei Osipovich gives him a withering look before he issues orders. “Kozma Ovchinnikov, John Williams—and Yakov—and the rest of the Aleuts—you’ll carry as much as you can manage.” He tells them to jump overboard, run to shore and drop their loads, and, as soon as possible, return to the ship where the remaining crew members will have their next load ready.

  “Now, on my mark,” Timofei Osipovich advises. Another fierce wave breaks against the brig, and she tilts alarmingly toward shore. When the waves reach their furthest point up the sand, they turn around and start back toward us. The instant the ship starts to swing back, Timofei Osipovich shouts, “Now!”

  The crew jumps, arms loaded and held well above their heads. Zhuchka can’t help it. She flings herself into the sea right behind them.

  Dog and men, they surge toward the shore as if pursued by the devil. My arms remain wrapped around the foremast.

  Nikolai Isaakovich orders the men to remove the sails. “These will be our tents,” he says. They climb and begin to unfasten the shackles and draw rope through the blocks.

  Some of the crew return. They take the next load, more arms and ammunition and, I’m relieved to see, a barrel of buckwheat.

  In this way, lifting, leaping, landing, and running in waves timed against the surf, they ferry the necessities onto shore. Timofei Osipovich even gets them to salvage a cannon. They roll it off the deck. It splashes into the shallow water, lands on its barrel, and is impaled in the sand. Much time and great strength are required to dislodge it and get it to shore, but the men manage.

  I remain latched to the foremast. The more I look at it, the more the distance between the brig and the shore expands. I can’t swim well, and, as irrational as it seems, I can’t leave without my telescope and star log. I must go get them. But then what? I don’t think I can just jump into the sea. I must save myself, it’s the sensible course of action, but when I look at all I need to do to reach land, I’m immobilized. I dig my nails into the mast.

  “Anya,” shouts Nikolai Isaakovich. “What are you doing? Go to shore.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes now! Hurry up.”

  “But I want my telescope!”

  “For God’s sake, Anya. Go to shore.”

  “No. I want my telescope.”

  Flustered, he pounds the air with his fist. “This is not the time!”

  “I’m going to get my telescope.” I let go of the mast; the brig shifts violently to one side. I stumble and grab the mast again.

  “I’ll bring it to you. When I come to shore. I promise. Now go, Anya. Before it’s too late.”

  “And the log! Don’t forget my star log.”

  “Oh, Anya,” he groans. I wish I didn’t sound so petulant, but these things are important.

  I stagger to the bulwark and throw one leg over. I hold tight to the railing. It steadies me. I wait, as I’ve seen Timofei Osipovich do, for the surf to break. It crashes against the side of the vessel, releasing an arc of spray that pricks my back. The brig tilts and the timbers moan.

  I must
wait.

  Wait.

  The sea makes a terrible sound as it retreats, like a million grains of wheat pouring through the fingers of the mighty hand of God.

  Now.

  I jump.

  My feet meet unyielding sand. The water’s done nothing to cushion my fall. Rather, the sea catches at my skirt and tries to pull me out. The sand washes out from beneath my feet. The ground collapses. I dig in my toes. It’s no use. I’m being pulled out to sea.

  It’s cold. Colder than the Neva during a Petersburg spring.

  “Run, Madame Bulygina, run!” somebody screams from the brig. I try to see who, but when I turn, the next wave is upon me. It’s a grey wall charging like an angered bull.

  I run.

  I never could have imagined this. The cold water will break my bones. I’ll go under and drown. My corpse will float all the way back to Russia. The shore is shifting, and it’s so rimmed with froth, I can’t tell how much farther I need to go. My shoes are packed with sand and filled with water. One shoe starts to slip off.

  I can’t go on without my shoes. I must not lose this shoe. I reach down. If I can just tug it back over my heel—

  The surf knocks me over.

  I tumble. Cold envelops me. The sea pulls me up, pushes me down. I’ve nothing to latch onto now. My body is jumbled like coins at the bottom of a pocket. I can’t tell where the sky is. I’m overcome with the irrational fear that something down here is trying to get me. Somebody’s screaming. There’s a rough tug on my arm. And then another on my other side. I’m up. I cough and spit out water. It burns inside my nose. I can’t see for the hair in my eyes, but I know two people are dragging me to shore.

  Over the roar of the sea, I hear shouting, but there’s water in my ears and everything’s muffled. It’s as though the person addressing me is in another room, a distant place.

  Finally, I’m lugged completely onto shore. Water streams all down my body and pools on the ground at my feet, at my shoes. Both shoes. My ears clear.

  My old grey shawl is gone, thanks to my lost pin, presumably still somewhere in our quarters, gone to be with the sea and sky, as though all grey things have an irresistible affinity for one another. I touch my head. My cap has floated away, too, and now I’m bareheaded like a little girl.