Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  For reasons the book didn’t enumerate, the direction of the spin was counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere; clockwise in the Southern. They were below the equator, so he knew the cyclone would be spinning clockwise. That meant that the navigable semicircle, the less violent half of the cyclone blowing in the direction opposite to its movement, would be on the right, where they could run before the wind.

  But having information was one thing, being able to use it was another. In order to take advantage of that phenomenon, he’d have to know both the direction and the location of the center of the storm. And without a radio, he had no way to know. All he could do now was use the visual sighting methods he’d read about in the book, the same methods the ancient mariners had used.

  Blake stood out on the bridge wing in a spitting rain and focused his binoculars on the massive formation of glistening cirrus clouds that had formed high over the southern horizon. According to the book, the point where the white silky clouds converged would give an indication of the direction of the center. His stomach tightened when he saw the point of convergence. They were directly ahead of the storm track; the center lay not more than two points off the port quarter.

  “Full ahead,” Blake shouted through the open door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Full ahead, aye, sir,” Kelly said, pulling the handle down to the final position.

  The horn on the sound-powered telephone blared. Blake came in dripping with water and picked it up. “Yes, Chief?”

  “You trying to blow this thing up, or what?” Kozlewski’s raspy voice sounded like pebbles being thrown against a tin roof. “Going to full in-”

  “Storm track’s on a straight line for us,” Blake said. “Closing fast. We need everything you can pull out of those turbines.”

  There was a pause. “Aye, aye, Skipper,” the chief said.

  For the next two hours, Blake paced nervously between the pilothouse and the bridge wing while the Latin Star steamed in a northeasterly direction at full speed. The old freighter labored up over huge white-crested swells, shuddered with her screw out of the water, and crashed down into foaming black troughs. He stepped out onto the bridge wing in the yellowish daylight and stood with his khakis whipping in the wind, staring hopelessly through binoculars at the black wall of heavy cumulonimbus clouds forming across the southern horizon. He knew from the description in the book that he was looking directly at the bar of the storm. He grimaced at the speed with which it was closing the gap.

  He stepped back into the wheelhouse and continued to watch through binoculars as large pieces of the dark wall of clouds broke off and drifted overhead. A rain squall appeared out of nowhere and rattled the bridge windows with pellets of water that sounded like hail. The wind alternately rose from an eerie whistling sound to a piercing scream, then fell to a low howl. He checked the barometer again and saw to his shock that it had dropped another nine points.

  As the hours passed, the wind speed picked up, the seas became raging, and Doc began having difficulty keeping the freighter on course. Squall lines swept past the ship as though it were dead in the water. As Blake paced across the bridge, watching the bar of the storm approach from the stern, the day became nearly as dark as night. Rain squalls began to slam by at an almost continuous rate, and the barometer fell a point every few minutes. The outer fringes of the wind began to push toward the bow of the ship, pushing the freighter back like a bug caught in the swirl of a drain. Blake thought the center of the storm was still at least 100 miles away, but it was clear they were losing the race.

  “We’re not going to be able to outrun it,” Blake said. “We’ve got to turn her around, bring the wind on the port quarter. Hard right rudder, Doc. Bring her around to a heading of two-two-five degrees.”

  “Two-two-five degrees, aye, sir,” Doc said, twisting the wheel to starboard.

  Midway through the turn, a gale force wind whipped against the port side of the ship, heeling it sharply to starboard, sending the compass spinning. “What do I do?” Doc said, staring at the spinning compass. “This sucker’s going crazy.”

  “We’re broaching to,” Blake said. “Just stay calm and hold your position. She’ll come around.”

  “I’m turning the wheel, but nothing’s happening.”

  Blake struggled to keep his voice even. “We’re broadside to the wind. Give her a minute, she’ll come around,” he said, praying that it would.

  The wind diminished, and the lumbering freighter slowly righted itself. Doc’s forehead was burnished with a layer of sweat. He mopped at it with a shirt-sleeve and glanced at Blake. “This assignment ain’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”

  “The best is yet to come,” Blake said. He knew that the sudden blast of wind that had caused the fully loaded freighter to broach to like a toy boat in a bathtub was only a small sample of what lay in store. He picked up the sound-powered telephone and rang the engine-room console.

  “Yes, sir?” Chief Kozlewski’s voice rattled through the earpiece.

  “We can’t outrun it, Chief, we’re going to have to ride it out,” Blake said. “How’s the plant?”

  “Seems to be stable,” the chief said. “Biggest danger is keeping the fires from going out on those steep rolls.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” Blake said.

  “I hear that,” the chief said.

  “It’s going to get rough,” Blake said. “Secure anything loose in the engine room and don’t let anyone come topside until I give the word.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Skipper. These guys are scared shitless.”

  “I don’t think it’ll come to that, but if we have to abandon, I’ll let you know in plenty of time,” Blake said, nearly drowned out by the sudden high-pitched scream of wind blasting through the wheelhouse. “But in the meantime give me everything you can pull out of those turbines.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper, we’ll do our best.” Kozlewski paused and said, “Lieutenant . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You were right about getting under way. I hope I didn’t slow you down any.”

  “That’s never been one of your problems, Chief.”

  “We’re counting on you, sir,” Kozlewski said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Chief. We’ll need all we can get.” Blake replaced the black phone in its bracket, now shiny with a fine spray that was blowing through the wheelhouse. The ship yawed sharply to port. He turned to see Doc spinning the wheel.

  “Skipper, she’s falling off course,” Doc said. “I can’t hold her.”

  “Hard right rudder,” Blake said, struggling to keep his footing. His voice was nearly drowned out by another sudden shriek of the wind.

  Doc’s feet went out from under him, and Blake lunged for the wheel. The corpsman skidded across the wet deck, crashing against the port bulkhead of the wheelhouse in a heap as Blake spun the wheel sharply to the right, pressing down on the spokes with all his strength. The freighter groaned, then heaved up on the crest of a huge swell which held it suspended in midair for what seemed a full half-minute. Sitting astride the swell, the ship vibrated heavily, as the nineteen-foot propeller spun futilely out of the water, before crashing back down into a trough, shooting tons of black water up from her bow in a V-shaped spray.

  Doc fought his way to his feet and staggered across the room. He threw his arms around the binnacle as the ship yawed to starboard. “Heading is zero-six-six, sir.” He peered wide-eyed at the compass, reading it upside down.

  “Keep calling out the heading,” Blake shouted over the wind as he held the wheel hard right, blinded by the stinging spray that was swirling through the wheelhouse.

  “Zero-nine-zero. One-one-five. She’s coming around, sir,” Doc shouted.

  A gigantic wave appeared on the starboard side of the ship, looming high above the superstructure. Blake stared up with his mouth open as the huge gray wave hung there, suspended by the wind. It came crashing down on the bridge in slow mo
tion, ripping off the starboard door of the wheelhouse and flooding it with three feet of sticky salt water. All three were swept to the port side of the wheelhouse in a jumbled pile under the window as the wheel spun out of control. The ship rolled sharply to port, pinning Blake on the bottom of the pile. Salt water swirled around him as he struggled to open his eyes. He blinked his eyes open and saw to his horror that his face was pressed against the window and he was looking straight down into the sea. He didn’t think it was possible for a ship to roll over that far and right itself. As the ship hung there suspended for what seemed like an eternity, Blake knew they were all going to die. But slowly, slowly the fully loaded freighter rolled upright with an anguished groan, the sweetest sound he had ever heard. Kelly and Doc washed away from him, tumbling across the deck like marionettes with broken strings. He glanced up at Maria in the chart room and saw her flailing around, trying to get back on her feet, and knew that she was okay for the moment. Struggling to his feet, he staggered across the room through two feet of water. The green water swirling around his ankles felt thick and amazingly warm. He threw himself over the wheel and hung there, gasping for breath, spitting salt water. Doc Jones got to his feet first, then pulled Kelly up. Blake glanced over and saw that their eyes were wide with fear.

  “Doc, what’s our head?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, get over here,” Blake shouted.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Doc blinked dumbly and slogged his way through a foot of swirling water to the binnacle.

  “Kelly. Man your station.”

  “Are we going down?” Kelly asked as if coming out of a dream.

  “Not if we keep our heads,” Blake said, blinking salt water from his eyes. “Doc, what’s our heading?”

  “One-two-five, sir.”

  “Take the helm and bring her back around to two-two-five degrees and hold her there,” Blake said. He pulled the black telephone off the bulkhead and rang the engine room console. A frown crossed his face after the fifth ring with no answer. He started to hang up and head down to the engine room when he heard the rasping voice of Frank Kozlewski.

  “Yes, sir,” the chief said.

  “Chief, what’s going on down there?”

  “All hell is breaking loose, sir. We’re shipping water, number two boiler went out-”

  “Shipping water? Where’s it coming from?”

  “One of the seams opened up on that roll that nearly sank us,” the chief said. Water spurted in like a high-pressure fire hose. That’s what put the number two out.”

  “How much is coming in now?”

  “We managed to shore it up with some four-by-four beams we found. We’re rigging up a sump pump now. Water’s still coming in, but I think the pump will stay up with it.”

  “Can you relight the number two boiler?” Blake asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. We’re a little short-handed. Tobin broke his leg-”

  “Broke his leg? How did he do that?”

  “It was that big roll, sir. Everybody grabbed onto something except Tobin. He went flying like a rag doll. Hit the bulkhead with a crash you must’ve heard on the bridge. Wonder it didn’t kill him.”

  “Chief, if another roll puts out the number one boiler, we’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “If we get another roll like that last one, this old tub is going to crack like an egg.”

  “Do you want me to come down?”

  “Negative, sir,” the chief said. “I expect you’ve got your hands full on the bridge.”

  “When we get through this storm, Doc can set Tobin’s leg,” Blake said. In the meantime, try to get the number two lit off.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” the chief said.

  Outside, the day was as dark as a moonlit night. Rain squalls swept by in a continuous pattern, making it impossible to distinguish one from another. The velocity of the wind increased geometrically, buffeting the ship with gusts that threatened to rip the superstructure from the shelter deck.

  “What’s your head?” Blake shouted.

  “One-seven-zero, sir, but it’s all over the place,” Doc said. “I can’t hold her steady.”

  Gargantuan waves rose and hovered menacingly over the ship as gale force winds ripped their tops off and filled the air with swirling water. Torrential rains as thick as blood covered the wheelhouse in a heavy gray shroud. Blake squinted and tried to look out the windows. Visibility was zero. He glanced at the barometer. It had dropped to 28.96. The worst was yet to come.

  “She’s falling off hard, sir,” Doc said as the ship yawed sharply to port, caught broadside by a wave as tall as a skyscraper.

  “Hard right rudder,” Blake said.

  Doc spun the wheel to the right. “The wheel feels like it’s broken, it’s not doing anything.”

  A blast of gale force wind picked up where the wave left off and caught the ship broadside, sending it skidding across the swells sideways, like a wet kite trying to be airborne.

  “What’s your head?”

  “Zero-nine-six.”

  Blake lurched forward and gaped at the compass, stunned. In a matter of seconds, the force of wind and wave had shifted the 5,000-ton freighter’s heading from southeast to due east as easily as a puff of wind would blow a leaf across a pond. It was the much-feared weather-vane effect. If the ship continued to blow sideways, the fires in the engine room would be extinguished and the ship would founder.

  “We’ve got to bring her around, get stern to the wind.” Blake wrenched the wheel away from Doc and spun it as far right as it would go. “What’s your head? Keep calling out your head,” he shouted over the screaming wind.

  “Zero-four-two,” Doc shouted. “She’s still falling off.”

  “The rudder’s out of the water. The wheel’s not holding,” Blake shouted, bearing down on the spokes with all his strength. He could use the engines to get her around if the freighter had had twin screws like the Carlyle. He’d studied the manuals enough. He would simply order standard speed on the port screw and reverse the starboard engine in combination with an emergency right rudder. The shaft horsepower of the Latin Star couldn’t compare with a destroyer, but eventually, that maneuver would bring them around with the wind on their stern. But with a single screw, he had only one choice. “We’ll have to back her down.” He spun the wheel to port. “Full astern!”

  Kelly stared vacantly, clinging to the engine-order telegraph, her face as white as death.

  “Kelly. Reverse your engines!”

  Kelly blinked and seemed to come awake. She shoved the brass lever of the engine-order telegraph all the way forward. Clouds of thick black smoke swept past the bridge. The Latin Star shuddered violently, rattling the windows in the wheelhouse.

  “Keep calling your heading,” Blake shouted to Doc.

  “One-one-zero. One-three-five. She’s coming around, sir,” Doc said. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s working.”

  “The engines won’t bring her around,” Blake said, “so we’ll use the wind. We’ll back her down with a hard left rudder and bring her around with her stern to the wind.”

  “One-five-five. One-seven-five. It’s working.” As Doc yelled out the increasing heading numbers, Blake slowly eased the wheel to the right, as though he were backing his car into a driveway, then straightened it out. The ship slowly came upright, now heading in a southeasterly direction, still pitching violently, but with her stern to the wind.

  “You did it, sir,” Kelly said.

  “Full ahead,” Blake said.

  Kelly pulled the lever on the telegraph all the way toward her, staring at Blake with her eyes shining. “Full ahead, aye, Captain. I knew you could do it.”

  “We’re not out of danger yet,” Blake said.

  The ship picked up speed with its stern to the wind and plowed through the mountainous seas for the next thirty minutes, seeming to find its head. Without warning, the wind whistled down to an eerie silence, like a siren coming to
rest, as the monstrous waves subsided and rolled gradually to a stop. The sky cleared and rays of sunlight shone brilliantly through holes in the thin cloud cover. The rain came to a dripping halt as though shut off by a celestial hand. A warm breeze floated through the open doorway into the pilothouse. Blake stared out through the dripping bridge windows, stunned by the beautiful sight.

  “It’s over. We did it,” Kelly shouted.

  “Praise God,” Doc said. “Never prayed so hard in my life.” He wiped his eyes with a wet shirt-sleeve.

  “No,” Blake said, staring out at the wall of mountainous seas surrounding the ship. “It’s the eye of the storm, the calm center. It’s passing directly over us.”

  “Oh my God, look,” Kelly said, pointing to the massive wall of water approaching from the port bow. “You mean we’re going to go through that giant wave?”

  The seas surrounding their calm setting appeared to be in total confusion. Blake looked on, dumbstruck, as the colossal waves forming the black wall of water encircling them twisted, turned, leaped up, plummeted down, exploded violently in every direction.

  Blake glanced at the barometer. It had fallen to a new low, almost two inches below normal. The eye of the storm. The beauty of it took his breath away. Few people alive had ever seen one, but he had no time to gape at the sight.

  “Slow ahead,” Blake said. “We have a little while to catch our breath and get her headed into the wind before the other side hits.” He looked at his watch. It was after five o’clock. They’d been fighting the storm all day without realizing it. Blake spun the wheel around to starboard. The freighter gradually responded, wallowing around into the wind, which had fallen to a gentle breeze.

  “Take the helm, Doc.” Blake picked up the black telephone and rang the engine-room console.

  “Yes, sir,” came the raspy voice.

  “Chief,” Blake said. “How’s it going down there?”

  “We’re still shipping water, but not as fast as we were. What’s happening? Are we through it?”