The night was the worst either Ramage or Southwick could remember. By midnight the wind had increased from a fresh gale to near storm force and the Triton, down to the storm canvas that Jackson and the men had been reinforcing, was labouring and plunging like a bull trying to get out of deep thick mud. Up to now the seas were not as big as either man had expected, but they would build up within a few hours and the wind would probably increase.
Throughout the night Ramage or Southwick had stood by the men at the wheel; down below more stood by at relieving tackles which had been clapped on the tiller. Up to now they had not been needed, but they could have the ship under control in a matter of minutes if anything happened to the wheel steering.
Until the rain started, the convoy - judging from the pinpoints of light displayed by each ship - was holding together better than either Ramage or Southwick had dared dream. Ramage flipped up the peak of his sou'wester and looked to leeward as he spoke to the Master.
"At least the water isn't too cold."
" 'Bout all that can be said for it, sir," Southwick bellowed. "Just as dam' wet as the North Sea. And twice as salty - my eyes are as sore as if I had sand in 'em."
"Mine too. Well, we haven't seen any rockets."
"Not for want o' looking. That's why I've got so much salt in my eyes. Can hardly believe it: all those mules so close to each other - in this weather."
"Well, they were until the rain started. Might be a different story now. Doubt if we'd see rockets with this visibility."
"An hour or so until dawn," Southwick shouted, and then added: "Listen to that!"
A prolonged gust seemed to pick up the Triton and shove her through the water like a goose landing clumsily.
Ramage tapped Southwick's arm. "We'll have to hand the main trysail, otherwise we'll never find the convoy at daybreak."
"At the speed we're making in the gusts it can only be astern!" Southwick yelled with a grim laugh, and strode off in the rain to call the watch.
A few minutes later, with the main trysail furled and only the fore trysail pulling - just a few square feet - the brig had not slowed down appreciably, and Ramage sensed that the wind had increased considerably even in that short time.
Southwick rejoined him, wiping the spray from his eyes, and said: "Gained nothing out of that. We'd have had to hand it anyway. If the wind pipes up any more, I reckon we'll be going too fast even under bare poles."
"Don't forget your mules will be doing the same," Ramage reminded him. "Probably been doing it for the past couple of hours."
"It's one way of making sure you don't get taken aback!"
Leaving Southwick beside the men at the wheel, Ramage walked aft to the taffrail, carefully timing his movements with the violent pitch and roll. Then he looked aft. The Triton's wake in the darkness was a broad band of turbulent and phosphorescent water stretching out astern over the waves like a bumpy cart track rising and falling over rolling hills. The seas were getting big. Certainly the darkness exaggerated them, but they looked like enormous watery avalanches rushing down on the ship from astern. Yet each time it seemed she must be overwhelmed, the stern began to lift and the wave crest slipped under the brig like a hand moving beneath a sheet.
He was frightened, but not by the size of the seas and the strength of the wind at the moment, even though they were higher and stronger than any he'd ever seen before. They didn't frighten him, but they gave him an idea of what the hurricane itself would be like, and that was frightening. A door opening slowly onto terror and possibly death.
What happened when the wind went over sixty knots? Men could only guess at the strength it finally reached. A planter in Barbados who had been in a hurricane had told him that the wind seemed almost solid in its strength, scouring paint off those houses it did not destroy and snapping mature palm trees a dozen feet from the ground. If the prospect was frightening for him, Ramage tried to imagine how frightening the present storm must seem to Maxine. At least he knew from experience what a well-found ship could stand, and from that experience he could also make a guess.
He went and stood with Appleby, who had just taken over from Southwick as officer of the watch. The young Master's mate was nervous and jumpy. Ramage talked to him for a few minutes and found he was not scared of the storm but slowly cracking up under the responsibility of handling the ship. In an emergency, Ramage realized, when a couple of seconds might make all the difference in avoiding disaster, it was unfair to leave the lives of the Tritons in Appleby's hands. On the pretext of making sure he had enough sleep for the coming day, Ramage sent the Master's mate below and took over his watch. From now on, until the hurricane blew itself out, he and Southwick would have to stand watch and watch about.
Dawn came slowly, as if reluctant to light up the terrifying scene. The surge of the seas was flinging the Triton around as if she was a chip of wood instead of a hundred-foot-long ship of war weighing almost three hundred tons. The wind and rain seemed solid, like an invisible maniac pushing with incredible strength, screaming with almost unbelievable shrillness, and making it hard to breathe.
As he clung on to the thick breeching of a carronade, Ramage wondered in the greyness, where the wind and spray and rain seemed one, how much of it the human mind could stand. His mind, anyway. Many men made of sterner stuff than he could probably endure a week of this; but he knew the prospect of another seven hours, let alone days, made him feel sick with anxiety.
If only the ship would stop this blind pitching and rolling for a minute. Any moment now one or both of the masts must go by the board; any moment one of these enormous great seas rolling up astern must smash down on the taffrail, pooping the ship, sweeping the deck clear of men, guns and hatch covers. She'd broach and then, lying over on her beam ends, she'd fill and founder, like a bucket tipped over in a village pond.
Water was pouring down Ramage's neck: the cloth he was wearing as a scarf was sodden and instead of preventing the spray on his face from trickling into his clothes, it seemed to be channelling it into torrents so that his clothes were soaked beneath the oilskins. He'd long since given up emptying his boots; he just squelched from one foot to the other. The Tropics, he thought viciously, are for pelicans and drunken planters. The former are adapted to the weather, and the latter can forget it in bottles of their own rum. And mocking-birds can just laugh it off and twitch their tails.
Suddenly he realized that the grey of dawn was spreading and he could make out the dark bulk of the wheel and the group of shadowy men standing up at it; the seas had grey caps and he could see more detail of their wild movements.
Southwick lurched over to him and he could see enough of his face to be shocked by its weariness. The Master seemed to have aged ten years overnight. The ends of his white hair hung out from under his sou'wester in spiky tails, giving him the appearance of an anxious porcupine, and the eyes and cheeks were sunken.
"Lookouts aloft, sir?"
"No," Ramage yelled back, "there'll be nothing in sight, and even if there was, we couldn't do anything except run before this weather."
"Aye, sir, that's my feeling."
But both men were wrong. Within twenty minutes, when they could see several hundred yards in the grey light, a lookout came scrambling back along the larboard side, clutching on to the main rope rigged fore and aft as though he was climbing.
"Larboard bow, sir," he gasped. "Ship, mebbe five hundred yards; a merchantman under bare poles I reckon, but I only saw her as we came up on the crest of a wave."
Ramage was leaning against the carronade in a daze caused partly by weariness and partly by the noise of the wind.
"Splendid," he said automatically. "You're keeping a good lookout."
As the man turned to go back Ramage beckoned to Jackson, whose eyes and nose could just be seen peering out from a glistening black cylinder. The American must have tarred his sou'wester and long oilskin coat very recently.
"Up aloft," Ramage shouted. "Larboard bow, five hundred yards, probably a merchantman. And have a good look round for anyone else. There's a glass in the binnacle box drawer - if you can use it."
In the five minutes Jackson was aloft it grew appreciably lighter, and the lighter it became the lower sank Ramage's spirits. He lurched to the taffrail, hollow-eyed and unshaven, grasped it with both hands and looked aft, forcing himself to stare at what frightened him.
The seas were so huge he knew he'd wronged many men in the past when they'd described such weather and he'd assumed - with smug superiority - that they were exaggerating. Even allowing for how cold and tired and hungry he was, and knowing this affected his judgment, he was certain that what he looked at was worse. Those men had been describing hurricanes, and he had to face up to the fact that the Triton was now in a hurricane. This was no brief tropical storm which seemed worse than it was because the preceding weeks of balmy weather had softened a man. Some time during the night, the storm had turned into a hurricane, just as earlier the gale had increased to a storm.
He stared at the waves, fascinated and yet fearful, like a rabbit facing a weasel. All his seagoing life he had dreaded this day. Here at last was what few sailors had experienced, and what fewer still had survived. In the Indian Ocean it was called a cyclone, in the Pacific it was a typhoon and in the Caribbean a hurricane. Like death, it went by different names in different languages, but was still the same thing.
The seas were so enormous he did not even try to guess their height, but he had to tilt his head back to be able to look up at the crests from under the brim of his sou'wester. They came up astern like great fast-moving mountain ranges, one steeply sloping forward edge threatening to scoop up the ship, the curling, breaking crest ready to sweep the decks clear of men and equipment. It was followed by another whose forward edge seemed almost vertical, like a cliff, and so sheer the Triton's stern could never lift in time to avoid it crashing down on the ship, crushing it to matchwood. But, in a series of miracles, her stern did lift, and the crests did pass under her, producing even more prodigious pitching.
On and on came the mountains of water, each one fearful because its power was in itself, its own enormous weight set in motion by the wind. He watched each crest, a curling, roaring, hissing jumble of bubbling white water. The Triton was making about four knots with not a stitch of canvas set and her wake showed on each wave's face as a double line of inward-spinning whorls, like the hair-springs of watches.
Every few minutes an odd and often small wave, instead of coming up dead astern and meeting the ship squarely, ran in from a slight angle and she lifted slowly and awkwardly, the crest slapping hard on the quarter and squirting water up the space round the rudder post.
The quarter was where the danger was: all of Southwick's efforts with the helmsmen were devoted to making sure the Triton drove off dead to leeward, so every wave arrived squarely at the transom. A heavy wave catching her on one quarter, instead of rushing beneath the ship and lifting her squarely, would push the stern with it, forcing the bow round the opposite way. In a second the ship would broach, to lie broadside and vulnerable to the seas.
These seas were big enough, much more than big enough, to lift her up and throw her flat, so that with her heavy masts and lower yards lying in the water and acting as a weight on one end of a seesaw, she would not come up without the masts being cut away. Come up that is, providing the pathetically small shell of a hull did not fill with water...
A moment's inattention on the part of the officer of the watch or quartermaster; a momentary mistake by the men at the wheel or one of them slipping on the streaming, sloping deck and hindering his mates as they spun the spokes one way or the other and the Triton would broach. Or the wheel ropes would part, so that the thick tiller would slam across and splinter as the waves shoved the rudder hard over.
A shroud parting and a mast going by the board ... The rudder itself being smashed ... Springing the butt end of a plank below the waterline, letting tons of water pour in, or even springing one above the waterline, with these seas ... A carronade breaking adrift from its lashings and crashing from one side of the deck to the other, smashing bulwarks and killing men ... Each possibility flashed through Ramage's mind as fast as a fencer's lunge and riposte.
Suddenly he realized that in facing aft like this he was staring not at the sea but at fear. Nothing was to be gained by it, except perhaps, after thirty seconds or so, an additional warning about broaching. Making the seamen look aft for five minutes before a spell at the wheel would not encourage them to be more careful; they'd be so damned scared they'd probably make mistakes.
Jackson was tapping his arm to attract his attention above all the noise: that in itself was significant. Few seamen in few ships would risk doing that, however great the emergency, because they had been taught from their first day in their first ship that an unscrupulous lieutenant could turn it into "striking an officer...", an offence carrying the death penalty.
"Four ships!" Jackson shouted.
Ramage ducked down below the taffrail, motioning the American down beside him, where they were slightly sheltered from the howling wind.
"Are you sure?"
Jackson wiped his eyes with his knuckles; he too was tired, his face pinched with weariness and cold. Cold, in the Tropics...
"Certain, sir. One fine on the larboard bow, one on the starboard beam - I think it's the Greyhound - and, two on the starboard quarter. The one on the larboard bow is close - the Topaz, sir, bare poles, and seemingly all right. Rest are maybe a mile off. Reckon there are several more ships around, but a mile's as far as I can see with this light and the rain and the spray."
So Yorke was all right, and Maxine...
"No sign of the Lion?"
It was an unnecessary question, since the American would have reported if he'd seen her, but Jackson shook his head. He had been with Ramage too long, and knew too much about the responsibility that rested on the young lieutenant's shoulders, to be impatient.
Looking at Ramage's haggard face in the half light, the American was thankful, in a curious way, for his own limitations. Leaving aside his country of birth, which legally prevented it ever happening, he knew he did not have the capacity for command. It took a type of man that he understood but was not. The man who, presented with a terrible decision to make and limited time, went off to a quiet corner - and came back inside the required time with the decision made, much as another man might go below and change his shirt. No doubts, no asking other people's opinions, no delays, no second thoughts ... and of all the leaders he'd met, Mr Ramage was the coolest of them all. Jackson knew he sometimes had second thoughts, not about the rightness of a decision, but more often because men - his own men - might get killed or wounded as a result of it. A youth who was a father to sixty or more men, all but a couple of whom were a good deal older than him.
That was where Mr Southwick was so good, Jackson realized: the old Master understood very well this humane aspect of Mr Ramage's personality, and the American had noticed he was usually around at the right moment - and with the right remark - whenever the situation arose. Ironical, Jackson thought to himself, that a young captain needed an older man to help him be ruthless when necessary. In Jackson's previous experience of young officers, the older men were usually trying to persuade them to be less ruthless; to be more careful of their men's lives.
Telling Mr Ramage it was the Topaz over on the larboard bow certainly cheered him up: Jackson was pleased with the way he'd done it - and pleased he was the one to pass the word. He still wasn't sure what it was all about, but the Captain obviously thought a lot of the ship - the people in her, anyway. Must have been a bad half an hour for him when the blasted Peacock...
When Ramage lurched over to the binnacle to discuss Jackson's report with Southwick, the American worked his way a few feet forward to the spot between the mainmast and the coaming round the wardroom companionway. There was precious little shelter anywhere on deck in this weather, he thought gloomily. Just that somehow the thickness of the mainmast, and the yard overhead, gave the impression of sheltering under a tree.
"Move over," Jackson shouted at the crouching figure of Stafford.
"Oh, it's you. Wotcher see up there?"
"The Topaz on the larboard bow, the Greyhound frigate on starboard beam and a couple of mules astern."
"The flagship?" Rossi asked. "Is sunk?"
"Not in sight, anyway."
"We can 'ope," Stafford said. "Well - 'ere, wotch it!"
He leapt up and a moment later a mass of water a foot deep swept forward along the deck.
Jackson and Rossi scrambled up, cursing, and Stafford, clinging to the mast, roared with laughter as water poured out of the bottoms of their trousers.
Jackson watched a seaman scrambling aft, working his way hand over hand along the lifeline.
"That's Luckhurst, one of the lookouts!"
With that he followed the man the last few feet to where Ramage stood with Southwick.
"Lookout, larboard bow, sir - reckon that merchantman over the larboard bow's in trouble, sir."
Jackson saw Ramage stiffen; at once, he noticed, the hand went instinctively to rub the scar over the brow, forgetting the sou'wester.
"What trouble, man?"
"Only glimpsed her, sir, just as we was on a crest: looks as though her main yard's come adrift."
Ramage nodded and signalled to Jackson, pointing aloft. - "Up, quick look at the Topaz and down again to report!"
It seemed to Ramage he had hardly had time to think of the problem, let alone work out the answer, before Jackson was standing in front of him again.
"Her fore yard's already down, sir, and the main yard's swinging on the jears: lifts and braces gone. Bowsprit end also gone. Men working everywhere."
"Does she look under control?"
"Four men at the wheel. I think she's under control - as much as anyone."
"Very well," Ramage said.
"Shall I go back aloft, sir?"
Ramage paused, looking up the mast. The wind was so strong it was a miracle Jackson could climb up. It was unbelievable he was volunteering again. "Yes, take a couple of men with you as messengers."
Jackson worked his way to the foot of the mainmast, stirred Stafford and Rossi with his foot and jerked his thumb upwards.
Cursing, the two men followed him, and a couple of minutes later the trio were trying to make themselves comfortable in the maintop with the mast gyrating wildly as the ship pitched and rolled.
As soon as he'd wriggled himself into position, Stafford looked round at the horizon, and, overwhelmed at what he saw, could only mutter, "Cor!"
By now it was quite light but the horizon was hidden by the rain and spray which reduced visibility to a few hundred yards. The sea was like nothing Stafford had ever seen before. It had no regular shape, nor did it seem to have regular substance: instead it twisted and curled like molten marble boiling in a huge cauldron.
Each man had to hold on with both hands and the wind was now so strong that it was impossible to breathe facing into it: they had to turn their faces to leeward, breathe and then look again. The noise in their ears was a combination of a high-pitched scream and a deep roar; a noise they'd never heard before and would never forget.
Their eyes soon became raw because the spray was so fine at this height that their eyelids did not close instinctively and there was no way of sheltering. Forced by the pressure of the wind to breathe through their mouths, their saliva began to taste salty.
Jackson carefully passed the telescope to Stafford and pointed to the Topaz, gesturing to Rossi to help hold onto the Cockney so he could have both hands free for the telescope.
As soon as Stafford finished his examination, Jackson looked slowly round the whole horizon, making sure Stafford also saw everything he'd spotted, particularly another mule astern - making three - and two more on the larboard quarter. Then he signalled Stafford to go down and report to the Captain.
Six mules, including the Topaz, and the Greyhound. Jackson thought of the rest as he looked round again. Forty-four mules, a line-of-battle ship, two frigates and a lugger out of sight. He did not know much about navigation, but they couldn't have dispersed much in the few hours that had passed since the whole convoy was lying becalmed ... Were these seven ships, and the Triton, the only ones to survive this bloody awful night?
By the time Stafford reached the deck his brain was numb from the noise and buffeting of the wind. He clutched one of the shrouds and looked around him, saw the Captain clinging to the binnacle, and gradually realized that Mr Ramage was waving to him; making sweeping movements with his arm.
Stafford seized the lifeline rigged along the deck and hauled himself aft. The wind had increased while he had been aloft he was certain. He was not holding the rope to keep his balance: he had to use it to move aft.
Stafford was exhausted by the time he crouched down beside the binnacle with Ramage, bellowing his report. Finally he reached the Topaz: "Main yard swinging but I think they're managing to rig new braces. Fore yards gone over the side: it's smashed twenty feet of bulwark, starboard side. Jibboom's gone but the bowsprit's safe now from the look of it and -"
He broke off as Rossi appeared beside them. The Italian, whitefaced from weariness and cold, reported that the main yard had fallen to starboard and parted several shrouds, and Jackson was afraid the mainmast would go by the board.
For a few moments Ramage looked at Rossi as though he was a ghost; then he nodded and stood up, looking over the larboard bow.
Stafford glimpsed a vague pale shape fine on the bow and nearer than he expected it, and pointed.
Ramage nodded and shouted: "One of you fetch Jackson down: nothing more he can do up there."
Then he inched his way to Southwick, who now had a rope round his waist, made fast to the wheel pedestal.
The need to break off every few seconds while Southwick - who was looking astern and watching every wave as it swept up to the ship - shouted and signalled orders to the helmsmen, gave Ramage extra seconds to think, but when he'd finished and stood there looking at the Master, his mind was empty of everything but the bare facts.
Finally Southwick gave his opinion in rushes between helm orders.
"Up to them ... nothing we can do ... couldn't even throw a heaving line over, even if we dare turn a point either side of the course ... Only a matter of time before something like it happens to us ... Every rope must be chafing badly ... miracle anyone's afloat ... If the Topaz loses her masts she probably stands more chance of surviving than with 'em - less windage ... Up to us to stay afloat and pick up survivors after this has blown out..."
As he listened Ramage felt both relief and guilt: the Master was shouting aloud exactly what he thought himself. This had been his first reaction, and he'd discarded it. But he and Southwick were right: even if they saw the Topaz sinking, the Triton could do nothing to help: it wasn't a question of wish, will or skill; it was physically impossible.
Southwick was shaking his arm.
"It's a good thing we're not closer: we couldn't avoid running aboard her if she was ahead."
The Master was right.
"I'm sure Mr Yorke understands. He knows he couldn't help us either."
The Master was right. The Master was right. The Master - Ramage felt as if he were falling, but it was only that he was so tired and dazed by the wind. He had almost gone to sleep as he stood listening to Southwick. Gone to sleep while Yorke was fighting to save the Topaz; sleeping while Maxine and her parents prayed for their lives; while ... steady!
He took several deep breaths and knew he was wearier than he ever believed a man could be and still function. He knew now how unwise he'd been at the beginning of the hurricane: he'd stayed on deck far longer than was necessary - instead of getting some sleep. Now, when the lives of everyone in the Triton depended on his alertness, he was asleep on his feet. When had he last slept? Yesterday or last night or the night before? What day was it, anyway? He couldn't remember, but it hardly mattered. He had no idea of the time, but Southwick must be exhausted: he would have to take over the conn soon and give the old man a spell. As he shouted his intention, the Master answered: "Appleby, sir; let him stand a watch!"
"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 himself 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 companionway.
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 sheeted 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 gave 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... ?
With the wreckage cut away, the ship will need controlling, so check that the men at the relieving tackles are functioning, and see if the rudder and tiller are still working. If they are, then steer by using relieving tackles.
He did some quick calculations on what weight had been lost. The foremast, mainmast, yards, bowsprit and jibboom - about ten tons. Spare spars washed over the side - two tons. A suit of sails - just over a ton. Rigging and blocks - seven tons. Three boats - more than two tons. A total of, say, twenty-three tons. Later, if need be, they could get up the spare suit of sails and dump it. A couple of anchors and cables, powder and shot - it all mounted up when the displacement of the ship, fully provisioned at wartime allowance, was only 282 tons. Damn this screaming wind; it was so hard to think.
If the ship can be steered to leeward, well and good because it'll give me more time. Running off depends on which direction the wind flies to after the hurricane passes. If it comes from the west, the Triton and any other survivors from the convoy will probably end up ashore along the Leeward Islands; if it goes to the north, on the Spanish Main; if south, then ashore somewhere between Hispaniola and Antigua ... According to all accounts it should blow from the south, but he could not rely on that.
Southwick interrupted his thoughts to report: "Fifteen minutes' pumping and it will be sucking dry, sir."
"Almost unbelievable!"
"Lucky the hatch covers held." The Master watched the men working with axes and added: "They'll soon be finished here. Let's hope we're clear of the wreckage before it smashes through the hull..."
Ramage saw a bosun's mate signalling to the men where to cut and realized that several ropes had been cut four or five times because it had been almost impossible to check where every rope went.
Southwick was soon back with a report, but his voice was so hoarse he could hardly make himself heard above the screaming wind.
"The relieving tackles?" Ramage asked.
"It's a shambles down there, sir, but the tiller's not damaged and the tackles held, though I don't know why. Wheel ropes parted each side where they go round the upper sheaves. The rudder's all right - the seaman in charge of the relieving tackle made fast with the tiller amidships. Did it on his own initiative immediately we broached."
"Remember his name and remind me later: I'll rate him 'able'."
"Deserves it," Southwick said. "Did you get hurt?" he asked suddenly.
"Only a crack across my chest."
"Thought so; you look sort of - well, crouched up. Like-"
"A wet hen!"
"Yes," Southwick laughed. "Haven't stove in a rib, have you, sir? Breathe in and out deeply. Any pain?"
Ramage shook his head. "No, it's just bruising."
"And the skin off the palms of your hands."
"And my shins. I should think everyone's suffering from that."
"Aye," Southwick said. "Rope is rough."
Ramage realized his hands were clenched, despite the soreness.
"Wind doesn't seem to be easing, sir," Southwick commented. "We're going to bounce around like a leaf in a stream when it does drop. It'll take six hours after the wind's gone for this sea to ease down noticeably."
Ramage knew he was not needed on deck at the moment: the men were working with a will, and Southwick could handle it. It was time he started looking at a chart: the ship should steer, running before the wind, maybe twenty degrees each side of it. Even at this stage it could make quite a difference to the Triton's eventual destination.
He gave Southwick his orders and struggled below. When he reached his cabin he realized just how deafening the wind had been, and that his throat was raw because every word spoken for many hours had had to be shouted.
He pulled off his oilskins, took a dry towel from a rack and wiped his face and hands. The hands were painful now and he glanced down to see the skin pink, not quite raw, but worn smooth by the rope slipping.
It was hopeless trying to look at the chart standing up: without the masts steadying her and slowing the period of the roll, the brig was rolling even more violently. He flopped into the chair, and he couldn't remember it ever being so luxurious before.
He glanced through his journal, noted down the last position written in it, and did a quick calculation to bring it up to date. The answer could only be a guess. He unrolled a chart and marked an X on it with the date and time. By some miracle his watch had not filled with water and he wiped it with a dry towel.
The X on the chart was about 140 miles due west of Guadeloupe. That was the nearest land to the east. To the north - the chain of small islands running westward that became bigger the farther they went. The nearest land was the island of Santa Cruz, or St Croix, which was owned by the Danes and some ninety miles to the north-north-west. It was not very hospitable: the capital and harbour was on the north side of the island and thus out of reach of the Triton and Topaz. More promising was the island of St Thomas, beyond St Croix. Farther west was the small Spanish island of Vieques. Then came Puerto Rico, also Spanish, which stretched east-west for nearly a hundred miles.
To the south the coast of South America - the Spanish Main - was 400 miles away. There was nothing to the west for a thousand miles or more. If the Triton drifted mastless that far, her crew would die of thirst and probably starvation.
He tapped the chart with his pencil, trying to concentrate. With any luck he'd drift with the Topaz, and he wanted to answer the question "Where shall we try and make for?" before Yorke asked it after the hurricane. The short answer was, "It all depends which way the wind blows!"
If from the west, then Martinique: Fort Royal was on the west coast, with a wide entrance and therefore easy of access. If from the south, well, St Thomas seemed the best bet from a poor field of starters: its only merit was a big harbour that faced south. It was Danish and there would be all the nonsense of neutrality - although he could worry about that if and when the time came.
If from the east... Well, he must assume that whatever happened for two or three days after the lull - until the hurricane had passed on to scare some other equally deserving people - the wind would eventually go back to the east and the trade winds would blow again. He tapped the pencil across the chart, following the course the convoy would have taken - there was a faint chance the Triton could make Jamaica, but could the Topaz?
Ramage read off some courses, rolled the chart up and put it back in the rack and pulled on his oilskins again. His clothes were soaking wet and beginning now to chill, but at least the sou'wester kept the wind out. He put his watch in the drawer: there was no sense in ruining it.
The wind had dropped a little: that much was obvious when he got back on deck. Had the seas eased slightly? Maybe not. However, the air wasn't full of flying spray and rain. It was all comparative; it just wasn't as bloody as it had been.
Southwick walked over, and handed him his telescope with a mock bow.
"One of the men just found it, sir, lodged under the starboard aftermost carronade!"
"How careless of me," Ramage said airily. "I also seem to have mislaid the wheel and binnacle."
"Ah," Southwick said, "I noticed that and I've shipped the spare compass." He pointed to a box secured by lines to a pair of ringbolts abaft the capstan.
"But-" Ramage began.
"Yes, they're iron," Southwick said hurriedly. "The carpenter's mate is going to fasten the box to the deck farther forward as soon as the hurricane stops. I've just lashed it down ready for him."
"Very well. By the way, did we lose all our signal flags?"
"No, sir." He gestured to the taffrail, where three men were rigging a short spar vertically. "I thought that might do for the moment as a signal mast."
Ramage nodded and, sighting the Topaz, was surprised to see how close she was. He went to wipe the lenses of the telescope and saw that Southwick had already done it.
The wreckage of the Topaz's mainmast was almost completely adrift; the seamen were still hacking away vigorously at the rigging, while a few men were starting to work on the foremast.
She still had a wheel; in fact two seamen were standing at it, but no binnacle box. Several of her guns had gone, torn loose when the bulwarks were smashed. Pity to lose those splendid brass guns ... Still, there were three or four left.
Both ships had nearly the same damage, except that the Topaz had a wheel. Ramage brushed that aside however, since the Triton could be steered with relieving tackles and would rig a second tiller on deck as soon as there was time.
Now a third man was standing beside the men at the Topaz's wheel. It was Yorke, who raised a telescope and looked towards the Triton. Ramage waved, Yorke waved back and gave a thumbs-up sign. When Ramage waved back, Yorke began signalling again with his arm, making a complete sequence of movements, like an actor miming, and then repeating it when Ramage made no reply. Finally Ramage understood and gave a thumbs-up acknowledgment. Yorke went back to the men working on the wreckage and Ramage turned, to find that Southwick had been watching.
"Did you follow that?"
"Too far off, I'm afraid, sir. Eyes aren't what they were."
"The passengers are safe, his wheel isn't damaged, and he has nothing to use for a jury rig because, like us, he daren't risk keeping the wreckage alongside until the hurricane has passed."
By two o'clock in the afternoon the Triton and Topaz, each a hulk but cleared of the wreckage of their masts, were wallowing along within a hundred yards of each other while overhead the clouds began to lift as the wind eased.
"Just look at it," Southwick said angrily, pointing at the clouds. "If you didn't know, you'd think we were on the edge of a squall that'd blow itself out in half an hour."
"Except for these seas!" Ramage said.
Southwick nodded, and looked nervously at the Topaz. "I just can't get used to being dismasted. Feel vulnerable."
"Don't fret; I can't think anyone really gets used to it," Ramage said cheerfully. "Now, everything's settled, so why don't you get some rest?"
The Master looked around the ship, as if anxious to make sure nothing had been left undone.
"Rest, Mr Southwick," Ramage said finally. "I can make it an order, if you like."
"Sorry, sir," he said apologetically. "You're quite right. But you'll-"
"I'll call you if the weather worsens, but without sleep," Ramage added with intentional harshness, knowing it was one of the few ways of persuading the old Master, "you're no use to anyone."
Southwick nodded, excused himself and made his way below.
If only the damned seas would ease: the Triton's motion was still violent. What had been forgotten? Ramage thought hard but nothing came to mind. His earlier idea of transferring everyone from the Topaz and abandoning her had been absurd: one glance over the side had shown the impossibility of that, apart from the fact that neither ship had a boat left.
He considered the possibility that another of the King's ships might sight the brig and take her in tow, but there was little hope of that: any ship within a week's sailing of this position was likely to be in as much trouble as the Triton, if not more. Nor were they now on any regular convoy track. Not even a privateer would come this way. The thought of a privateer brought him up with a start. It'd be a proud privateer that returned with the Topaz in tow. It would take practically no effort to capture her now, only patience. Wait for the weather to ease up, and then board her. Nor would the Triton be much more difficult; raking her by sailing across her bow and stern and staying out of the arcs of fire of her broadside guns...
Southwick was back on deck by five o'clock and cheerfully commenting on the speed with which the wind was dropping. The cloud was breaking up overhead, and the sea was easing slightly.
"Seems it goes quicker than it arrives!" Southwick said.
Ramage nodded. "I don't think the eye was in the centre."
"Couldn't have been, sir. It's cleared in - how long?" He scratched his head, a puzzled look on his face.
"Damned if I know," Ramage admitted. "We lost the masts about ten hours ago, I suppose. The hurricane began - hell fire, I can't remember. What day is it?"
Southwick shook his head helplessly. "We'll have to sit down and work it out, sir - and make up the entries for the log ..."
By midnight the wind had dropped to a fresh breeze, stars were visible overhead through breaks in the cloud, and the seas were easing, although still running high. A muster of the ship's company showed four men missing, presumably lost when the brig broached. Considering the size of the waves and the speed with which it all happened, Ramage knew he had been lucky not to lose more. Six men killed by the Peacock and four by the hurricane.
Southwick, pleasantly surprised that only four had been lost, said cheerfully: "Think of it as fifty-one survivors, sir!"