by Dudley Pope
The upper edge of the sun's disc was just poking over the eastern horizon when his steward came up to announce that breakfast was ready. Jackson rolled up the chart and Ramage took it below.
They had left Barbados only a few days ago, though it seemed like weeks, and he still had fresh eggs to eat. The milk had lasted only twelve hours or so out of Carlisle Bay - something about the motion of a ship curdled the milk even faster than it curdled in a house on shore. His steward still had not got used to having a captain who demanded fresh fruit for breakfast when it was available, but although he did not approve, he served it. The other great advantage of being in the Caribbean was that the coffee was really coffee, not breadcrumbs roasted and boiled to make mud-coloured water.
As he cracked the shell of the first egg, Ramage had the curious feeling that he was being rushed like a twig in a flooded mountain stream, with events controlling him. He tried to think of the options open to him at this minute, but no more ideas came. The fact was that the Triton and Topaz were two ships without masts, and without masts they could move only in the direction the wind drove them. There was no point in trying to think of landfalls until he knew what wind and current were going to do. To plan was simply an exercise in futility and was spoiling his breakfast.
By nine o'clock in the morning, as the sun's warmth began to be felt, Southwick watched the seamen reeling in the log line and stowing the minute glass. He noted the Triton's speed on the slate and turned to Ramage, shaking his head.
"It won't serve, sir."
"You're a late convert! I've already cancelled my rooms at whichever is the best hotel these Danskers have to offer."
"I was hoping we'd pick up an eddy current. We're only ten miles from St Thomas now."
Ever since dawn the west-going current had made the whole island appear to be sliding to the eastward, while the islands to the west - Vieques, Snake Island and, beyond them Puerto Rico - were creeping up on the larboard side from the westward, even though the Triton and Topaz were still steering directly for St Thomas.
It was hopeless trying to conceal from the ship's company that it was anyone's guess where the Triton would be cast ashore. Southwick had unrolled and folded his chart. Now, using the top of the capstan as a table, he was inspecting it.
"Could you spare a moment, sir?"
Ramage walked over, and Southwick, without saying anything, ran his finger in a gentle curve from where he had pencilled in the Triton's present position, up to the north-west between St Thomas and Snake Island on out into the vast Atlantic. Ramage traced a sharper curve, landing them among reefs near to Snake Island.
"Can't be helped," he said briefly, knowing that any of the ship's company who overheard him would be none the wiser.
"But..." Southwick began helplessly.
Ramage pointed to the three or four soundings which showed depths of twenty and thirty fathoms.
"Around one hundred and fifty feet is too deep for good fishing," he said cryptically.
"Depressing, sir, I'd like some fresh fish."
He unfolded the chart and rolled it up, as if finally resigning himself to the impossibility of anchoring.
Chapter Eleven
"Not hard to see why it got its name!" Southwick said sourly, gesturing at the island. It did look like a snake lying coiled up, its head the top of the small, rounded mountain which seemed to be the centre of the island. But a look at the chart showed the real reason for the name: the island was shaped like a snake's head seen sideways and facing eastward with its mouth wide open. The mouth made a huge, almost enclosed bay, with the settlement of San Ildefonso on the east side of it and not even in sight of the open sea.
The island bore west now, and the Triton, followed by the Topaz, had just sailed and drifted a mile off Sail Rock and could make no better than west. The current was running northwest; the wind had continued backing and was trying to drive the ships south-west. The result was a compromise; a crabwise course of west.
"Should be able to separate the other islands and cays soon and identify 'em," Southwick commented. "In fact that headland over there on the north side - reckon that's Isla Culebrita."
"Probably," Ramage said, adding wryly, "but the fact is, for once we're not really concerned! We just need to know where we are once our keel touches."
"What's 'Culebra’ mean, sir? I see they give it as another name here on the chart."
"Spanish for 'snake'. No, 'serpent' would be more exact."
He looked at the chart and tapped the long shoal running diagonally up to the north-east, between them and the island, and nearly a mile offshore.
"Arrecife Culebrita ... that's where we'll end up, Mr Southwick. You can take bets for positions from here" - he jabbed a finger on the southern end - "to here, by Culebrita. Three miles of splendid reef. Pity it's all underwater; otherwise we could have marched the Marines up and down it each day, and the ship's company on Sundays!"
"I don't trust this chart," Southwick said sourly. "It's a benighted mixture, a bit o' Spanish, a bit o' French, an' a ground tier of English. Between 'em they're bound to have missed a lot of isolated rocks - the sort that sink innocent ships."
"Well, tell the men; it'll get the job done all the faster!"
Ramage gestured forward where most of the Tritons were working hard with ropes, battens of wood, hammers and nails, making a raft from a dozen casks which had been brought up from below after being emptied of fresh water.
More men, working separately, were making a much smaller raft, where each alternate barrel was full of salt meat or fresh water. Yet a third raft, smaller still, was being made up of casks in some of which had been packed carefully wrapped muskets, powder, shot, cutlasses, tomahawks and a collection of tools supplied by the carpenter's mate.
"At least we're learning something about making rafts," Ramage said.
"An' keeping the lads occupied won't do any harm at this time," Southwick said.
"Well, if they're doing a good job they need only sit on their rafts and wait until the Triton breaks up underneath them. Then they can float clear with the band playing."
"D'you think she'll go that fast, sir?"
"No, not in this weather, but there's always a chance. Depends whether we hit an isolated rock and sink in five minutes, or scrape up gently on a nice coral reef and stay there for a year or more, a warning to Spanish fishermen of what happens if you eat meat on Fridays."
"Let's hope we slide on gently. I'd sooner transfer to our new estate at our leisure."
"Don't you think we should wait until the Dons send out written invitations?"
"No, sir!" Southwick said with mock alarm. "We don't want to put them to the trouble of rowing several miles to windward - why, it's four or five miles from San Ildefonso to the middle of the reefs."
"Then we'll call on them with banners flying and bearing gifts, Mr Southwick," Ramage said, in the ringing tones of some hearty politician. "By Jove, we mustn't risk upsetting his Most Catholic Majesty!"
"Doubtless a full dress occasion, sir; but using a raft instead of a carriage is going to wash the shine off our boots."
"Mr Southwick, if I dare mention more mundane matters than our proposed social engagements, would you care to place a man where he can give us a cast of the lead?"
"Indeed, sir; yours to command," he said, giving what he imagined was a flourish more suited to a Spanish courtier wearing an ostrich-feather plume in his hat.
In fact the depths were great enough to require the deep sea lead, and Ramage told the Master not to bother, since any accuracy with that required the ship to be hove-to.
"Have a man ready with the ordinary lead; he can try for soundings from time to time." With that, Ramage walked forward again to inspect the rafts. The Bosun was in charge of the construction of the large one and had already named it the Gosport Ferry, well known to most seamen who had ever been in Portsmouth. Jackson was supervising the muskets and tools raft.
"Breakers ahead!"
The shout came f
rom the lookout at the bow and in a matter of moments Ramage was standing beside him. The man pointed to a line of lighter green water ahead and to starboard. Beyond, some waves broke on a shoal a foot or two below the surface and just visible as a dark brown mass.
Snake Island was still two or three miles ahead and Ramage shouted back to Southwick who was standing by the man at the tiller.
"Come over to larboard as much as you can: we might just scrape past south of them. Doesn't matter very much now the rafts are ready."
The last few words were for the benefit of the ship's company, and Ramage waited patiently to see what Southwick could do.
Slowly the bow came round a few degrees, and Ramage could see that unless the current eddied unexpectedly, they might just miss.
Damn! His memory!
"Mr Southwick! Make a signal to the Topaz: Breakers ahead!"
As seamen hoisted the flags from the staff lashed to the taffrail, Ramage saw that the Topaz, which had been in the Triton's wake, was already changing course to conform. Yorke and his officers did not miss much. The Topaz would definitely clear since she was beginning her turn a cable sooner. It was going to be close for the Triton, though. He stood at the stem with the lookout, who kept muttering to himself, without any sign of fear, as though trying to will the ship clear, "It's going to be close! It's going to be close!"
Stranded on this reef with the wind blowing fresh for twenty-four hours and knocking up a brisk sea would see the Triton reduced to splinters. The rafts would be useless since there was a second line of reefs beyond the first. If the brig was wrecked on the first reef the rafts would smash up on the second. He wondered if Southwick would notice: the Master had not pointed out the possibility when they first discussed making rafts.
Then Ramage saw that the Triton would pass clear. It would be close, but reefs were no exception to the rule that a miss was as good as a mile.
The little black figures on the reef were pelicans: one flapped into the air, incredibly ungainly until it was flying several feet above the water. A moment later it dived, suddenly closing its wings and splashing into the water.
"Like a round shot, sir!" the lookout commented.
"Yes. And they hit with such a bang I don't see how they avoid breaking their necks!"
He turned to call to Southwick and saw every man in the ship had stopped work and was standing staring at the reef. They were still shaken up. Guns blazing, cutlasses clanking, pikes jabbing, tomahawks thudding - these things were music rather than terrifying noises to the men. But the crazy, demented screaming of a hurricane; the penetrating hiss and bowel-shaking thump of enormous seas; the smooth curling of waves over sunken coral reefs were something different. Although the enemy couldn't frighten the Tritons, nature could.
He began walking aft, unhurried, and pausing at the big raft. He looked at the Bosun.
"Might be worth lashing a roll of canvas, or an old awning, on top there: the sun will bake us if we have to go far in the Gosport Ferry."
"Aye, aye, sir. I'll get up something for the other two rafts, too."
He walked a few steps to where the smallest raft was nearly complete.
"She can be launched whenever you're ready, sir," Jackson said.
"You heard me telling the Bosun about an awning?"
Jackson pointed to a bundle of canvas on the deck, secured to the raft by a line, and Ramage nodded.
All the men were back at work again, yet he was sure they had not yet passed the end of the reef. He walked leisurely aft to join Southwick, and from there saw that the reef was forty yards on the starboard bow.
Southwick mopped his face with a large green handkerchief, and said quietly: "I'm getting old for this sort of nonsense, sir. Being without masts in these waters is like riding a steeplechaser without a saddle."
"We're passing well clear."
"Yes, but I didn't think we would!"
Ramage saw a swirl in the water about two miles ahead and picked up the telescope. It was not just a single swirl: it stretched for a mile or more, tiny wavelets breaking on it, with a long band of dark brown just beneath the water.
A slowly shelving reef of coral? A sudden, sheer bank of rocks? Would the Triton run up gently, like a rowing-boat grounding on a sandy beach, or crash into it like a blind man walking into a low wall? The reef was long, and stretched athwart their course so there was no way of avoiding it. This was the Triton's grave and the only thing to do was to prepare for it.
He shouted for Jackson, and when the American arrived he said: "Make three signals to the Topaz - in this order: Breakers ahead. Breakers to the south-west. Breakers to the north-west."
Southwick said: "That tells them the story!"
The shortcomings of the signal book always left captains trying to use their ingenuity to make their meaning clear. He hoped that Yorke would understand the signal was trying to tell him that this was the reef they would hit...
"Mr Southwick - please inspect those rafts. And make sure the men who can't swim have some wood to hold on to. Have the cooper stave a few barrels: the staves lashed together are just the right size."
Jackson, helped by Stafford, was hoisting flags and, as soon as the Topaz acknowledged them, hauling them down and preparing more.
How to lessen the Triton's impact? That was important whether it was shelving coral or sheer rock. More important if it was sheer rock.
Let go an anchor just before they hit? It might work, swinging the ship round like a dog on a leash. But it needed perfect timing - and shallow enough water for the anchor to bite.
He gave Southwick orders to get ready to let go the starboard anchor.
There was nothing more to do until they hit - not on deck, anyway. He went down to his cabin with the signal book and quickly cleared the documents from his desk. Journal, orders, signal book, letter book, muster book ... He put them in a box which had holes drilled in the sides and was weighted with a piece of lead, made specially for throwing secret papers over the side when there was a risk of capture.
Pistols. The pair of duelling pistols. He quickly loaded them, put them back in the wooden case, and slid that into a large canvas bag. He shoved clothing on top, and a pair of heavy leather boots, remembered his quadrant and put the box in another bag, then took the almanac and volumes of tables from the little book shelf over the desk and added those to the items in the second bag. Without them he could not work out the sights. Pencils, a packet of paper, the chronometer and the miniature of Gianna.
He tied the necks of both bags and left them on his desk. After a word to the Marine sentry at the door, he went up on deck.
It was hard to believe that in half an hour's time this cabin and the ship would probably have ceased to exist. It seemed a long time since he had been given command of the brig. He'd sailed the ship more than five thousand miles since then, and she was covering the last couple of miles of her existence right now...
Although he did not know the exact figures, Ramage thought of what had gone into the building of the ship. About 350 loads of timber had been worked up at old Henry Adam's shipyard at Beaulieu, in Hampshire. About 130 tons of timber had gone into building her hull, along with eight tons of iron - wrought at the little ironworks at Sowley Pond - and nearly four tons of copper bolts. Her bottom - soon to be ripped out - was sheathed with nearly 800 sheets of copper, weighing more than three tons. Half a ton of mixed nails, nine thousand treenails, three tons of lead ... All these were needed just for her hull. Two tons of oakum for hull and deck seams, seven barrels of pitch and seven more of tar, adding one and a half tons to her weight. The original three coats of paint put on by the builder weighed fifteen hundred pounds.
Once launched, the hull, weighing some 160 tons, was towed round to Portsmouth where she went alongside the sheerlegs to have her two masts put in. Then she had received her topmasts and yards. The standing and running rigging and blocks all added their quota of weight; by the time the sails were on board and bent on, the anchors
and cables (totalling more than eleven tons), water and provisions, carronades, powder and shot, gunner's, bosun's and carpenter's stores, boats and ballast, the ship's total weight was nearly 300 tons. Of that, the ship's company and their sea chests accounted for eight and a half tons.
All this timber, cordage and paint amounted to a brig named the Triton; to everyone but those who had served in her, she was a name in a list of the Navy, one of the smallest ships of war commanded by a lieutenant...
To those who served in her - or to the majority of them - she was home and, like a home on shore, she had a personality; something about her that distinguished her from all others, no matter how close the apparent similarity. She was a ship men would reminisce about twenty years later; a ship a man would suddenly recall by a trick of the memory, a smell, a noise, or some bizarre circumstance.
She had been in action many times - although only twice under Ramage's command. She was eighteen years old and had been blessed - with one exception - with good captains. But now her time was running out.
Nearly every man had a few personal treasures and his pitifully small store of clothing in a sea-chest. He called Southwick over.
"Give the men the choice. They can get their chests and bags up on deck if they wish. If we break up, they'll lose them anyway. If we hold together there'll be plenty of time to get them up from below. On deck they'll probably get swamped."
"Best not give 'em the choice, sir, begging your pardon. Having a lot o' dunnage on deck when we hit..."
"You're quite right; it could be dangerous. Very well, belay that."
What gives a ship a personality? What makes an inert mass of timber, canvas and cordage into an almost living thing which inspires loyalty and affection among such men?
He shrugged his shoulders - a gesture noticed by a puzzled Southwick - and decided to stop thinking about it. Since it had never occurred to him to think about it before, there was no point in trying to find an answer now.
"An anchor is cleared away, Mr Southwick?"
"Aye aye, sir."
"At least we won't have to watch out for the masts going by the board."