by Dudley Pope
“You said the middle,” Rossi said warily. “Then what happenings?”
“Well, just as soon as folk like Staff are out there hanging up their washing, it comes on to blow even harder from the opposite direction.”
“Accidente! The opposite direction? But everything gets taken aback?”
“Precisely …”
All the men were silent for a few minutes, each alone with the mental picture of the wind suddenly gusting up and blowing on the forward side of the sail, instead of the after side, and pressing a sail and yard back against the mast.
As the pressure increased the ship would start going astern, starting a whole sequence of events: to steer the ship, the wheel would have to be spun the other way, and at the same time the pressure on the rudder would be enormous: pressure trying to wrench it off, pressure that kept on increasing. As it increased, so would the pressure on the sails and yards increase, and such pressure could be relieved only by the wind easing, the sail blowing out, the yard smashing in half or the mast breaking.
“She was caught aback and her masts went by the board.” It was a familiar description: each man could visualize the ship swept clean, her masts snapped off at deck level—by the board—and fallen over the side in a tangle of rigging, halyards, sheets, braces, yards … and there’d probably be death in the wreckage for many of them.
Beside each mast were piles of heavy rope. When Admiral Goddard made the signal for the ships under his command to prepare for a hurricane, the men would rig additional shrouds to support the masts, using these lengths of hawser.
Southwick and a couple of bosun’s mates were already carefully checking over the lanyards of each pair of deadeyes. A group of men working unostentatiously—Ramage had given instructions that their activities should not be obvious from the flagship—were putting storm lashings on the guns.
Southwick met him abreast the mainmast on the larboard side. “Everything satisfactory, sir?”
“As far as we can go, yes.”
The Master glanced round to make sure no seamen were within earshot. “Can’t think the Admiral’s been on deck today, sir.”
“Nor Captain Croucher!”
“I was looking at the mules with the glass. Most of them are busy.”
“Wait until they start sending down topmasts and yards …”
“Several are getting ready to.”
“I wonder if the Admiral will tell them to stop,” Ramage said, half to himself.
“I hope not: it’ll take them several hours to get squared away. Except for the Topaz they are probably all shorthanded.”
“They’ll manage,” Ramage said, and wished he had not been reminded of the Topaz. She was his hostage to fortune at the moment. However competent Yorke was, he would still have preferred to have the St Brieucs on board the Triton …
The sun set in a wild, western sky. In the late afternoon the copper colour gave way to a dull and sickly yellow washed with an angry red as high clouds thickened and the wind came up, steadily freshening as the hours passed. The convoy soon got under way, but while all the escorts were busy trying to get the ships into their proper positions again the masters took little notice of orders or threats: most were already under double-reefed courses and their men were busy sending down topsail yards. The swell waves were slowly but inexorably increasing in height, like silent gestures of warning.
Slowly the wind backed from east to north-east, and then went north. Equally slowly Admiral Goddard was forced to keep edging the convoy’s course round to the west as more and more merchantmen found it impossible to stay up to windward.
First one ship in the middle of a column would start sagging off to leeward, eventually sailing diagonally through the remaining columns. In turn one or two other ships, forced to bear away to avoid a collision, would be unable to get back into position and would themselves sag off.
Finally, to avert chaos, the Lion would bear away and hoist signal flags indicating the new course. The frigates, brig and lugger would repeat, then spend the next hour ensuring the merchantmen conformed, and just have the last one in position when the flagship would repeat the process.
Finally Southwick became exasperated. He took off his hat, ran his hands through his white hair and said to Ramage: “Never was an increment man, myself.”
When Ramage looked puzzled, he explained: “The Admiral knows he’s going to be steering south-west by midnight, so why doesn’t he cut his losses and get on course now, instead of coming round by increments? And not only that, the sooner we get over to the westwards”—he gestured over the larboard beam, towards the middle of the Caribbean—”and give ourselves some sea room, the happier I’ll be.
“Never liked the chance of a lee shore with this Caribbean weather,” he continued. “That’s one thing about European waters—may be cold and wet, but nine times out of ten, a gale or a storm comes from the south-west or west. Here it’s any damned direction.”
Ramage nodded but kept his fears to himself. His earlier suspicion that Goddard had lost his nerve was now confirmed. The Rear-Admiral was the kind of man who froze when he was frightened: instead of bolting or rushing around shouting, he withdrew into paralysed inactivity and indecision.
Southwick was right about the “increments”—but there was more to it than sea room. Nothing was really known about hurricanes, but men who had survived them talked and pooled their ideas, so that eventually an odd sort of pattern emerged.
In a lifetime at sea, Ramage’s father had gone through two hurricanes, and Ramage could remember the old Earl’s two pieces of advice. One was to prepare the ship early, so that men did not have to work aloft with the ship rolling heavily in a strong wind, which doubled and quadrupled the amount of effort needed. But the second point was the really important one; if the wind veered, steer to keep it on the starboard bow. The hurricane would probably pass southwards and the ship, altering course as required to keep the wind on the bow, would cover a semi-circular course to the north of it. But if the wind remained steady or backed—which it was doing now—it was vital to get the wind on to the starboard quarter, and keep it there, altering course as necessary. Then the hurricane would probably pass northwards. If you ran before the wind, the chances were that the middle of the hurricane would pass right over you.
Goddard’s “increment” course meant that he was slowly doing just that. By trying to hold on to a predetermined course that would keep him as near to Antigua as possible, and being forced to bear away as the merchantmen sagged off, he would end up running before the hurricane … and running slowly before a massive hurricane meant that it was only a matter of time before it caught up.
If Goddard turned the whole convoy boldly on to a course of say—Ramage walked over and glanced at the compass—south-south-west, all the merchantmen would have the wind on their starboard quarters, and they would probably be able to keep it there even under storm canvas …
Every time a signal hoist was reported from the flagship, he looked expectantly at Jackson, and each time the American reported a course change of one point to larboard. One point! Eleven degrees fifteen minutes, or one thirty-second part of the circumference of a circle … It was like giving a starving man a single slice of bread: instead of saving his life, it merely emphasized how hungry he was and postponed the inevitable end. Altering course one point to larboard stressed the need for an immediate eight-point alteration.
“The wind will eventually do it for him,” Southwick said bitterly, echoing Ramage’s thoughts. “But we lose that much time—and mileage. And maybe our necks.”
“Since we can not do anything about it, let us make the best of it.”
He was startled by the harshness of his voice, and Southwick stared fixedly at the convoy. Ramage knew he was feeling the strain, but taking it out on Southwick was contemptible.
“It’ll be dark in an hour,” Ramage said.
“Aye, there’s just about enough time to execute it if he makes a signal now.”<
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Half an hour later the signals came in a series. Perhaps Goddard had been stirred into action as the sun sank below the western horizon—though it had been hidden before this by the ever-lowering cloud streaming in from the north, each layer a darker and more menacing grey.
Jackson called out the signals as they were made on board the Lion while Stafford and Rossi bent the flags on to the halyards and hoisted them, both in acknowledgement and also repeating them.
“Convoy flag and frigates’ flag: Strike yards and topmasts … Observe the Admiral’s motions carefully during the night as he will probably alter course or tack without signal…. Frigates’ flag: Shorten sail and carry as little as possible without breaking the order of the fleet…. Every ship to carry a light and repeat the signals made by the Admiral during the ensuing night …”
Ramage picked up the speaking-trumpet and, as Jackson called out the first signal, bellowed the order that sent the topmen running up the ratlines, not pausing until they were in the tops, where they scrambled into position to begin clearing away and lowering gear.
Ramage glanced at his watch, noted the time, and swore to himself he wouldn’t look at it again until he heard Southwick give the order “Sway away.”
He looked round the ship knowing that all the work to be done was going to take two or three times as long because of the darkness. The lateness of the signal made it obvious that the men were going to meet the coming dawn with precious little sleep.
“Mr Southwick—the hands will eat in two shifts, perhaps three, and pass the word that the tot will be issued late and may be poured with a heavy hand.”
“Good idea, sir,” the Master said. He lowered his voice, “The way things look, we may not have to account for any spillage, and seepage.’”
Ramage nodded and turned to Jackson. “Have you logged those signals, and the times?”
“Aye aye, sir. Specially the times.”
Jackson’s voice was expressionless; Ramage was probably the only man in the ship who could detect the judgment of the Admiral contained in the American’s last three words.
Picking up the telescope and balancing himself, Ramage looked round at the convoy. The merchantmen appeared to be taking very little notice of the flurry of signals: each one had a cluster of men working aloft. Four had topsail yards upended and being lowered to the deck; a dozen would be lowering them any moment.
“They look odd now, don’t they,” Southwick said. “Like men with their heads shaved.”
“They work fast enough at a time like this,” Ramage commented. “Surprising how slow they can be with routine things like keeping their position.”
“Yes, I’ll be damned if I can understand it. After all, we’re protecting ‘em. We don’t like escorting ‘em any more than they like having us chase ‘em up.”
“Surely that’s it,” Ramage said. “Sending down masts and yards because bad weather’s coming on—well, that’s a natural piece of seamanship: they’d be doing that pretty smartly even sailing alone in peacetime. But cramming on sail to obey an order from an escort—that’s not seamanship: that’s being chased about by the Navy.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Excuse me a moment, sir,” he said hurriedly and lifted the speaking-trumpet. “Aloft there, main-mast: Jenkins, unreeve that signal halyard. You’ll have it a’foul o’ everything in a moment!”
The fact is, Ramage told himself, the Master will make a better job of all this if I’m not on deck. As Southwick turned back, Ramage said: “I’ve some work to do below. Call me if …”
CHAPTER NINE
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 responsibil
ity 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.