by Dudley Pope
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 jib-boom—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, 23 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 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!”
CHAPTER TEN
STAFFORD was the first man to sight land a few moments before noon three days after the eye had passed. With all the watch gathered round and cheering, Ramage presented him with a guinea prize.
The Cockney, in his usual breezy way, spun the coin, kissed it for luck and said to Ramage: “Permission to ask a question, sir?”
Ramage nodded, although guessing the question would probably verge on impertinence.
“Did you ever reckon you’d ‘ave ter pay, sir?”
When Ramage looked puzzled, Stafford explained: “We was in the eye of the ‘urricane when you said you’d present a guinea ter ‘ooever saw land first. Didn’t seem much chance we’d live long enough fer that, sir.”
Ramage decided that it was not the time to tell the ship’s company that the offer of a guinea prize was all he could think of to cheer them up when things looked desperate. Instead he just smiled knowingly at Stafford and said: “I even guessed where the land would be!”
Stafford looked startled. “Cor—where is it, sir?”
“One of the Virgin Islands.”
“Virgins, sir? Wot, ‘ere?”
Stafford’s surprise was genuine and apparently shared by the rest of the men.
“Yes, several,” Ramage said, without a smile. “British and Danish. No French or Spanish.”
“No French or Spanish! D’yer ‘ear that!” Stafford poked Rossi in the ribs. “Nor no Eyetalian virgins, either!”
Ramage gestured to Jackson: “Right, now; make a signal to the Topaz—Land in sight to the north-west.”
The Topaz acknowledged it promptly, and Ramage saw Southwick hunched over the compass.
Ramage walked over to take bearings of each end of the island. Radiating out from where the compass box was fastened to the deck, and looking like the spokes of a wheel, a series of thin grooves had just been cut in the deck planking, the thickest corresponding to the fore and aft line. It was Southwick’s idea and was a crude pelorus: it allowed a rough bearing to be taken without lifting up the compass.
Ramage picked up the slate from its new stowage on the forward side of the starboard aftermost carronade slide, and after checking the time wrote: “12.03 p.m. Sighted one of Virgin Islands NW X W½W, distant about twelve miles.”
“Let’s have a cast of the log,” Ramage told Appleby.
Ten minutes later, as the master’s mate supervised the men stowing the reel again, he noted the Triton’s speed and the course being steered:
“Speed 1½ knots, course north, wind south, fresh.”
No log entry could describe seas that were no longer monstrous, clouds that no longer warned of unbelievable winds and rain the like of which few men ever saw and lived to describe. No log entry could tell how happy men were just to be alive, even though their ship was almost helpless, driven forward only by the pressure of the wind on the hull.
He looked over
on the starboard quarter where the Topaz lumbered along, a great ox splashing through a muddy lane. She still looked smart, even without masts, bowsprit or jib-boom. If spars suddenly went out of fashion, the Topaz would rate as an elegant ship. For that matter masts have gone out of fashion, he reminded himself, at least around here.
Landfalls were curious: one usually waited days, if not weeks; but once the low grey shape—it always was a low grey shape—was spotted, it became a matter of the greatest urgency to identify it. This was no exception: St Croix stretched for more than thirty miles athwart their course: they could pass either east or west of it to make for one of the other islands beyond. But if it was, say, Virgin Gorda, then they had to get to the westward quickly before they ran on to the reefs littering that end of the islands.
“You’re smiling, sir,” Southwick, who had just come on deck, said: “St Croix?”
“Virgins,” Ramage said. “I was thinking that Columbus must have been in a whimsical mood when he passed through those islands and named them.”
“How so?”
“Virgin Gorda, up to the east. It would have been the first of them he sighted. It means ‘The Fat Virgin!’”
“He’d been at sea a long time?” Southwick suggested.
“No, not at that point, but the islands were being sighted thick and fast.”
“Puerto Rico,” Southwick said. “That does mean ‘Rich Port,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“But why name a whole island ‘Rich Port?’”
“He didn’t—so the story goes: it was a mistake made in Madrid.”
“How come, sir?”
“Because he sighted the island on St John’s Day he named the island ‘San Juan’ after him. Then he found a deep bay on the north coast—a perfect natural harbour, and the soil was obviously rich. So he named the harbour ‘Puerto Rico.’”
“Ah,” Southwick exclaimed, slapping his knee, “so when he reported back, some clerk got ‘em mixed up!”
When Ramage nodded, the Master said: “But why have they never put it right?”