As my hand felt the rough hemp of the foreshrouds, I released my grip on the lifeline and clung with both hands to the thick, tarred rope. A wave broke over the bulwark, and, for a moment, I was sure its fury would tear my grip loose. I was underwater, gasping and sputtering, feet off the deck, but hanging on with both hands for dear life. After what seemed an hour, the water passed on. I struggled to regain my footing and, finding a brief lull in our pounding, stepped onto the bulwark and then into the ratlines. Still with a death grip on the shrouds, I was able to take a breath only when I turned my head away from the force of the wind-lashed rain and spume.
It occurred to me as I climbed that someone had made a poor choice in naming this part of the rigging after something so closely associated with death. Shrouds, indeed! Not good, thinking that way. Keep climbing and hold tight! After perhaps ten or fifteen laborious steps, I realized that the waves were no longer breaking over me and the wind was, in fact, pressing me into the ratines rather than trying to tear me out of them. I increased my pace and quickly reached the fighting top where some six of my division were waiting to move out on the yard; another half-dozen were already on the yard, their feet swaying drunkenly in the footropes as we, the mast, the yard, and the fighting top traced wild arcs through the rain-drenched, wind-riven night sky.
Faintly, and likely only because of its higher pitch, I heard Bosun Anderson’s whistle from the deck. It was the signal to clew up the straining canvas of the forecourse.
“Get ready, men. They’re hauling up the clews.” I screamed at the sailors clinging to the yard over the big sail. The yard was braced around, barely adding to the motion. With a thunderclap, the course began to shiver, then flog itself as the wind caught the windward edge no longer held taut by the bowline. At the same time, the men on deck began to heave around on the clewlines, dragging the corners of the sail up toward the center of the yard. I could picture those poor souls on deck, straining at their task, soaked to the skin under the deluge of water, both salt and fresh, cascading over them as they struggled desperately to keep their footing and, through sheer strength, haul up the wildly thrashing sail. But my task, and that of my men, was up here, and I strained to make out what was acting with them.
The sailors on the yard, each with an arm through a becket and their feet on the wildly swinging footropes, grabbed handfuls of wet canvas, trying to contain the sail between their bellies and the stout spar. It was a slow and torturous task; each time they made some progress, a particularly vicious gust would rip away the canvas already gained, and slowly, laboriously, the men would struggle to recapture the sail.
Eventually it was done. The men worked their way in from the yard, inching slowly along the footropes until they reached the relative safety of the top. With my heart in my mouth, I saw the last man to come off the yard, Welch, I think it was, lose his footing just as he made for the platform of the fighting top. It was only through his own instinctive grab at the rail and the quick thinking of the captain of the foretop, who caught at Welch’s jacket and, with the help of two others, hauled him up to the platform, that he was not cast into the sea. It would have been certain death had he fallen.
I noticed, when I had regained my composure after that near accident, that Argus seemed to be moving less violently. I glanced aft at the mainmast, through the pelting rain and stygian blackness, and I was able to make out the main course furled to its spar. The men were moving further aloft to reef the topsail. I remembered that Lieutenant Hobbs had wanted not only the course furled but also the tops’l short-reefed, and I shouted through the wind to my sailors, barely a foot away from me.
“We’ve got to reef the tops’l. Lieutenant Hobbs. . .” The wind blew away my words and, in my effort at making myself heard, my voice cracked. This was no time for embarrassment and I screamed my orders once more. The captain of the top nodded at me, at least I think he did, and motioned his men up to the next yard. Again, faintly I heard Anderson’s whistle and saw the tops’l yard move as it was hauled around to spill some of its wind, then was lowered slowly. The sailors repeated their performance, but only to the extent of gathering in the sail to the lowest reef points, and then it was done. The yard was braced around again, and Argus, her heel less and her motion through the seas easier, careered through the night. The foretop crew and I descended to the deck; the maelstrom of sea and rain there seemed only slightly diminished. On deck, I noticed that many of my sailors had suffered some considerable damage to their hands in our, their, struggle with the wet, flogging canvas; several had lost fingernails, while most of the others wiped blood from knuckles, fingers, and forearms.
As I made my way slowly, hand over hand on the lifeline, aft toward the quarterdeck, I made out a dim shape in the lee of the cutter, which was securely lashed to the booms. Stretching one arm out while the other held tightly to the lifeline, my hand almost reached the boat’s lashings. Timing my move with the ship’s roll, I cast off the security of the safety line and plunged headlong a few feet to crash into the side of the upturned cutter.
“What are you doing here? Are you hurt?” Putting my face close to the man, I peered through the blackness and pelting rain at the form huddled by the boat’s stern, his arms hooked through the after lashings. The man’s face turned up to me. I made out the angular lines and thrusting jaw of Thomas Wheatley. His eyes were wide, and I noticed that I saw mostly their whites as he stared at me. Like everyone else who was topside, he was soaked; his face streamed water and his oiled tarpaulin jacket seemed to offer little protection from either the driving horizontal rain or the waves that sent seawater swirling around the deck.
“We’re . . . the . . . know it. Nothing . . . live through this . . . I . . . just a . . . time . . .” His soaked hair was plastered to his head and, where it fell across his face, offered a strange sight indeed. Had our circumstances been different, I would surely have laughed, or at least smiled, at this apparition. The wind snatched the words from his mouth.
“I’ll help you to the lifeline. Give me your hand!” I screamed into his face and reached out one hand to take ahold of his arm.
“Get away . . . nothing . . . us.” The arm jerked back, and he clutched even more tightly to the rope lashings. He seemed, as near as I could make out through the elements, to shrink down even further. He was resolute in his determination to remain where he was, or at least to maintain his death grip on the cutter’s lashings. I left him cowering and, pushing off from the side of the boat, made a successful grab for the lifeline and followed it to the quarterdeck.
I discovered a knot of forms—impossible to determine officer or seaman through the rain-lashed darkness—on the quarterdeck and made my uncertain way carefully toward them.
Near the wheel, attended by four strong quartermasters who struggled in a fierce battle with the seas to maintain control of Argus, I could make out, in the flickering glow of the binnacle box, another cluster of forms: Captain Decatur, Lieutenant Cutler, Lieutenant Morris, and Judd Devon. Sheltering behind them, in the limited lee offered by his superiors, was Midshipman James Stevens, equally wet and disheveled despite his efforts at avoiding the fury of the storm. I stepped, or more accurately, staggered, up to the group.
“I’d warrant. . . first. . . at sea. This . . . up . . . suddenly. Wind . . . stronger.” Cutler shouted into my face as I got close to him. “. . . job get . . . sail off her. She’s . . . easier.”
I had little idea of just what he was telling me, but nodded in his direction, hoping he could see me through the rain. James poked his head out around Judd’s side and looked at me, his eyes wide, and I noticed that the hand that hung onto the quarterdeck railing was trembling. Though he certainly must have been as cold and miserable as I, it occurred to me that the tremor in his hand was more a manifestation of fear than the climate; I didn’t know if the others were afraid, but I certainly was, so I assumed James was also. But at least we weren’t cowering in the lee of the boat, I thought with some satisfaction.
“Wind . . . coming ‘round more. Bring . . . down . . . point. Can’t lose . . . sail,” Decatur shouted. The four men on the wheel forced the ship’s head off and away from the wind. The main tops’l filled with a crack that resounded even over the screaming whine of the wind. Then Decatur grabbed Cutler’s arm and pointed below. He motioned to the rest of us to follow.
In turn, we each made our way, save for Lieutenant Morris who had the watch, down the scuttle and into the sudden stillness of the passageway outside the Cabin. Stillness is, perhaps, overstating the conditions; the deck under our feet still heaved and rolled, the creaks and groans of the ship and her rigging persisted, and the screaming of the wind, though reduced to a more manageable roar, continued to fill our senses.. But the rain did not follow us below, and, in the light of a swinging lantern hung from the bulkhead, I could make out the faces and features of my fellows. Water streamed off our clothes and limbs, pooling on the deck below our feet before running off into one or another corner with each roll of the ship.
“This come on so sudden we’re some lucky we didn’t lose a sail or worse, part of the rig. You gentlemen were valiant in your efforts at shortening down. Likely saved us from gettin’ cruel hurt. And I thank you. But, I suspect, this is a long way from over; the way the wind is moving to the east and south makes me think we’ll be in for it for a while, well into the morning, at any rate. Should it get much worse, we may have to run off before it, but I hate to give up the distance we’ve made to weather that would cost us. At least now, we’re still more or less heading toward Gibraltar, even though I’ve had to bring her off in a more southerly direction than I would normally wish.” Decatur seemed more concerned about being late at Gibraltar than about the dangers of the storm. He smiled in the dim glow of the lantern that cast grotesque moving shadows over us and the passageway as the ship rolled and bucked.
“Argus is well-found, strong, and solid,” he continued. “Long as we manage her well, she’ll stand up to this. Most of the men, now, have found their sea-legs, as, I assume, have you young gentlemen.” The captain broadened his smile encouragingly; his glance seemed to linger a touch longer on Judd and myself. I certainly took some heart from his own confidence. Judd Devon nodded, his concerned look still in place. James, still wide-eyed with fear, clung to the rail of the ladder we had just descended behind the captain. Even in the yellow glow of the lantern, I saw he was quite pale. I knew that my earlier diagnosis of the tremor in his hand had been correct. I imagined that I myself might look a trifle pale, maybe even wide-eyed, as well.
“What about these huge seas, sir? Seems we’re takin’ a fair amount of water aboard.” Judd spoke for the first time, saying what was on all our minds; certainly it was on mine.
“Mister Hobbs is, as we speak, with the carpenter sounding the well. I expect I should have his report in due course. In the meantime, we will continue as hard on it as we can and hope that the wind moves no farther to the south. And keep your men, those that aren’t necessary to manage the ship, off the deck. No sense in unnecessarily losing a man overboard. You may return to your duties, or cots.”
‘Unnecessarily?’ When is it necessary? The thought flashed unbidden through my confused brain, but I held my tongue. I turned to step to the next ladder which would take me to the cockpit, following close astern of Judd.
“Mister Baldwin, have you, perchance, seen your colleague about the deck, or below, in the cockpit?” Lieutenant Cuder stopped me short with his question.
He could only be talking about Thomas; Judd and James had been quite visible during our time on deck and after. The words sprang to my lips telling him of the circumstances under which I had seen Wheatley, and then I stopped, turning to face him. “No, sir. When I came topside, Lieutenant Hobbs sent me straight away to the foretop and then I came aft to the quarterdeck. I didn’t notice whether he was in the cockpit when I left. I certainly hope nothing untoward has happened to him.” How easily that lie rolled off my tongue!
“Very well. You may get what little sleep you might before you take the watch.” Cutler turned, more suddenly than I thought he meant to when the ship took a particularly violent lurch and roll, and started up the ladder. I, without a look backward, started down the other, trying to understand what it was that had made me answer his question as I did.
By the time I returned to the quarterdeck, the wind, if anything, was stronger. Argus, stripped down to a pair of close reefed tops’ls and a forestays’l, fairly flew, flinging seas into the air to be blown back aboard by the tempest before they could return to their rightful place. The rain seemed to have eased a trifle, at least it no longer stung when I turned my face to the wind. The air was very nearly as wet as it had been, but much saltier. A glance at the binnacle told me the wind had continued to veer farther past east into the southeast and the ship was heading now in the wrong direction, in fact, away from Gibraltar.
Even I could see that eventually we would have to tack, a prospect that held a specter of dread. Bringing the ship head-to-wind, head-to-seas under these conditions was perilous, holding the potential for being caught in stays and then overpowered by the wind and sea. Lieutenant Hobbs voiced my thoughts.
“Mister Baldwin, it is apparent that we will have to tack the barky. Step below, if you please, and fetch Captain Decatur. Messenger, roust out the hands and ask the bosun and sailing master to step aft.” Hobbs, bedraggled and soaked from his exposure to the elements, looked to me some concerned; his brow furrowed and, even in his giving orders to me and the messenger, he seemed distant, preoccupied. His glance shifted, squinty-eyed from the effort to see without his spectacles, between the compass, bathed in the flickering yellow glow of the binnacle lantern, to the main tops’l. If he is concerned, then I reckon it’s proper that I should be scared. I left him and made my way to the scuttle.
My knock was answered immediately; I doubt the captain had been asleep.
“Mister Hobbs’ compliments, sir. He sent me to tell you he feels the ship should be tacked as the wind has veered farther to the south.” I was conscious of the puddle I was making on the Cabin deck as I stood as much at attention as the motion of the ship permitted.
“Thank you, Mister Baldwin. What course are we making now?” He had sat up immediately on my entrance and now looked at my sodden countenance with alert eyes, his brain obviously fully awake.
“South sou’west, a quarter west, sir. When she steadies on anything.”
“Very well, then. Please convey to Mister Hobbs that I shall be on deck directly. I collect he has called out the hands?”
“Aye, sir; he has. Only just a moment ago the messenger was sent to fetch the men as well as Bosun Anderson and Mister Church.”
The captain had pulled on his boots and was shrugging into his still wet coat as I took my departure. He appeared behind me on deck only a moment after I had reported back to Mister Hobbs.
I could make out little of the detail, but I knew Decatur would be studying the set of the scant sail we carried, taking in as much as he could see through the darkness and spray. Then he peered at the compass and, as the glow of the light in the binnacle glanced off his face, I saw a frown form followed by a shake of his head. Decatur, still frowning, stepped away from the binnacle box and made his way to the taffrail at the stem. I could see him standing there, his back to the ship, pondering; his legs were spread against the cant of the deck, and his hands rested on the taffrail. Indistinct forms began to appear forward, seeking what shelter could be found from the elements. Mister Church materialized out of the night and approached Mister Hobbs.
“Time to tack, sir? The men are ab
out all rousted out. Mister Anderson is with ‘em amidships.” Church shouted into the wind and I made out an acknowledging nod from the second lieutenant.
“No, Mister Church. Mister Hobbs, I believe we shall wear and then head-reach to the nor’east. At least that will move us, slowly to be sure, but move us indeed in a direction more suitable to our needs.” Captain Decatur, back from his taffrail ruminations, had made his decision. Though I had no idea what headreaching meant, I was sure that even in his zeal to reach Gibraltar as fast as ever possible, he would do nothing to endanger either his ship or his crew.
“STATIONS FOR WEARING SHIP! STEP LIVELY, YOU MEN!” Church’s bellow caught me unawares, and I started visibly.
“Mister Hobbs, what is headreaching, sir? And what would you want me to do?” I raised my voice enough to be heard by the second lieutenant but, I hoped, not by the captain. It wouldn’t do, I thought, to trumpet my shortcomings to him!
“Soon enough you’ll find out, Oliver. Let us get the barky worn around first and then we’ll take the next step.” He turned forward again and shouted at the retreating back of our sailing master. “When you’re ready, Mister Church. We will bear off first.”
Shouted commands, fragmented by the wind, drifted aft. I could hear orders being issued which included “braces” and knew Church would have men stationed at the lee and weather braces to haul the tops’l yards, fore and main, around as the ship turned to bring the wind, and seas, more aft. For a short while, we would be running off before the tempest, then hauling the yards around to bring the wind on the other side so as to head in a more northerly direction.
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