Governor Ramage R. N. (21 page)

“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 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.”