Southwick should have a rest. He worked his way along the lifeline.
"Have a spell below."
"No thanks, sir; I'd sooner be on deck till this has passed."
"What, the hurricane?"
"No, sir, the eye."
"Don't worry, Appleby and I..."
"Not exactly worried, sir: I don't like the idea of being below while it's passing - I shouldn't sleep, and I'm learning something up here."
"I know what-"
Ramage broke off, appalled by the look on Southwick's face. The Master was staring over Ramage's left shoulder at something a long way off, and the only distant thing in that direction was the Topaz.
Swinging round, the telescope still in one hand, Ramage looked over the larboard bow, but stinging spray blinded him for a moment. He wiped his eyes and saw what by now he expected: the Topaz had been dismasted. She was just a stubby log, with her masts and yards lying alongside in the water in a tangle of rope and spars.
Gradually the wreckage, along the starboard side and acting as a sea anchor, made the ship swing round to starboard like a dog on a leash until she was lying broadside to the waves and rolling so violently it seemed she must capsize.
Plans flashed through Ramage's mind and were rejected as fast as a card player shuffling a pack. Finally one idea kept recurring. It was probably hopeless; but he tugged Southwick's arm, shouting: "Main storm trysail - can we hoist it?"
"We can try, sir."
"Do so, then."
As Southwick waddled forward holding the lifelines (the wind inside his oilskins inflating them like a bladder), Ramage doubted if the men could get it done in time. If they can get the sail hoisted, would the flax stand when the eye passed?
With the sail hoisted and holding, he hoped he could turn the Triton and heave-to near the Topaz. He was not sure there was really any point in doing so. It all seemed hopeless, almost stupid. There was no hope of passing a hawser to tow, and in this sea the idea of towing was ludicrous anyway. Could he take everyone off? The odds on a ship o' war surviving were slight; the chances for one of her boats was minuscule. But no one knew how long the calm of the eye would last. He might have half an hour.
Southwick was signalling and Ramage was surprised to see that he had a couple of dozen men on deck, each with a rope round his waist secured to something solid. The trysail was slowly going up the stay.
The Topaz was abeam: now every moment would put her that much farther to windward.
He turned to Appleby.
"I'll take over here: check that the men at the relieving tackles are standing by. Tell them to be ready for a turn to larboard. Then stand where you can see me and when I signal - I'll point to larboard with my arm - the helm goes over. Then we heave-to on the larboard tack."
Appleby staggered below and Ramage looked at the four ratings at the wheel. They were strong and steady men. He told them what to expect in a minute or so, saw Southwick looking aft and indicated by signs what he was going to do, and then noticed Appleby standing halfway up the companionway.
Ramage turned to look aft and suddenly realized that the distant roar of wind, which had been coming from all round the horizon, was now much louder from right astern. He couldn't work out the reason for it, and anyway he now had to wait for a smooth - a sequence of one or two, and hopefully three, waves less high than the others, so that he could start the turn.
From watching the tumbling waves astern he glanced up to see the main trysail was hoisted and sheeted home. It was tiny, only a handkerchief, but it had an immediate effect - he could see the wheel reacting to it. Then he looked aft again. The wave crest immediately astern was lower, and so were the ones beyond: he jerked out his left arm for Appleby's benefit, pointing to larboard, and bellowed at the men at the wheel.
They struggled and strained to turn it. After a few moments it became easier as Appleby passed the order to the men at the relieving tackles. The distant roaring was getting louder, and he glanced up to see that the few patches of clear sky had vanished : the thick low cloud was back.
The rudder, the wind on the main trysail - which was abaft the ship's centre of balance - and the wind blowing on her quarter, were all working together now to shove the Triton's stern violently over to starboard and pivot the bow round to larboard. The seas, too, were now on the larboard quarter and adding their quota of thrust; in a few moments the Triton would be beam on to the seas and as she continued turning they'd be on the bow. There, with the helm hard over to counteract the main trysail, she should lie hove-to.
Ramage watched her turning, alarmed by the roaring, which seemed to be getting very near, and glanced back aft to see if - then the wind came: it suddenly increased and simultaneously veered twenty or thirty degrees: instead of coming from the quarter it was abeam; its sudden and enormous pressure was trying to capsize the brig. The eye had passed; they were back in the hurricane.
Looking astern, Ramage knew his manoeuvre was doomed. It was like staring up from a valley at the side of a mountain collapsing on to him: a series of great waves was sweeping down on the quarter. They might not have been bigger than the worst of the earlier waves, but because they were coming on the quarter and would catch the brig when she was completely vulnerable, halfway through her turn, they were potentially lethal. Catching the little Triton on the quarter, adding their quota to the beam wind on the spars and trysail, they would make her broach.
"Stand fast everyone!" he found himself bellowing, although only the helmsmen could hear him. As he looked forward he was glad to see that several of the men had already seen the danger and were grabbing rigging, eyebolts on the deck, the carronades or anything that was firm.
When the first of the great waves arrived, the whole larboard side, as high as Ramage could see, seemed to be a wall of water. He found himself fighting for his life, gasping, swallowing water, blinded by the salt in his eyes, coughing, winded by a tremendous blow on the chest, swimming upside down in the dark, suddenly snatched into light, drowning, kicking and struggling, clutching a thick rope with all the strength he had. He just managed to wrap his legs round the rope before there was the sharp cracking of breaking timbers. The rope he was holding went bar taut, then slack, and then taut again ... The deck, already moving wildly under his feet, seemed to have slid up vertically and back again.
The sound of pouring water: a cataract, tons of water swilling and spilling ... Still blinded by water, finding it hard to breathe, coughing and coughing, with water like acid at the back of his throat, he held on to the rope so hard it was part of his body. Such a bloody waste to die in a hurricane; just wind and rain and mountainous seas and achieving nothing; no enemy beaten, no prize. Just a bloody waste...
By now the noise was lessening and the cataract had stopped. He could hear the drumming of the wind, and miraculously, unbelievably, the ship was still afloat. Afloat but dead in the water, wallowing broadside on, as if pausing a moment before sinking. Perhaps he wasn't going to die after all. Perhaps there was a chance for the ship and for the Tritons.