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 jibboom - 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, twenty-three 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."